The Bone Collector

our intemperate ways of the flesh, the flaws of the lesser Races, and the weaker gender, are burnt or boiled away, we are—all of us—noble bone. Bone does not lie. It is immortal.”
    The lunatic writings set forth a chronicle of gruesome experimentation as he sought to ascertain the most effective way of cleansing his victims of their flesh. He tried boiling the bodies, burning them, rendering with lye, staking them out for animals, and immersing them in water.
    But one method above all he favored for this macabre sport. “It is best, I have concluded”—(his diary continues)—“simply to bury the body in rich earth and let Nature do the tedious work. This is the most time-consuming method but the least likely to arouse suspicion as the odors are kept to a minimum. I prefer to inter the individuals while still alive, though why that might be I cannot say with any certainty.”
    In his heretofore secret room three more bodies were discovered in this very condition. The splayed hands and agog faces of the poor victims attest that they were indeed alive when Schneider piled the last shovelful of dirt upon their tormented crowns.
    It was these dark designs that prompted the journalists of the day to christen Schneider with the name by which he was forever after known:—“The Bone Collector.”
    He drove on, his mind returning to the woman in the trunk, Esther Weinraub. Her thin elbow, her collarbone delicate as a bird’s wing. He sped the cab forward, even risked running two red lights. He couldn’t wait much longer.
    * * *  
    “I’m not tired,” Rhyme snapped.
    “Tired or not, you need to rest.”
    “No, I need another drink.”
    Black suitcases lined the wall, awaiting the help of officers from the Twentieth Precinct to transport them back to the IRD lab. Mel Cooper was carting a microscope case downstairs. Lon Sellitto was still sitting in the rattan chair but he wasn’t saying much. Just coming to the obvious conclusion that Lincoln Rhyme was not a mellow drunk at all.
    Thom said, “I’m sure your blood pressure’s up. You need rest.”
    “I need a drink.”
    Goddamn you, Amelia Sachs, Rhyme thought. And didn’t know why.
    “You should give it up. Drinking’s never been any good for you.”
    Well, I am giving it up, Rhyme responded silently. For good. Monday. And no twelve-step plan for me; it’s a one-stepper.
    “Pour me another drink,” he ordered.
    Not really wanting one.
    “No.”
    “Pour me a drink now! ” Rhyme snapped.
    “No way.”
    “Lon, would you please pour me another drink?”
    “I—”
    Thom said, “He doesn’t get any more. When he’s in a mood like this he’s insufferable and we’re not going to put up with him.”
    “You’re going to withhold something from me? I could fire you.”
    “Fire away.”
    “Crip abuse! I’ll get you indicted. Arrest him, Lon.”
    “Lincoln,” Sellitto said placatingly.
    “Arrest him!”
    The detective was taken aback by the viciousness of Rhyme’s words.
    “Hey, buddy, maybe you should go a little light,” Sellitto said.
    “Oh, Christ,” Rhyme groaned. He started to moan loudly.
    Sellitto blurted, “What is it?” Thom was silent, looking on cautiously.
    “My liver.” Rhyme’s face broke into a cruel grin. “Cirrhosis probably.”
    Thom swung around, furious. “I will not put up with this crap. Okay?”
    “No, It’s not oh-kay—”
    A woman’s voice, from the doorway: “We don’t have much time.”
    “—at all.”
    Amelia Sachs walked into the room, glanced at the empty tables. Rhyme felt spittle on his lip. He was overwhelmed with fury. Because she saw the drool. Because he wore a crisp white shirt he’d changed into just for her. And because he wanted desperately to be alone, forever, alone in the dark of motionless peace—where he was king. Not king for a day. But king for eternity.
    The spit tickled. He cramped his already sore neck muscles trying to wipe his lip dry. Thom deftly swiped a Kleenex from a box and dried his boss’s mouth and chin.
    “Officer Sachs,” Thom said. “Welcome. A shining example of maturity. We aren’t seeing much of that right at the moment.”
    She wasn’t wearing her hat and her navy blouse was open at the collar. Her long red hair tumbled to her shoulders. Nobody’d have any trouble differentiating that hair under a comparison ’scope.
    “Mel let me in,” she said, nodding toward the stairs.
    “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Sachs?”
    Thom tapped a shoulder.