The Broken Window

Glenn walked to the door.
    “Oh, Mark,” Pulaski called. Whitcomb turned back. “Sorry.”
    The federal officer blinked in surprise at the apology and touched his bandaged nose. Then Pulaski continued, “That it was just your nose I broke. Fuck you, Judas.”
    Well, the rookie’s got some backbone after all.
    After they’d left, Pulaski called his wife but couldn’t get through. He angrily snapped his phone shut. “I’ll tell you, Lincoln, I don’t care what they say, I’m not just packing up.”
    “Don’t worry. We’ll keep right on going. Hey, they can’t fire me—I’m a civilian. They can only fire you and Mel.”
    “Well, I—” Cooper was frowning.
    “Relax, Mel. I do have a sense of humor, despite what everybody thinks. Nobody’ll find out—as long as the rookie here doesn’t beat up any more federal agents. Okay, this Robert Carpenter, the SSD customer. I want him. Now.”

Chapter Forty-two
    So I’m “522.”
    I’ve been wondering why They picked that number. Myra 9834 wasn’t my five hundred twenty-second victim (what a lovely thought!). None of the victims’ addresses contained the number. . . . Wait. The date. Of course. She was killed last Sunday—the twenty-second day of the fifth month—and that’s when They started after me.
    So to Them I’m a number. Just like They’re numbers to me. I feel flattered. I’m in my Closet now, having completed most of my research. It’s after work, people are heading home, out to dinner, off to see friends. But that’s the great thing about data; they never sleep, and my soldiers can call in an air strike on anyone’s life at any hour I choose, in any location.
    At the moment the Prescott family and I are spending a few moments together before the attacks begin. The police will soon be guarding the houses of my enemies and their families. . . . But they don’t understand the nature of my weapons. Poor Joseph Malloy gave me plenty to work with.
    For instance, this Detective Lorenzo—that is, Lon—Sellitto (he’s taken great pains to conceal hisreal first name) is suspended but more awaits. That unfortunate incident a few years ago in which the perp was shot and killed during an arrest . . . new evidence will arise revealing that the suspect did not in fact have a gun—the witness was lying. The dead boy’s mother will hear about that. And I’ll send a few racist letters in his name to some right-wing Web sites. Then get the Reverend Al involved—that’ll be the death knell. Poor Lon may actually do time.
    And I’ve been checking Sellitto’s tethered individuals. I’ll dream up something for his teenage son by his first wife. A few drug charges, maybe. Like father, like son. Nice appeal to it.
    That Polish fellow, Pulaski, well, he’ll eventually be able to convince Homeland Security that his wife isn’t a terrorist or an illegal. But won’t they both be surprised when his child’s birth records disappear and another couple, whose newborn vanished from the hospital a year ago, happens to learn that their missing boy might be Pulaski’s? If nothing else the little guy’ll be in foster-care limbo over the months it’ll take to sort things out. That’ll damage him forever. (I know this only too well.)
    And then we come to Amelia 7303 and this Lincoln Rhyme. Well, just because I’m in a bad mood, Rose Sachs, who’s scheduled for cardiac surgery next month, will lose her insurance due to—well, I think I’ll make it past instances of fraud. And Amelia 7303’s probably pissed off about her car but wait till she gets the really bad news: her careless consumer debt. Maybe $200,000 or so. With a nearly usurious rate of interest.
    But those are simply appetizers. I’ve learned that a former boyfriend of hers was convicted of hijacking,assault, larceny and extortion. Some new witnesses will send anonymous e-mails that she was involved, too, and that there’s hidden loot in her mother’s garage, which I’ll plant there before I call Internal Affairs.
    She’ll beat the charges—statute of limitations—but the publicity will ruin her reputation. Thank you, freedom of the press. God bless America. . . .
    Death is one type of transaction guaranteed to slow your pursuers down, but the nonlethal tactics can be just as effective and are, to me, far more elegant.
    And as for this Lincoln Rhyme . . . Well, that’s an interesting situation. Of course, I made the mistake of selecting his cousin in the first