The Broken Window

away, at around the time of the crime. Alibi witness is a homeless man who suspect gives money to occasionally.
    “Had an alibi,” Sachs pointed out. “Who the jury didn’t believe. Obviously.”
    “What do you think, Mel?” Rhyme asked.
    “I’m sticking to my story. It all lines up too conveniently.”
    Pulaski nodded. “The hair spray, the soap, the fibers, the lubricant . . . everything.”
    Cooper continued, “They’re obvious choices for planted evidence. And look at the DNA—it’s not the suspect ’s at the crime scene; it’s the victim ’s at the suspect’s home. That’s a lot easier to plant.”
    Rhyme continued to examine the charts, scanning slowly.
    Sachs added, “But not all of the evidence matches. The old cardboard and the dust—those aren’t related to either scene.”
    Rhyme said, “And the tobacco. Neither the vic nor the fall guy smoked. That means those might be from the real perp.”
    Pulaski asked, “What about the doll’s hair? Does that mean he has kids?”
    Rhyme ordered, “Tape up those pictures. Let’s take a look.”
    Like the other scenes, the victim’s apartment and the perp’s house and garage had been well documented by the Crime Scene Unit. Rhyme scanned the photos. “No dolls. No toys at all. Maybe the real killer has children or some contact with toys. And he smokes or has some access to cigarettes or tobacco. Good. Oh, we’re on to something here.
    “Let’s do a profile chart. We’ve been calling him ‘Mr. X.’ But we need something else for our perp. . . . What’s today’s date?”
    “May twenty-second,” Pulaski said.
    “Okay. Unknown subject Five Twenty-Two. Sachs, if you would . . .” He nodded toward a whiteboard. “Let’s start the profile.”
    UNSUB 522 PROFILE
    • Male
    • Possibly smokes or lives/works with someone who does, or near source of tobacco
    • Has children or lives/works near them or near source of toys
    • Interest in art, coins?
    NONPLANTED EVIDENCE
    • Dust
    • Old cardboard
    • Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6
    • Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes
    Well, it was a start, he reflected, if a pretty lame one.
    “Should we call Lon and Malloy?” Sachs asked.
    Rhyme scoffed. “And tell them what ?” He nodded at the chart. “I think our little clandestine operation’d get closed down pretty fast.”
    “You mean, this isn’t official?” Pulaski asked.
    “Welcome to the underground,” Sachs said.
    The young officer digested this information.
    “That’s why we’re in disguise,” Cooper added, pointing at the black satin strip on his tuxedo trousers. He might have winked but Rhyme couldn’t tell through his dense glasses. “What’re our next steps?”
    “Sachs, call Crime Scene in Queens. We can’t get our hands on the evidence in my cousin’s case. With the trial coming up, all the P.E.’ll be in custody at the prosecutor’s office. But see if anybody at the warehouse can send us the evidence from these earlier crimes—the rape and the coin theft. I want the dust, cardboard and rope. And, Pulaski, you go down to the Big Building. I want you to look through the files of every murder in the past six months.”
    “ Every murder?”
    “The mayor’s cleaned up the city, didn’t you hear? Be thankful we’re not in Detroit or Washington. Flintlock thought of these two cases. I’ll bet there are others. Look for an underlying crime, maybe theft, maybe rape, ending in homicide. Clear class evidence and an anonymous call right after the crime. Oh, and a suspect who swears he’s innocent.”
    “Okay, sir.”
    “And us?” Mel Cooper asked.
    “We wait,” Rhyme muttered, as if the word were an obscenity.

Chapter Nine
    A wonderful transaction.
    I’m satisfied now. Walking down the street, happy, content. Flipping through the images I’ve just slipped into my collection. Images of Myra 9834. The visual ones are stored in my memory. The digital tape recorder has the others.
    Walking down the street, watching sixteens around me.
    I see them streaming down sidewalks. In cars, buses, taxis, trucks.
    I see them through windows, oblivious to me as I study them.
    Sixteens . . . Ah, I’m not the only one who refers to human beings like this, of course. Not at all. It’s a common shorthand in the industry. But I’m probably the only one who prefers to think of people as sixteens, who feels comforted by the thought.
    A sixteen-digit number is far more precise and efficient than a name. Names