The Burning Wire

harder now.
    The doctor’s eyes went to Palmer’s motionless form. “Was it a hit-and-run?”
    “No. We know the driver.”
    “Good. You nailed the prick. I hope the jury throws the book at him.” Then the man, in his stained outfit, was walking away.
    Pulaski stopped at the nurses’ station and, once more under the aura of his uniform, got Palmer’s address and social security number. He’d find out what he could about him, his family, dependents. Even though he was single, Palmer was middle-aged so he might have kids. He’d call them, see if he couldhelp in some way. Pulaski didn’t have much money, but he’d give whatever moral support he could.
    Mostly the young officer just wanted to unburden his soul for the pain he’d caused.
    The nurse excused herself and turned away, answering an incoming call.
    Pulaski turned too, even more quickly, and before he left the nurses’ station, he pulled on sunglasses so nobody could see the tears.

Chapter 57
    AT A LITTLE after 9 a.m. Rhyme asked Mel Cooper to click on the TV in the lab, though he kept the sound down.
    Since the feds had seemed slow to share up-to-the-minute information with the NYPD, at least with Rhyme, he wanted to make certain he learned the latest developments.
    What better source than CNN?
    The case was front and center, of course. Galt’s picture was flashed about a million times and there were nearly as many references to the mysterious Justice for the Earth ecoterror group. And sound bites from anti-green Andi Jessen.
    But most of the coverage of the Galt attacks involved windstorms of speculation. And many anchors, of course, wondered if there was a connection to Earth Day.
    Which was also the subject of much reportage.There were a number of celebrations in the city: a parade, schoolchildren planting trees, protests, the New Energy Expo at the convention center and the big rally in Central Park, at which two of the President’s key allies on the environment would be speaking, up-and-coming senators from out west. Following that would be a concert by a half dozen famous rock groups. Attendance would be close to a half million people. Several stories dealt with the increased security at all the events because of the recent attacks.
    Gary Noble and Tucker McDaniel had told Rhyme that not only were two hundred extra agents and NYPD officers assigned to security, the FBI’s technical support people had been working with Algonquin to make sure that all the electrical lines in and around the park were protected from sabotage.
    Rhyme now looked up as Ron Pulaski walked into the room.
    “Where’ve you been, Rookie?”
    “Uhm . . .” He held up a white envelope. “The DNA.”
    He’d been someplace else—Rhyme believed he knew where. The criminalist didn’t press it but he said, “That wasn’t a priority. We know who the perp is. We’ll need it for the trial. But we’ve got to catch him first.”
    “Sure.”
    “You find anything else yesterday at Galt’s?”
    “Went over it again top to bottom, Lincoln. But nothing, sorry.”
    Sellitto too arrived, looking more disheveled than usual. The outfit seemed the same—light blue shirt and navy suit. Rhyme wondered if he’d slept in his own office last night. The detective gave them a synopsis of how things were unfolding downtown—thecase had bled over into the public relations world. Political careers could be at stake and while local, state and federal officials were putting bodies on the street and bringing “resources to bear,” each was also carefully suggesting that it was doing more than the others.
    Settling into a noisy wicker chair, he loudly slurped coffee and muttered, “But the bottom line is nobody knows how to run this thing. We’ve got portables and feebies and National Guard at the airports, subways, train stations. All the refineries and docks. Special harbor patrols around the tankers—though I don’t know how the fuck he’d attack a ship with an arc flash or whatever. And they’ve got people on all the Algonquin substations.”
    “He’s not going after the substations anymore,” Rhyme complained.
    “I know that. And so does everybody, but nobody knows where exactly to expect him. It’s everywhere.”
    “What is?”
    “This fucking juice. Electricity.” He waved his hand, apparently indicating the entire city. “Everybody’s goddamn house.” He eyed the outlets in Rhyme’s wall. Then said, “At least we haven’t got any more demands.