The Burning Wire

flights. I decided it wouldn’t make sense for anybody to plan an attack at an airport or a military base; the security around the electrical systems would be too high. So where did that trace come from? The only aviation scenario that had come up recently didn’t involve this case at all; it involved you—in Mexico. And we found a green fiber at one of the scenes . . . it was the exact shade of Mexican police uniforms. And it had aviation fuel in it.”
    “I left a fiber?” Angry with himself now. Furious.
    “I supposed you picked it up from meeting with Arturo Diaz at the airport before you flew back to Philadelphia to kidnap Randall Jessen and drive to New York.”
    Logan could only sigh, confirming Rhyme’s theory.
    “Well, that was my theory, that you were involved. But it was purely speculation—until I realized I had the answer right in front of me. The definitive answer.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The DNA. We had the analysis of the blood we found on the access door near the first substationattack. But I never ran it through CODIS—the DNA database. Why should we? We knew Galt’s identity.”
    This was the final check. Not long ago Rhyme had typed instructions to Cooper—he couldn’t tell him orally because of the bug in the generator—to have the DNA lab send a copy of the sample to CODIS. “We had a sample of your DNA from your assignment in New York a few years ago. I was reading the confirmation that they were the same when you showed up. I scrambled to switch screens pretty quickly.”
    Logan’s face tightened with anger at himself. “Yes, yes . . . In the substation, at the access door, I cut my finger on a burr of metal. I wiped the blood off as best I could but I was worried that you’d find it. It’s why I rigged the battery to blow and burn off the DNA.”
    “Locard’s principle,” Rhyme said, citing the early-twentieth-century criminologist. He quoted, “ ‘In every crime there is an exchange’—”
    Logan finished, “—‘between criminal and victim or criminal and the site of the crime. It may be very difficult to find, but the connection exists. And it is the obligation of every crime scene professional to find that one common bit of evidence that will lead to the perpetrator’s identity, if not his doorstep.’ ”
    Rhyme couldn’t help but laugh. That particular quotation was his own, a paraphrase of Locard’s. It had appeared in an article about forensics he’d written only two or three months ago. Richard Logan had apparently been doing his homework too.
    Or was it more than research?
    That’s why I took the job. . . . I needed to get close to you. . .  .
    Logan said, “You’re not only a good criminalist, you’re a good actor. You had me fooled.”
    “You’ve done some of that yourself now, haven’t you?”
    The men’s eyes met and their gaze held steady. Then Sellitto’s phone rang and he answered, had a brief conversation and hung up. “Transport’s here.”
    Three officers arrived in the doorway, two uniforms and a brown-haired detective in blue jeans, blue shirt and tan sports coat. He had an easygoing smile, which was tempered by the fact he wore two very large automatic pistols, one on each hip.
    “Hey, Roland,” Amelia Sachs said, smiling.
    Rhyme offered, “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
    “Howdy. Well, you got yourself some catch here.” Roland Bell was a transplant from a sheriff’s office in North Carolina. He’d been a detective on the NYPD for some years but had yet to lose the Southern Mid-Atlantic twang. His specialty was protecting witnesses and making sure suspects didn’t escape. There was nobody better at the job. Rhyme was pleased that he’d be the one shepherding the Watchmaker down to detention. “He’ll be in good hands.”
    At a nod from Bell, the patrolmen helped Logan to his feet. Bell checked the shackles and cuffs and then searched the man himself. He nodded and they headed for the door. The Watchmaker turned back, saying coyly, “I’ll see you again, Lincoln.”
    “I know you will. I’m looking forward to it.”
    The suspect’s smile was replaced by a perplexed look.
    Rhyme continued, “I’ll be the expert forensic witness at your trial.”
    “Maybe there. Maybe someplace else.” The man glanced at the Breguet. “Don’t forget to keep it wound.”
    And with that he was gone.

Chapter 81
    “ I’M SORRY TO tell you, Rodolfo.”
    The boisterous voice was absent completely.