The Coffin Dancer

he put her in the refrigerator?” She lifted a finger to her mouth and chewed a nail. On her ten fingers, only one nail—thelittle finger of her left hand—was long and shapely. The others were chewed. Some were brown with dried blood.
    The criminalist answered, “I think it was because he wanted to distract us so we wouldn’t focus on the bomb. A body in a refrigerator—that got our attention.”
    “I don’t mean that,” she answered. “COD was suffocation. He put her in there alive. Why? Is he a sadist or something?”
    Rhyme answered, “No, the Dancer’s not a sadist. He can’t afford to be. His only urge is to complete the job, and he’s got enough willpower to keep his other lusts under control. Why’d he suffocate her when he could have used a knife or rope? . . . I’m not exactly sure but it could be good for us.”
    “How’s that?”
    “Maybe there was something about her that he hated and he wanted to kill her in the most unpleasant way he could.”
    “Yeah, but why’s that good for us?” Sellitto asked.
    “Because”—it was Sachs who answered—“it means maybe he’s losing his cool. He’s getting careless.”
    “Exactly,” Rhyme called, proud of Sachs for making the connection. But she didn’t notice his smile of approval. Her eyes dipped closed momentarily and she shook her head, probably replaying the image of the dead woman’s horrified eyes. People thought criminalists were cold (how often had Rhyme’s wife leveled that charge at him?), but in fact the best ones had a heartbreaking empathy forthe victims of the scenes they searched. Sachs was one of these.
    “Sachs,” Rhyme whispered gently, “the print?”
    She looked at him.
    “You found a print, you said. We have to move fast.”
    Sachs nodded. “It’s a partial.” She held up the plastic bag.
    “Could it be hers?”
    “No, I printed her. Took a while to find her hands. But the print definitely isn’t hers.”
    “Mel,” Rhyme said.
    The tech put the bit of packing tape in a SuperGlue frame and heated some glue. Immediately a tiny portion of the print became evident.
    Cooper shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered.
    “What?”
    “He wiped the tape, the Dancer. He must’ve known he touched it without a glove on. There’s only a bit of one partial left.”
    Like Rhyme, Cooper was a member of the International Association for Identification. They were experts at identifying people from fingerprints, DNA, and odontology—dental remains. But this particular print—like the one on the metal lip of the bomb—was beyond their power. If any experts could find and classify a print, it would be the two of them. But not this one.
    “Shoot it and mount it,” Rhyme muttered. “Up on the wall.” They’d go through the motions because it was what you had to do in this business. But he wasvery frustrated. Sachs had nearly died for nothing.
    Edmond Locard, the famous French criminalist, developed a principle named after him. He said that in every encounter between criminal and victim there is an exchange of evidence. It might be microscopic, but a transfer does take place. Yet it seemed to Rhyme that if anyone could disprove Locard’s Principle, it was the ghost they called the Coffin Dancer.
    Sellitto, seeing the frustration on Rhyme’s face, said, “We’ve got the trap at the station house. If we’re lucky we’ll get him.”
    “Let’s hope. We could use some goddamn luck.”
    He closed his eyes, rested his head in the pillow. A moment later he heard Thom saying, “It’s nearly eleven. Time for bed.”
    At times it’s easy to neglect the body, to forget we even have bodies—times like these, when lives are at stake and we have to step out of our physical beings and keep working, working, working. We have to go far beyond our normal limitations. But Lincoln Rhyme had a body that wouldn’t tolerate neglect. Bedsores could lead to sepsis and blood poisoning. Fluid in the lungs, to pneumonia. Didn’t catheterize the bladder? Didn’t massage the bowels to encourage a movement? Spenco boots too tight? Dysreflexia was the consequence and that could mean a stroke. Exhaustion alone could bring on an attack.
    Too many ways to die . . .
    “You’re going to bed,” Thom said.
    “I have to—”
    “Sleep. You have to sleep.”
    Rhyme acquiesced. He was very tired.
    “All right, Thom. All right.” He wheeled toward the elevator. “One thing.” He looked back. “Could you come up