The Coffin Dancer

notebook. “You better tell me about it.”

    “Wait,” Rhyme said.
    Lon Sellitto paused in his narration.
    Rhyme now heard another set of footsteps approaching, neither heavy nor light. He knew whose they were. This was not deduction. He’d heard this particular pattern many times.
    Amelia Sachs’s beautiful face, surrounded by her long red hair, crested the stairs, and Rhyme saw her hesitate for a moment, then continue into the room. She was in full navy blue patrol uniform, minus only the cap and tie. She carried a Jefferson Market shopping bag.
    Jerry Banks flashed her a smile. His crush was adoring and obvious and only moderately inappropriate—not many patrol officers have a history of a Madison Avenue modeling career behind them, as did tall Amelia Sachs. But the gaze, like the attraction, was not reciprocated, and the young man, a pretty boy himself despite the badly shaved face and cowlick, seemed resigned to carrying his torch a bit longer.
    “Hi, Jerry,” she said. To Sellitto she gave another nod and a deferential “sir.” (He was a detective lieutenant and a legend in Homicide. Sachs had cop genes in her and had been taught over the dinner table as well as in the academy to respect elders.)
    “You look tired,” Sellitto commented.
    “Didn’t sleep,” she said. “Looking for sand.” She pulled a dozen Baggies out of the shopping bag. “I’ve been out collecting exemplars.”
    “Good,” Rhyme said. “But that’s old news. We’ve been reassigned.”
    “Reassigned?”
    “Somebody’s come to town. And we have to catch him.”
    “Who?”
    “A killer,” Sellitto said.
    “Pro?” Sachs asked. “OC?”
    “Professional, yes,” Rhyme said. “No OC connection that we know about.” Organized crime was the largest purveyor of for-hire killers in the country.
    “He’s freelance,” Rhyme explained. “We call him the Coffin Dancer.”
    She lifted an eyebrow, red from worrying with a fingernail. “Why?”
    “Only one victim’s ever got close to him and lived long enough to give us any details. He’s got—or had, at least—a tattoo on his upper arm: the Grim Reaper dancing with a woman in front of a coffin.”
    “Well, that’s something to put in the ‘Distinguishing Marks’ box on an incident report,” she said wryly. “What else you know about him?”
    “White male, probably in his thirties. That’s it.”
    “You traced the tattoo?” Sachs asked.
    “Of course,” Rhyme responded dryly. “To the ends of the earth.” He meant this literally. No police department in any major city around the world could find any history of a tattoo like his.
    “Excuse me, gentlemen and lady,” Thom said. “Work to do.” Conversation came to a halt while the young man went through the motions of rotating his boss. This helped clear his lungs. To quadriplegics certain parts of their body become personified; patients develop special relationships with them. After his spine was shattered while searching a crime scene some years ago Rhyme’s arms and legs had become his cruelest enemies and he’d spent desperate energy trying to force them to do what he wanted. But they’d won, no contest, and stayed as still as wood. Then he’d confronted the racking spasms that shook his body unmercifully. He’d tried to force them to stop. Eventually they had—on their own, it seemed. Rhyme couldn’t exactly claim victory though he did accept their surrender. Then he’d turned to lesser challenges and had taken on his lungs. Finally, after a year of rehab, he weaned himself off the ventilator. Out came the trachea tube and he could breathe on his own. It was his only victory against his body and he harbored a dark superstition that the lungs were biding their time to get even. He figured he’d die of pneumonia or emphysema in a year or two.
    Lincoln Rhyme didn’t necessarily mind the idea of dying. But there were too many ways to die; he was determined not to go unpleasantly.
    Sachs asked, “Any leads? LKA?”
    “Last known was down in the D.C. area,” Sellitto said in his Brooklyn drawl. “That’s it. Nothin’ else. Oh, we hear about him some. Dellray more’n us, with all his skels and CIs, you know. The Dancer, he’s like he’s ten different people. Ear jobs, facial implants,silicon. Adds scars, removes scars. Gains weight, loses weight. Once he skinned this corpse—took some guy’s hands off and wore ’em like gloves to fool CS about the prints.”
    “Not me, though,”