The Cold Moon

grumbled to paunchy, disheveled Lon Sellitto, walking through the doorway. The big detective had to maneuver carefully;the room had been a quaint parlor in the Victorian era but now was chockablock with forensic science gear: optical microscopes, an electron microscope, a gas chromatograph, laboratory beakers and racks, pipettes, petri dishes, centrifuges, chemicals, books and magazines, computers—and thick wires, which ran everywhere. (When Rhyme began doing forensic consulting out of his town house, the power-hungry equipment frequently would blow circuit breakers. The juice running into the place probably equaled the combined usage by everyone else on the block.)
    “Command, volume, level three.” The environmental control unit obediently turned down NPR.
    “Not in the spirit of the season, are we?” the detective asked.
    Rhyme didn’t answer. He looked back at the monitor.
    “Hey, Jackson.” Sellitto bent down and petted a small, longhaired dog curled up in an NYPD evidence box. He was temporarily living here; his former owner, Thom’s elderly aunt, had passed away recently in Westport, Connecticut, after a long illness. Among the young man’s inheritances was Jackson, a Havanese. The breed, related to the bichon frise, originated in Cuba. Jackson was staying here until Thom could find a good home for him.
    “We got a bad one, Linc,” Sellitto said, standing up. He started to take off his overcoat but changed his mind. “Jesus, it’s cold. Is this a record?”
    “Don’t know. Don’t spend much time on the Weather Channel.” He thought of a good opening paragraph of his letter to the editor.
    “Bad,” Sellitto repeated.
    Rhyme glanced at Sellitto with a cocked eyebrow.
    “Two homicides, same M.O. More or less.”
    “Lots of ‘bad ones’ out there, Lon. Why’re these any badder?” As often happened in the tedious days between cases Rhyme was in a bad mood; of all the perps he’d come across, the worst was boredom.
    But Sellitto had worked with Rhyme for years and was immune to the criminalist’s attitudes. “Got a call from the Big Building. Brass want you and Amelia on this one. They said they’re insisting.”
    “Oh, insisting?”
    “I promised I wouldn’t tell you they said that. You don’t like to be insisted.”
    “Can we get to the ‘bad’ part, Lon? Or is that too much to ask?”
    “Where’s Amelia?”
    “Westchester, on a case. Should be back soon.”
    The detective held up a wait-a-minute finger as his cell phone rang. He had a conversation, nodding and jotting notes. He disconnected and glanced at Rhyme. “Okay, here we have it. Sometime last night our perp, he grabs—”
    “He?” Rhyme asked pointedly.
    “Okay. We don’t know the gender for sure.”
    “Sex.”
    “What?”
    Rhyme said, “Gender’s a linguistic concept. It refers to designating words male or female in certain languages. Sex is a biological concept differentiating male and female organisms.”
    “Thanks for the grammar lesson,” the detective muttered. “Maybe it’ll help if I’m ever on Jeopardy! Anyway, he grabs some poor schmuck and takes ’em to that boat repair pier on the Hudson. We’re not exactly sure how he does it, but he forces the guy, or woman, to hang on over the river and then cuts their wrists. The vic holds on for a while, looks like—long enough to lose a shitload of blood—but then just lets go.”
    “Body?”
    “Not yet. Coast Guard and ESU’re searching.”
    “I heard plural.”
    “Okay. Then we get another call a few minutes later. To check out an alley downtown, off Cedar, near Broadway. The perp’s got another vic. A uniform finds this guy duct-taped and on his back. The perp rigged this iron bar—weighs maybe seventy-five pounds—above his neck. The vic has to hold it up to keep from getting his throat crushed.”
    “Seventy-five pounds? Okay, given the strength issues, I’ll grant you the perp’s sex probably is male.”
    Thom came into the room with coffee and pastries. Sellitto, his weight a constant issue, went for the Danish first, his diet hibernated during the holidays. He finished half and, wiping his mouth, continued. “So the vic’s holding up the bar. Which maybe he does for a while—but he doesn’t make it.”
    “Who’s the vic?”
    “Name’s Theodore Adams. Lived near Battery Park. A nine-one-one came in last night from a woman said her brother was supposed to meet her for dinner and never showed. That’s the name she gave.