And into the lab walked Ron Pulaski and Mel Cooper. They were each carting crates containing evidence bags.
“The hell’s this?”
Sachs told the men who had just entered, “I watched Beaufort drive off. He’s clear. And I don’t think they’re going to waste manpower surveilling us.” She turned to Rhyme. “They may not like you at the moment, but they don’t dislike you enough to spend money spying on and busting you.”
Cooper walked to a locker and donned a face mask and gloves, booties, lab coat. He carried his crate into the sterile part of the lab and then took Pulaski’s and did the same.
“I’ll repeat my question,” Rhyme muttered.
Sachs: “I double-dipped the evidence. Took two samples of each. From the Bechtel Building and Noelle’s.”
“You did what?”
“I hid the second set in both scenes,” Sachs continued. “Ron went back and got them after I left.”
Rhyme looked from one to the other.
She said, “We talked about it. Lon too. We know the risk. Are they going to fire us? Maybe. Arrest for obstruction? Not likely.”
Cooper said, “Let’s face it, Lincoln, we didn’t have a choice. The Queens lab is good. But not as good as we are.”
Pulaski said, “Maybe some of your ego’s rubbing off on us, Lincoln.”
Sachs then said, “We never did ask you, of course. Your ass is on the line too. What do you say?”
The three were looking his way.
Rhyme, not a man of many words but rarely speechless, said nothing for a moment. Finally: “Thank you.”
26
Rhyme was listening to Sachs’s description of the Carrie Noelle home invasion.
“He did the same thing as at Annabelle’s. Moved personal effects, stole underwear and a knife. No dessert, but he drank some of her wine.”
“Left the glass?”
“He did.”
Rhyme grunted affirmatively, thinking: Possibly DNA.
Sachs pulled on booties, gloves, a cap and a white lab jacket and stepped into the sterile portion of the parlor, where Mel Cooper was logging the evidence in and signing his name on the chain-of-custody cards.
The items that the Locksmith touched were a doll, some clothes, a wine bottle and glass, a wooden block and the knives it had contained, a tube of lipstick, a children’s mobile in a second bedroom that served as a storeroom for the toys she blogged about and sold online.
“He started it playing.”
Cooper said, “Must have freaked her out. Imagine.”
She said, “Had to let that go to Queens, the mobile. Couldn’t cut it in half, her phone too, but we’ve got almost everything else.”
“Footprints?”
“Everything but the bathroom was carpeted, and there he stood on the rug.”
“Friction ridges?” Rhyme called. This was just a formality, and Sachs and Cooper confirmed he’d worn gloves and left no fingerprints.
“I want that DNA,” he said. “Check the wineglass.”
Sachs handed Cooper the heavy goblet. “Couldn’t afford for that to go to the lab. I wanted it here.”
Rhyme agreed. “Hold it up,” he called.
The tech lifted it to the camera and Rhyme wheeled to a large monitor. He noted a smear around the lip.
“Swab it and give me the analysis.”
Cooper did as instructed. Soon he had an answer. “Sodium carbonate peroxyhydrate.”
“Goddamn it.”
Pulaski, the scribe manning the whiteboard, looked his way.
Rhyme continued, “It’s oxygen bleach.”
“Hell,” Sachs muttered.
“What’s the matter?” the young patrol officer asked.
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Rhyme grumbled. “He can’t leave touch DNA because he’s wearing gloves, and he’s got some head covering so we can’t get a hair. The only chance to snag his DNA was from imbibing the vic’s wine. And he cleaned the rim off with one of the few substances in the universe that destroy deoxyribonucleic acid.”
“Doesn’t alcohol?” Pulaski asked.
“No, Rookie. Alcohol is used to extract and store DNA. Regular bleach won’t do it either. You need to start reading my book.”
“I have. You don’t mention oxygen bleach.”
“Oh.” Rhyme hesitated. “It’s in the eighth edition.”
“I didn’t know there was an eighth. I have the seventh.”
Rhyme muttered, “The eighth’s not out yet. I’ll make sure you get a copy.”
Pulaski said, “If he’s that worried about DNA, it might mean he’s in CODIS.”
The database repository of DNA, accessible to law enforcement agencies. Unlike the fingerprint database, which logs the prints of millions of both criminals and innocent citizens (like those applying for government jobs or a concealed carry permit), nearly all those in CODIS have broken the law.
“Possibly, but most smart perps — like the Locksmith — are going to want to leave as little of themselves behind as possible as a matter of course.”
“Why didn’t he just take the glass with him?” Cooper wondered.
Sachs offered, “I’d guess he wanted to make sure she saw it. The intrusion was more invasive that way. He wants to cause the most damage he can. There’s a sadistic side to him.”
Pulaski said, “So the glass is useless as evidence.”
“Who said that, Rookie? Mel, the bleach. Give me the percentage breakdown of the sodium carbonate and peroxyhydrate.”
The tech told him the concentrations of the two ingredients.
Rhyme sighed. “Now, it’s useless. In those proportions, it’s off-the-shelf commercial oxy bleach. If they’d been unique amounts we could have deduced he made it himself and, therefore, had a degree or training in science. But this?” He gestured impatiently. “It tells us... he’s got cash and the address of a home improvement or drug store.”
Sachs’s phone hummed, and she answered.
“Lon. You’re on speaker.”
“Hey. I’d say hi to Lincoln, but I know he’s not there. On vacation somewhere, I’ll bet.”
Rhyme called out, “Hello, Lon. I understand you’re a co-conspirator too.”
Sellitto chuckled. “I didn’t hear that. Listen, I talked to Whittaker Media’s legal department. The chief general counsel, a guy named Douglas Hubert. They don’t have any names yet but he’s putting together a list of possible suspects who might have a gripe with the paper or the TV network. Going to be a long one. A lot of folks don’t care for the rag.”
“Disgruntled employees?”
“Hubert’s looking at them too. And he said that the head of the whole shebang, Averell Whittaker, is retiring and selling the company. I’m wondering if maybe a buyer hired the Locksmith then leaked the story to drive down the value of the company. Might be worth looking into.”
“We’ll do that, Lon.”
“Any leads?” Sellitto asked.
“Not yet.”
“All right. Keep me posted.”
After he’d disconnected, Rhyme said, “Let’s keep at it.”
Sachs and Cooper began examining each item for foreign substances the Locksmith might have left on the carpet or the objects he touched.
“More dried blood. From the carpet outside her bedroom. It matches the sample from the Talese scene.”
“Suggests that there was a fair amount of it he stepped in. Maybe he wiped at it but didn’t bother to seriously clean his shoes. Okay, what else?”
Pulaski added the discoveries to the board, which Rhyme now studied.
— Blue Victoria’s Secret panties and knife — Zwilling J.A. Henckels brand — were stolen.
—Daily Herald newspaper, page 3 of the February 17th edition, same as at A. Talese scene. Message, the same: “Reckoning — the Locksmith,” in victim’s lipstick.