Sachs relayed the question. But the crime scene officer didn’t know. ‘All the manager said was that she could see inside.’
Rhyme said, ‘Well, we’ll find out.’
Eagleston added, ‘The only other people at the kill site were one responding uniform and one medic. But they backed out as soon as they confirmed death. To wait for us. I’ve got samples of their shoes, so we can eliminate any footprints. They tell me they didn’t touch anything other than the vic, to check on her condition. And the EMT was gloved.’
So contamination of the scene — the introduction of evidence unrelated to the crime itself or the perp — would be minimal. That was one advantage of a murder in a hellhole like this. A crime on the street could have dozens of contaminants, from blowing dust, pouring rain and fierce sleet (like today) to passersby and even souvenir seekers. One of the worst contaminants was fellow officers, especially brass grandstanding if reporters were present and eager to grab a video bite to slap on the twenty-four-hour news cycle.
One more glance at the circular coffin.
Okay, Amelia Sachs thought: Knuckle time …
A phrase of her father’s. The man had also been a cop, a beat patrolman working the Deuce — Midtown South; back then Times Square was like Deadwood in the 1800s. Knuckle time meant referring to those moments when you have to go up against your worst fears.
Breadbasket …
Sachs returned to the access door and climbed through it and down into the utility room below the cellar. Then she took the evidence collection gear bag from the other officer. Sachs said, ‘You search the basement, Jean?’
‘I’ll do it now,’ Eagleston said. ‘And then get everything into the RRV.’
They’d done a fast examination of the cellar. But it was apparent that the perp had spent minimal time there. He’d grabbed Chloe, subdued her somehow and dragged her to the access door; her heel marks were visible.
Sachs set the heavy bag on the floor and opened it. She photographed and gathered evidence from the utility room, although, as with the basement, the perp and the victim would have spent little time here; he’d’ve wanted to get her out of sight as soon as possible. She bagged and tagged the trace and set the plastic and paper containers on the floor in the cellar for the other crime scene officers to cart to the RRV.
Then Sachs turned to the tiny shaft’s opening, eyeing it the way one would glance at the muzzle of a pistol in the hand of a desperate perp.
Breadbasket …
She didn’t move. Heard her heart thudding.
‘Sachs.’ Rhyme’s voice sounded in her ear.
She didn’t respond.
He said softly, ‘I understand. But.’
Meaning: Get your ass going.
Fair enough.
‘Got it, Rhyme. No worries.’
Knuckle time …
It’s not that long, she reassured herself. Twenty three feet. That’s nothing. Though, for some inexplicable reason, Sachs found herself passionately resenting that extra yard past twenty. As she approached, her palms began to sweat fiercely; her scalp too, which itched more than normally. She wanted to scratch, dig her nails into her skin, her cuticles. A nervous habit. The urge rose when she was unable to move — in all senses, physically, emotionally, mentally.
Static: How she hated that state.
Her breath came in short intervals and shallow gulps.
Orienting, she touched her Glock 17, which was strapped to her hip. A slight risk of contamination from the weapon, even if she didn’t blow anyone away, but there was that security issue again. And if any perp had a good scenario for hurting a crime scene officer, it would be here.
She hooked a nylon tie-down to her evidence collection gear bag and the other end to her weapon belt, to drag it behind her.
Moving forward. Pausing before the opening. Then on her hands and knees. And into the shaft. Sachs wanted to leave the headlamp off — seeing the tunnel would be more troubling than concentrating on the goal at the end of it — but she was afraid she’d miss some evidence.
Click.
Under the halogen beam, the metal coffin seemed to shrink and wrap its steel shell around her.
Get. Going.
She extracted a dog hair roller from her pocket and swept the floor of the tunnel as she went forward. She knew that because of the confining space and presumably the perp’s struggling with the victim, it was likely that he had shed evidence, so she concentrated on seams and rough spots that might dislodge trace.
She thought of a joke, a Steven Wright routine from years ago. ‘I went into the hospital for an MRI. I wanted to find out if I had claustrophobia.’
But the humor and the distraction of the task didn’t keep the panic away for long.
She was a third of the way through when fear stabbed her gut, a frozen blade.
Get out, get out, get out!
Teeth chattering despite the intense heat around her.
‘You’re doing fine, Sachs.’ Rhyme’s voice in her ear.
She appreciated his baritone reassurance, but didn’t want it. She dialed down the volume on the headset.
Another few feet. Breathe, breathe.
Concentrate on the job. Sachs tried. But her hands were unsteady and she dropped the roller, the clang of the handle on the metal skin of the tunnel nearly making her gag.
And then the madness of fear snagged her. Sachs got it into her head that the unknown subject — the unsub — was behind her. He had somehow perched on the ceiling of the utility room and dropped to the floor after her. Why didn’t I look up? You always look up at crime scenes! Fuck.
Then a tug.
She gasped.
It wasn’t the gear bag tethered to her. No, it was the perp’s hand! He was going to tie her down here. And then fill the tunnel with dirt, slowly, starting with her feet. Or flood it. She’d heard dripping water in the utility space; there’d been pipes. He’d undo the plug, open a valve. She’d drown, screaming, as the water rose and she couldn’t move forward or back.
No!
That this scenario was improbable at best didn’t matter. Fear made the unlikely, even the impossible, more than plausible. Fear itself was now another occupant of the tunnel, breathing, kissing, teasing, sliding its wormy arms around her body.
She raged at herself: Don’t be crazy. You’re in danger of getting fucking shot when you climb out the other end of the tunnel, not getting suffocated by some nonexistent perp with a nonexistent shovel. There is no way the tunnel’s going to collapse and hold you as tight as a mouse in a snake’s grip. That’s not. Going. To. Happen.
But then that image itself — snake and pinned mouse — screwed itself into her thoughts, and the panic notched up a level more.
Shit. I’m going to lose it. I’m going to fucking lose it.
The end of the tunnel was now about eight feet away, and she was possessed by an urge to sprint out. But she couldn’t. There wasn’t enough room for her to move any more quickly than at a crawl. Anyway, Sachs knew that trying to hurry would be a disaster. For one thing, she could miss clues. And going more quickly would ratchet up the dread, which would explode within her like a chain reaction.
Also: Moving faster out of the tunnel, even if she could, would be a defeat.
Her personal mantra — which she’d also learned from her father — was: When you move they can’t getcha.
But sometimes, like now, they’ll getcha when you do move.
So, stop, she commanded.
And she did. Came to a complete halt. And felt the perverse arms of the tunnel embrace her ever more tightly.
Panic, cresting like waves. Panic, stabbing like that frosty knife.