“In Lucy’s bedroom.”

Rhyme closed his eyes. “Describe it to me.”

Sachs gave him the whole scene—the hallway leading to the bedroom, the layout of the bedroom itself then the furniture, pictures on the wall, the Watchmaker’s entrance and exit route and other details. Everything was described in precise, objective detail. Her training and experience shone as sharply as her red hair. If she left the force he wondered how long it would take another cop to walk the grid as well as she did.

Forever, he thought cynically.

Anger flared for a moment. Then he forced the emotion away and concentrated again on her words.

Sachs described the closet. “Six feet four inches wide. Filled with clothes. Men’s on the left, women’s on the right, half and half. Shoes on the floor. Fourteen pair. Four men’s, ten women’s.”

A typical ratio, Rhyme reflected, for a married couple, thinking of his own closet from years ago. “When he was hiding, was he lying on the floor?”

“No. Too many boxes.”

He heard her ask a question. Then she came back on the line. “The clothes’re ordered now but he must’ve moved them. I can see some boxes moved on the floor and a few bits of that roofing tar we found earlier.”

“What were the clothes he was hiding between?”

“A suit. And Lucy’s army uniform.”

“Good.” Certain garments, like uniforms, are particularly good at collecting evidence, thanks to their prominent epaulettes, buttons and decorations. “Was he against the front or back?”

“Front.”

“Perfect. Go over every button, medal, bar, decoration.”

“Okay. Give me a few minutes.”

Then silence.

His impatience, laced with anger, was back. He stared at the whiteboards.

Finally she said, “I found two hairs and some fibers.”

He was about to tell her to check the hairs against samples in the apartment. But of course he didn’t need to do this. “I compared the hairs to hers. They don’t match.” He began to tell her to find a sample of the woman’s husband’s hair when Sachs said, “But I found her husband’s brush. I’m ninety-nine percent sure they’re his.”

Good, Sachs. Good.

“But the fibers . . . they don’t seem to match anything else here.” Sachs paused. “They look like wool, light-colored. Maybe a sweater . . . but they were caught on a pocket button at about shoulder level for a man of the Watchmaker’s height. Could be a shearling collar.”

A reasonable deduction, though they’d have to examine the fibers more carefully in the lab.

After a few minutes she said, “That’s about it, Rhyme. Not much but it’s something.”

“Okay, bring everything in. We’ll go over it here.” He disconnected the line.

Thom wrote down the information Sachs gave them. After the aide left the room Lincoln Rhyme stared again at the charts. He wondered if the notes he was looking at weren’t simply clues in a homicide case, but evidence of a different sort of murder: the corpse of the last crime scene he and Amelia Sachs would ever work together.