“You’re Lincoln Rhyme,” the prisoner said, as if he was honored to meet the criminalist.

“That’s right. And you’re the quote Watchmaker.”

The man gave a knowing laugh.

Rhyme looked him over. He appeared tired but gave off a sense of satisfaction—even peace.

With a rare smile Rhyme asked the suspect, “So. Who was he really? The victim in the alleyway. We can search public records for Theodore Adams, but that’d be a waste of time, wouldn’t it?”

Duncan tipped his head. “You figured that out too?”

“What about Adams?” Sellitto asked. Then realized that there were broader questions that should be asked. “What’s going on here, Linc?”

“I’m asking our suspect about the man we found in the alley yesterday morning, with his neck crushed. I want to know who he was and how he died.”

“This asshole murdered him,” Sellitto said.

“No, he didn’t. I just talked to the medical examiner. He hadn’t gotten back to us with the final autopsy but he just gave me the preliminary. The victim died about five or six P.M. on Monday, not at eleven. And he died instantly of massive internal injuries consistent with an automobile accident or fall. The crushed throat had nothing to do with it. The body was frozen solid when we found it the next morning, so the tour doc couldn’t do an accurate field test for cause or time of death.” Rhyme cocked his eyebrow. “So, Mr. Duncan. Who and how?”

Duncan explained, “Just some poor guy killed in a car crash up in Westchester. His name’s James Pickering.”

Rhyme urged, “Keep going. And remember, we’re eager for answers.”

“I heard about the accident on a police scanner. The ambulance took the body to the morgue in the county hospital. I stole the corpse from there.”

Rhyme said to Sachs, “Call the hospital.”

She did. After a brief conversation she reported, “A thirty-one-year-old male ran off the Bronx River Parkway about five Monday night. Lost control on a patch of ice. Died instantly, internal injuries. Name of James Pickering. The body went to the hospital but then it disappeared. They thought it might’ve been transferred to another hospital by mistake but they couldn’t find it. The next of kin aren’t taking it too well, as you can imagine.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Duncan said, and he did look troubled. “But I didn’t have any choice. I have all his personal effects and I’ll return them. And I’ll pay for the funeral expenses myself.”

“The ID and things in the wallet that we found on the body?” Sachs asked.

“Forgeries.” Duncan nodded. “Wouldn’t pass close scrutiny but I just needed people fooled for a few days.”

“You stole the body, drove him to the alley and set him up with an iron bar on his neck to make it look liked he’d died slowly.”

A nod.

“Then you left the clock and note too.”

“That’s right.”

Lon Sellitto asked, “But the pier, at Twenty-second Street? What about the guy you killed there?”