A figure appeared in the doorway—in fact, he filled the doorway. A man in his twenties. Massive shoulders, a prominent forehead. Six-five, close to three hundred pounds. For a difficult moment Rhyme thought this might be a relative of Garrett’s and that the man had come to threaten them. But in a high, bashful voice he said, “I’m Ben?”

The three men stared at him as he glanced uneasily at Rhyme’s wheelchair and legs.

Bell said, “Can I help you?”

“Well, I’m looking for Mr. Bell.”

“I’m Sheriff Bell.”

Eyes still surveying Rhyme’s legs awkwardly. He glanced away quickly then cleared his throat and swallowed. “Oh, well, now. I’m Lucy Kerr’s nephew?” He seemed to ask questions more than make statements.

“Ah, my forensics assistant!” Rhyme said. “Excellent! Just in time.”

Another glance at the legs, the wheelchair. “Aunt Lucy didn’t say …”

What was coming next? Rhyme wondered.

“… didn’t say anything about forensics,” he mumbled. “I’m just a student, post-grad at UNC in Avery. Uhm, what do you mean, sir, ’just in time’?” The question was directed to Rhyme but Ben was looking at the sheriff.

“I mean: Get over to that table. I’ve got samples coming in any minute and you have to help me analyze them.”

“Samples … Okay. What kind of fish would that be?” he asked Bell.

“Fish?” Rhyme responded. “Fish?”

“What it is, sir,” the big man said softly, still looking at Bell, “I’d be happy to help but I have to tell you, I have pretty limited experience.”

“We’re not talking about fish. We’re talking crime scene samples! What’d you think?”

“Crime scene? Well, I didn’t know,” Ben told the sheriff.

“You can talk to me,” Rhyme corrected sternly.

A rosy blush blossomed on the man’s face and his eyes snapped to attention. His head seemed to shiver as he forced himself to look at Rhyme. “I was just… I mean, he’s the sheriff.”

Bell said, “But Lincoln here’s running the show. He’s a forensics scientist from New York. He’s helping us out.”

“Sure.” Eyes on the wheelchair, eyes on Rhyme’s legs, eyes on the sip-and-puff controller. Back to the safety of the floor.

Rhyme decided he hated this man, who was acting as if the criminalist were the oddest kind of circus freak.

And part of him hated Amelia Sachs too—for engineering this whole diversion and taking him away from his shark cells and Dr. Weaver’s hands.

“Well, sir—”

“‘Lincoln’ is fine.”

“The thing is I specialize in marine sociozoology.”

“Which is?” Rhyme asked impatiently.

“Basically, the behavior of marine animal life.”

Oh, great, Rhyme thought. Not only do I get a cripphobe for an assistant but I get one who’s a fish shrink. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re a scientist. Principles are principles. Protocols are protocols. You’ve used a gas chromatograph?”

“Yessir.”