Hands were shaken, this time with less uncertainty. But Poitier looked Thom up and down. Perhaps the concept of “caregiver” was new to him.

The corporal gazed about him and found several fellow officers frozen in different attitudes, like children playing the game of statue, as they stared.

Mychal Poitier’s attention returned at once to the wheelchair and Rhyme’s insensate legs. The slow movements of the right arm seemed to rivet him the most, though. Finally, Poitier, using all his willpower, forced himself to stare into Rhyme’s eyes.

The criminalist found himself at first irritated at this reaction but then he felt a sensation he hadn’t experienced for some time: He was ashamed. Actually ashamed of his condition. He’d hoped the sense would morph into anger but it didn’t. He felt diminished, weakened.

Poitier’s dismayed look had burned him.

Ashamed…

He tried to push aside the prickly feeling and said evenly, “I need to discuss the case with you, Corporal.”

Poitier looked around again. “I’m afraid I’ve told you all I can.”

“I want to see the evidence reports. I want to see the crime scene itself.”

“That’s not practical. The scene is sealed.”

“You seal crime scenes from the public, not from forensics officers.”

“But you’re…” A hesitation; Poitier managed not to look at his legs. “You’re not an officer here, Captain Rhyme. Here you are a civilian. I’m sorry.”

Pulaski said, “Let us help you with the case.”

“My time is very occupied.” He was happy to glance toward Pulaski, someone who was on his feet. Someone who was normal. “Occupied,” Poitier repeated, turning now to a bulletin board on which was pinned a flyer: The headline was MISSING. Beneath that stark word was a picture of a smiling blonde, downloaded from Facebook, it seemed.

Rhyme said, “The student you were mentioning.”

“Yes. The one you…”

The corporal had been going to add: the one you don’t care about. Rhyme was sure of this.

But he’d refrained.

Because, of course, Rhyme wasn’t fair game. He was weak. A snide word might shatter him beyond repair.

His face flushed.

Pulaski said, “Corporal, could we just see copies of the evidence report, the autopsies? We could look at them right here. We won’t take them off the premises.”

Good approach, Rhyme thought.

“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Officer Pulaski.” He endured another look at Rhyme.

“Then let us have a fast look at the scene.”

Poitier coughed or cleared his throat. “I have to leave it intact, depending on what we hear from the Venezuelan authorities.”

Rhyme played along. “And I will make sure the scene remains uncontaminated for them.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“Our case for Moreno’s death is different from yours—you pointed that out the other day. But we still need certain forensics from here.”