A crime scene officer approached, the one she’d sent to check on the building nearby – where Alexander had said he’d seen a man following him. The CS cop, a sinewy young man in round glasses, said, ‘Nobody in the building. And we went through the basement real careful. No exit from down there, no way to get to the parking garage.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

Two firemen approached, their gear dripping. One held a small plastic bag by the corner. Ah, the maybe evidence. She wasn’t concerned about contamination; the fireman wore neoprene biohazard gloves.

He greeted them. ‘Heard you were the crime scene officer in charge.’

‘Right.’ Sachs nodded. ‘How is it down there?’

‘Mess. It’s still under eight inches of water. And covers the whole ground floor. Then the tunnel underneath the lower level? That’s a lake too.’

‘What’d you find?’ Nodding at the bag.

‘Was against the wall near where the victim was. Might be from your boy, might not. There was nothing else, though.’

Banana peel, pot, coins …

She took the bag in her gloved hand. Inside were small metal fixtures, about an inch high, in various shapes. Hardware of some kind, Sachs guessed. She showed the bag to Sellitto, who shrugged. She slipped this into an evidence bag and took the fireman’s name and badge number for the chain-of-custody card. Wrote the details down and had him sign. She did the same.

‘I want to go down there,’ Sachs said to one of the firemen. ‘Borrow some boots?’

‘Sure. We’ll suit you up.’

Another fireman came by with a cardboard tray, passing around coffee. Sellitto took one but Sachs declined. She had no taste for anything at the moment except finding a lead, any lead, to Unsub 11-5.

CHAPTER 39

‘They’re implants.’

TT Gordon, the tat artist decorated with superheroes and an excessively stylish chin, was back in Rhyme’s parlor.

Standing at the examination table beside Mel Cooper, he peered at what the fireman had collected at the crime scene in the Belvedere Apartments parking garage: loose metal bits in a plastic bag. They weren’t hardware, as Sachs had originally thought, but were in the shape of numbers and letters. Grooves had been filed in them and some off-white substance smeared into the notches.

h 7 1 t

About an inch high each, they sat on a sterile pad of Teflon.

‘And what are implants?’ Rhyme asked, wheeling closer.

The skinny man rubbed at Batman’s face on his lean arm. Rhyme could see a portion of another superhero on the other. Why those particular two comic characters? he wondered.

But then: Why not?