He walked to the sink and unzipped his backpack. Pulling on thick gloves, he took the American Eagle tattoo machine to the sink and dismantled it. He drained the tubes of liquid and washed them in two separate gallon buckets of water, rinsing them several times and drying them with a Conair. The water he poured into a hole he’d cut in the floor, letting it soak into the earth beneath the building. He didn’t want to flush or pour the water down the drain. That little matter of evidence, once again.

This bath was just the start, however. He cleaned each piece of the machine with alcohol (which sanitizes only; it doesn’t sterilize). He placed the parts in an ultrasonic bath of disinfectants. After that he sealed them in bags and popped them into the autoclave – a sterilization oven. Normally needles are disposed of but these were very special ones and hard to come by. He autoclaved these too.

Of course, only part of this was sanitizing to protect himself from poisons and infection. There was a second reason as well: What better way to sever any link between you and your victims than to burn it away at 130 degrees Celsius?

Might even make hash of your ‘dust’ theory, don’t you think, Monsieur Locard?

CHAPTER 8

Lincoln Rhyme was waiting impatiently.

He asked Thom, ‘And Amelia?’

The aide hung up the landline. ‘I can’t get through.’

‘Goddamn it. What do you mean you can’t get through? Which hospital?’

‘Manhattan General.’

‘Call them again.’

‘I just did. I can’t get through to the main line. There’re some problems.’

‘That’s ridiculous. It’s a hospital. Call nine one one.’

‘You can’t call emergency to find out the status of a patient.’

‘I’ll call.’

But just then the front door buzzer sounded. Rhyme bluntly ordered Thom to ‘answer the damn bell’ and a moment later he heard footsteps in the front hall.

Two crime scene officers, the ones who’d assisted Sachs at the Chez Nord boutique homicide, entered the parlor, carrying large milk crates, filled with evidence bags – both plastic and paper. Rhyme knew the woman, Detective Jean Eagleston, who nodded a greeting, which he acknowledged a nod. The other officer, a large body-build of a cop, said, ‘Captain Rhyme, an honor to work with you.’

‘Decommissioned,’ Rhyme muttered. He was noting that weather must have been worse – the officers’ jackets were dusted with ice and snow. He noted that they’d wrapped the evidence cartons in cellophane. Good.

‘How is Amelia?’ asked Eagleston.

‘We don’t know anything yet,’ Rhyme muttered.

‘Anything else we can do,’ said her burly male partner, ‘just give us a call. Where do you want them?’ A nod at the crates.

‘Give them to Mel.’

Rhyme was referring to the latest member of the team, who’d just arrived.