The Bone Collector

A groan, Rhyme recalled, like the sound of the Titanic sinking in A Night to Remember. Then an explosion loud as a gunshot as the beam came down on his hapless neck, and dirt packed around his body.

“And you ran the scene. You yourself, like you always did.”

“I did, yes.”

“Did you know how we convicted Shepherd? We had a wit.”

A witness? Rhyme hadn’t heard that. After the accident he’d lost all track of the case, except for learning that Shepherd had been convicted and, three months later, stabbed to death on Riker’s Island by an assailant who was never captured.

“An eyewitness,” Polling continued. “He could place Shepherd at one of the victims’ homes with the murder weapon.” The captain stepped closer to the bed, crossed his arms. “We had the wit a day before we found the last body – the one in the subway. Before I put in the request that you run the scene.”

“What’re you saying, Jim?”

The captain’s eyes rooted themselves to the floor. “We didn’t need you. We didn’t need your report.”

Rhyme said nothing.

Polling nodded. “You understand what I’m saying? I wanted to nail that fuck Shepherd so bad… I wanted an airtight case. And you know what a Lincoln Rhyme crime scene report does to defense lawyers. It scares the everlovin’ shit out of them.”

“But Shepherd would’ve been convicted even without my report from the subway scene.”

“That’s right, Lincoln. But it’s worse than that. See, I got word from MTA Engineering that the site wasn’t safe.”

“The subway site. And you had me work the scene before they shored it up?”

“Shepherd was a cop-killer.” Polling’s face twisted up in disgust. “I wanted him so bad. I woulda done anything to nail him. But…” He lowered his head to his hands.

Rhyme said nothing. He heard the groan of the beam, the explosion of the breaking wood. Then the rustle of the dirt nestling around him. A curious, warm peace in his body while his heart stuttered with terror.

“Jim -”

“That’s why I wanted you on this case, Lincoln. You see?” A miserable look crossed the captain’s tough face; he stared at the disk of spinal column on the table. “I kept hearing these stories that your life was crap. You were wasting away here. Talking about killing yourself. I felt so fucking guilty. I wanted to try to give you some of your life back.”

Rhyme said, “And you’ve been living with this for the last three and a half years.”

“You know about me, Lincoln. Everybody knows about me. I collar somebody, he gives me any shit, he goes down. I get a hard-on for some perp, I don’t stop till the prick’s bagged and tagged. I can’t control it. I know I’ve fucked over people sometimes. But they were perps – or suspects, at least. They weren’t my own, they weren’t cops. What happened to you… that was a sin. It was just fucking wrong.”

“I wasn’t a rookie,” Rhyme said. “I didn’t have to work a scene I thought wasn’t safe.”

“But -”

“Bad time?” another voice said from the doorway.

Rhyme glanced up, expecting to see Berger. But it was Peter Taylor who’d come up the stairs. Rhyme recalled that he was coming by today to check on his patient after the dysreflexia attack. He supposed too that the doctor was pla

“You’ve got a very fu

Rhyme laughed. “I’ll only be a second.” Rhyme turned back to Polling. “Fate, Jim. That’s what happened to me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens.”

“Thanks, Lincoln.” Polling put his hand on Rhyme’s right shoulder and squeezed it gently.

Rhyme nodded and, to deflect the uneasy gratitude, introduced the men. “Jim, this is Pete Taylor, one of my doctors. And this is Jim Polling, we used to work together.”

“Nice to meet you,” Taylor said, sticking out his right hand. It was a broad gesture and Rhyme’s eyes followed it, noticing for some reason the deep crescent scar on Taylor’s right index finger.

“No!” Rhyme shouted.

“So you’re a cop too.” Taylor gripped Polling’s hand tightly as he slid the knife, held firmly in his left hand, in and out of the captain’s chest three times, navigating around the ribs with the delicacy of a surgeon. Undoubtedly so he wouldn’t nick the precious bone.

THIRTY-SIX

IN TWO LONG STEPS TAYLOR WAS BESIDE THE BED. He grabbed the ECU controller from beneath Rhyme’s finger, flung it across the room.

Rhyme took a breath to shout. But the doctor said, “He’s dead too. The constable.” Nodding toward the door, meaning the bodyguard downstairs. Taylor stared with fascination as Polling thrashed like a spine-cracked animal, spraying his blood on the floor and walls.

“Jim!” Rhyme cried. “No, oh, no…”

The captain’s hands curled over his ruined chest. A repugnant gurgling from his throat filled the room, accompanied by the mad thudding of his shoes on the floor as he died. Finally he quivered once violently and lay still. His glazed eyes, dotted with blood, stared at the ceiling.

Turning to the bed he kept his eyes on Lincoln Rhyme as he walked around it. Slowly circling, the knife in his hand. His breathing was hard.

“Who are you?” Rhyme gasped.

Silently Taylor stepped forward, put his fingers around Rhyme’s arm, squeezed the bone several times, perhaps hard, perhaps not. His hand strayed to Rhyme’s left ring finger. He lifted it off the ECU and caressed it with the dripping blade of the knife. Slipped the sharp point up under the nail.

Rhyme felt faint pain, a queasy sensation. Then harder. He gasped.

Then Taylor noticed something and froze. He gasped. Leaned forward. Staring at the copy of Crime in Old New York on the turning frame.

“That’s how… You actually found it… Oh, the constables should be proud to have you in their ranks, Lincoln Rhyme. I thought it’d be days before you got to the house. I thought Maggie’d be stripped down by the dogs by then.”

“Why’re you doing this?” Rhyme asked.

But Taylor didn’t answer; he was examining Rhyme carefully, muttering, half to himself, “You didn’t used to be this good, you know. In the old days. You missed a lot back then, didn’t you? In the old days.”

The old days… What did he mean?

He shook his balding head, gray hair – not brown – and glanced at a copy of Rhyme’s forensic textbook. There was recognition in his eyes and slowly Rhyme began to understand.

“You read my book,” the criminalist said. “You studied it. At the library, right? The public library branch near you?”

Eight twenty-three was, after all, a reader.

So he knew Rhyme’s CS procedures. That’s why he’d swept up so carefully, why he’d worn gloves touching even surfaces most criminals wouldn’t’ve thought would retain prints, why he’d sprayed the aftershave at the scene – he’d known exactly what Sachs would be looking for.

And of course the manual wasn’t the only book he’d read.

Scenes of the Crime too. That’s what had given him the idea for the planted clues – Old New York clues. Clues that only Lincoln Rhyme would be able to figure out.

Taylor picked up the disk of spinal column he’d given to Rhyme eight months ago. He kneaded it absently between his fingers. And Rhyme saw the gift, so touching back then, for the horrific preface that it was.

His eyes were unfocused, distant. Rhyme recalled he’d seen this before – when Taylor’d examined him over the past months. He’d put it down to a doctor’s concentration but now knew it was madness. The control he’d been struggling to maintain was disappearing.