The Kill Room

He was on hold for the fourth time with an official in the Royal Bahamas Police Force in Nassau. A voice, at last: “Yes, hello. Can I help you?” a woman asked in a melodious alto.

About time. But he reined in the impatience even though he had to explain all over again. “This is Captain Rhyme. I’m with the New York City Police Department.” He’d given up on “consulting with” or “working with.” That was too complicated and seemed to arouse suspicion. He’d get Lon Sellitto to informally deputize him if anyone called his bluff. (He wished somebody would , in fact; bluff callers are people who can get things done.)

“New York, yes.”

“I’d like to speak to someone in your forensics department.”

“Crime Scene, yes.”

“That’s right.” Rhyme pictured the woman he was speaking to as a lazy, not particularly bright civil servant sitting in a dusty un air conditioned office, beneath a slowly revolving fan.

Possibly an unfair image.

“I’m sorry, you wanted which department?”

Possibly not.

“Forensics. A supervisor. This is about the Robert Moreno killing.”

“Please hold.”

“No, please…Wait!”

Click.

Fuck.

Five minutes later he found himself talking to the woman officer he was sure had taken his first call, though she didn’t seem to remember him. Or was pretending not to. He repeated his request and this time – after a burst of inspiration – added, “I’m sorry for the urgency. It’s just that the reporters keep calling. I’ll have to send them directly to your office if I can’t give them information myself.”

He had no idea what threat this was meant to convey exactly; he was improvising.

“Reporters?” she asked dubiously.

“CNN, ABC, CBS. Fox. All of them.”

“I see. Yes, sir.”

But the ploy had its effect, because the next hold was for three seconds, tops.

“Poitier speaking.” Deep, melodious, with a British accent and a Caribbean inflection; Rhyme knew the lilt not from having been to the islands himself but owing to his role in putting a few people from that part of the world in New York jails. The Jamaican gangs outstripped the Mafia for violence, hands down.

“Hello. This is Lincoln Rhyme with the New York Police Department.” He wanted to add, Do not , under any fucking circumstances, put me on hold. But refrained.

The Bahamian cop: “Ah, yes.” Cautious.

“Who’m I speaking to? Officer Poitier, did I hear?”

“Corporal Mychal Poitier.”

“And you’re with Crime Scene?”

“No. I’m the lead investigator in the Moreno shooting…Wait, you said you’re Lincoln Rhyme. Captain Rhyme. Well.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“We have one of your forensics books in our library. I’ve read it.”

Maybe this would earn him a modicum of cooperation. On the other hand, the corporal had not said whether he’d liked the book or found it helpful. The latest edition’s bio page reported that Rhyme was retired, a fact that Poitier, fortunately, didn’t seem to know.

Rhyme now made his pitch. Without naming Metzger or NIOS, he explained that the NYPD believed there was an American co

A pause worthy of Nance Laurel. “I’m afraid not, sir. The Moreno case has been put on hold for the time being and there are–”

“I’m sorry, on hold ?” An open case of a homicide that occurred a week ago? This was the time when the investigation should be at its most intense.

“That’s correct, Captain.”

“But why? You have a suspect in custody?”

“No, sir. First, I don’t know what American co

The press. Maybe that was why Rhyme finally got put through. His bluff had touched a nerve.

The corporal continued, “We have less rape than Newark, New Jersey, much less. But a missing student in the Islands is magnified like a telephoto lens. And I have to say, with all respect, your news programs are most unfair. The British press too. But now we have lost an American student and not a British one, so it will be CNN and the rest. Vultures. With all respect.”

He was rambling now – to deflect, Rhyme sensed. “Corporal–”

“It’s most unfair,” Poitier repeated. “A student comes here from America. She comes here on holiday or – this girl – to study for a semester. And it’s always our fault. They say terrible things about us.”

Rhyme had lost all patience but he struggled to remain calm. “Again, Corporal, about the Moreno murder? Now, we’re sure the cartels had nothing to do with his death.”

Silence now, in stark contrast with the officer’s earlier rambling. Then: “Well, my efforts are on finding the student.”

“I don’t care about the student,” Rhyme blurted, bad taste maybe but, in fact, at the moment he didn’t. “Robert Moreno. Please. There is  an American co

Task: Al Barani Rashid (NIOS ID: abr942pd5t)

Born: 2/73, Michigan

Rhyme couldn’t begin to guess who this Rashid was, the next name in the STO queue, and doubted he was an i

Complete by: 5/19…

Rhyme continued, “I’d like a copy of the crime scene report, photos of the scene and the nest the sniper was shooting from, autopsy reports, lab analysis. All the documentation. And any datamined information about someone named Don Bruns on the island around the time of the shooting. It’s a cover. An AKA for the sniper.”

“Well, we don’t actually have the final report yet. Some notes but it’s not complete.”

“Not complete?” Rhyme muttered. “The killing was on May ninth.”

“I believe that’s right.”

He believes ?

Rhyme suddenly felt a stab of concern. “Of course the scene’s been searched?”

“Yes, yes, naturally.”

Well, this was a relief.

Poitier said, “The day after Mr. Moreno was shot we got right to it.”

“Next day?”

“Yes.” Poitier hesitated as if he knew this was a misstep. “We had another situation, another case that same day. A prominent lawyer was killed and robbed downtown, in his office. That took priority. Mr. Moreno was not a national. The lawyer was.”

Two conditions made crime scenes infinitely less valuable to investigators. The first was contamination from people trudging through the site – including careless police officers themselves. The second was the passage of time between the crime and the search. Evidence key to establishing a suspect’s identity and conviction could, literally, evaporate in a matter of hours.

Waiting a day to search a scene could cut the amount of vital evidence in half.

“So the scene is still sealed?”

“Yes, sir.”

That was something. In a voice he hoped was suitably grave Rhyme said, “Corporal, the reason we’re involved here is that we think whoever killed Moreno will kill again.”

“Is that true, do you think?” He sounded genuinely concerned. “Here?”

“We don’t know.”

Then someone else was speaking to the corporal. A hand went over the mouthpiece of the phone, and Rhyme could hear only mumbles. Poitier came back on the line. “I will take your number, Captain, and if I am able to find anything helpful I will give you a call.”

Rhyme’s jaw clenched. He gave the number then quickly asked, “Could you search the scene again, please?”