The Kill Room

The nickname of the venue – technically the Manhattan Detention Complex – suggested a place that was worse than the truth. The word went back to the 1800s and was appropriate for a prison modeled after an Egyptian mausoleum, built on an incompetently filled swamp (adding to the aroma and illness that pervaded the place) and situated in the notorious Five Points district of Manhattan – described as “the most dangerous place on earth” at that time.

In fact, the Tombs nowadays was just another lockup, although a damn big one.

Calling into intercoms, using the code word for the day to open doors, the guard now strode down the hallway to a segregated set of cells reserved for special prisoners.

Like the man he was now going to see. Barry Shales.

Over his twenty eight years as a guard here he had trained himself to have no opinion about his charges. Child killers and white collar criminals who’d embezzled from people who probably should be embezzled from…it made no difference to him. His job was to keep order and make sure the system ran smoothly. And also to ease the difficult time these people were going through.

After all, this was not prison but temporary detention, where individuals stayed until bail or transfer to Rikers or, in more than a few cases, freedom forever. Everybody here was presumably i

But the man whose cell he was now walking toward was different and the guard did  have an opinion about him. It was an absolute tragedy that he’d been incarcerated here.

The guard didn’t know a lot about Barry Shales’s background. But he did know that he was a former air force flier who’d fought in the war in Iraq. And that he worked for the government now, the federal government.

And yet he’d been arrested for murder. But not for killing his wife or his wife’s lover or anything like that. For killing some asshole terrorist.

Arrested, even though he was a soldier, even though he was a hero.

And the guard knew why he was here: because of politics. He’d been arrested because the party that wasn’t in power had to fuck over the one that was, by making an example of this poor guy.

The guard came to the cell and looked through the window.

Fu

There was another prisoner in the cell, which the guard hadn’t known about. It didn’t make sense for him to be here. There was a second empty cell that the man should have been put into. The new prisoner was sitting off to the side, staring ahead blankly. The gaze made the guard feel uneasy. The eyes told you everything about the people here, much more than the crap they said.

And what was with Shales? He was lying on his side on the bench, back to the door. He wasn’t moving.

The guard punched in the code and with a buzz the door opened.

“Hey, Shales?”

No movement.

The second prisoner continued to stare at the wall. Scary fucker, the guard thought, and he was a man who didn’t use that phrase lightly.

“Shales?” The guard stepped closer.

Suddenly the flier stirred and sat up. He turned slowly. The guard saw that Shales was holding his hands to his eyes. He’d been crying.

No shame in that. Happened here all the time.

Shales wiped his face.

“On your feet, Shales. Got some news I think you’re go

CHAPTER 83

At his desk Shreve Metzger heard the siren but thought nothing of it.

This was, after all, Manhattan. You always heard sirens. The same way you heard shouts, horns, the occasional scream, the caw of seagulls. Backfires…Well, staccato reports that were probably  backfires.

Just the background tapestry of the city.

He hardly paid any mind, especially now, when he was trying to put out the raging forest fire that the Robert Moreno task order had become.

The chaos swirled around him, the tornado of flame: Barry Shales and the goddamn whistleblower and that bitch of a prosecutor and the people inside and outside the government who had put together the Special Task Order program.

Soon there’d be more tinder adding to the smolder: the press.

Then of course, hovering over it all, was the Wizard.

He wondered what the “budget conference” was deciding right at the moment.

Metzger realized the sirens had stopped.

And they’d stopped right outside his office.

He rose and looked down. At the gated parking lot, where the Ground Control Station sat.

All over with…

It sure was.

One unmarked car punctuated with flashing blue lights, one NYPD squad car, one van – maybe SWAT. The doors were open. The police were nowhere to be seen.

Shreve Metzger knew where they were, though. No doubt of that, of course.

A detail that was confirmed a moment later when the guard from downstairs called him on the security line and asked in an uncertain voice, “Director?” He cleared his throat and continued, “There are some police officers here to see you.”

CHAPTER 84

Lincoln Rhyme could tell that Shreve Metzger, looking the criminalist up and down, was surprised to see him.

Maybe the fact that he was in a wheelchair had jarred him. But the man would have known that. The master of intelligence surely had been compiling files on everyone involved in the Moreno investigation.

Maybe the surprise, ironically, was due to Rhyme’s being in better shape than the NIOS head. Rhyme noted how benign Metzger looked: thin hair, scrawny physique, thick beige framed glasses with a smudge on each lens. Rhyme would have thought a man who occasionally killed people for a living would be more grisly and sinister. Metzger had taken in Rhyme’s muscular form, thick hair, square face. He’d blinked, a cryptic expression worthy of Nance Laurel.

The man sat down at his desk and turned a gaze – this one unsurprised –toward Sachs and Sellitto. Only they were here; Laurel wasn’t. This was, Rhyme had explained, a police matter, not prosecutorial. And there was a chance, though slight, it could be dangerous.

He looked around. The office was pretty bland. Few decorations, some books that seemed unread – their spines uncracked – sat on untidy shelves. Some file cabinets with very large combination locks and iris sca

Which Metzger had dutifully done.

In a soft voice, a controlled voice, the NIOS director said, “You understand I’m not saying anything to you.”

Lon Sellitto – the senior law enforcer here – started to reply but Rhyme interrupted with a wry: “Invoking the Supremacy Clause, are we?”

“I don’t owe you any answers.”

Breaking his own vow of silence.

Suddenly Metzger’s hands began shaking. His eyes narrowed and his breathing seemed to come more quickly. This happened in an instant. The transformation was alarming. Fast and certain as a snake leaping from quiescence to fang a mouse.

“You think you can goddamn come in here…” He had to stop speaking. His jaw clenched too stridently.

He’s had emotional issues. Anger primarily…

“Hey, chill a bit, all right?” Sellitto said. “If we wanted to arrest you, Metzger, you’d be arrested. Listen to the man. Jesus.”

Rhyme recalled, with affection, the days when they had been partnered – Sellitto’s, not his own, artificial verb. Their technique wasn’t good cop/bad cop. But rather smooth cop/rough cop.

Metzger calmed. “Then what…?” He reached into his drawer.

Rhyme noted Sachs stiffen slightly, hand dipping toward her weapon. But the NIOS head withdrew only nail clippers. Then he set them down without clipping.

Sellitto deferred to Rhyme with a nod.