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She looked at the crisp brown leaf she'd found in the stockyard tunnel. One of the clues 823 had left for them. And here was the underwear too. She remembered that the feebies had snagged the PE before Cooper'd finished the test on the . . . what was that machine? The chromatograph? She wondered what the liquid soaking the cotton was.
But these thoughts led to Lincoln Rhyme and he was the one person she didn't want to think about
just now.
She began to voucher the rest of the PE. Each COC card had a series of blank lines that would list the custodians of the evidence, in sequence, from the initial discovery at the scene all the way to trial. Sachs had transported evidence several times and her name had appeared on COC cards. But this was the first time A. Sachs, NYPD 5885 had occupied the first slot.
Once again she lifted the plastic bag containing the leaf.
He'd actually touched it. Him. The man who'd killed T.J. Colfax. Who'd held Monelle Gerger's pudgy arm and cut deep into it. Who was out searching for another vic right now--if he hadn't already snatched one.
Who'd buried that poor man this morning, waving for mercy he never got.
She thought of Locard's Exchange Principle. People coming into contact, each transferring something to the other. Something big, something small. Most likely they didn't even know what.
Had something of 823 come off on this leaf? A cell of skin? A dot of sweat? It was a stunning thought. She felt a trill of excitement, of fear, as if the killer were right here in this tiny airless room with her.
Back to the COC cards. For ten minutes she filled them out and was just finishing the last one when the door burst open, startling her. She spun around.
Fred Dellray stood in the doorway, his green jacket abandoned, his starched shirt rumpled. Fingers pinching the cigarette behind his ear. "Step inside a minute'r two, officer. It's payoff time. Thought you might wanna be there."
Sachs followed him down the short corridor, two steps behind his lope.
"The AFIS results're comin' in," Dellray said.
The war room was even busier than before. Jacketless agents hovered over desks. They were armed with their on-duty weapons--the big Sig-Sauer and Smith & Wesson automatics, 10mm and .45s. A half-dozen agents were clustered around the computer terminal beside the Opti-Scan.
Sachs hadn't liked the way Dellray'd taken the case away from them, but she had to admit that beneath the slick-talking hipster Dellray was one hell of a good cop. Agents--young and old--would come up to him with questions and he'd patiently answer them. He'd yank a phone from the cradle and cajole or berate whoever was on the other end to get him what he needed. Sometimes, he'd look up across the bustling room and roar, "We gonna nail this prick-dick? Yep, you betcha we are." And the straight-arrows'd look at him uneasily but with the obvious thought in mind that if anybody could nail him it'd be Dellray.
"Here, it's coming in now," an agent called.
Dellray barked, "I want open lines to New York, Jersey and Connecticut DMVs. And Corrections and Parole. INS too. Tell 'em to stand by for an incoming ID request. Put everything else on hold."
Agents peeled off and began making phone calls.
The computer screen filled.
She couldn't believe that Dellray actually crossed his stickish fingers.
Utter silence throughout the room.
"Got him!" the agent at the keyboard shouted.
"Ain't no unsub anymore," Dellray sang melodically, bending over the screen. "Listen up, people. We gotta name: Victor Pietrs. Born here, 1948. His parents were from Belgrade. So, we got a Serbian connection. ID brought to us courtesy of New York D of C. Convictions for drugs, assault, one with a deadly. Two sentences served. Okay, listen to this--psychiatric history, committed three times on involuntary orders. Intake at Bellevue and Manhattan Psychiatric. Last release date three years ago. LKA Washington Heights."
He looked up. "Who's got the phone companies?"
Several agents raised their hands.
"Make the calls," Dellray ordered.
An interminable five minutes.
"Not there. No current New York Telephone listing."
"Nothing in Jersey," another agent echoed.
"Negative, Connecticut."
