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Reports began to circulate of a ghoul, a man seen carting off a large bundle from the scene of the fire. So incensed were the constables that someone might violate the sacred remains of an innocent young woman that they put on a still search for the man.
After several weeks, their diligent efforts bore fruit. Two residents of Greenwich Village reported seeing a man leaving the scene of the fire and carrying a heavy bundle "like a carpet" over his shoulder. The constables picked up his trail and tracked him to the West Side of the city, where they interviewed neighbors and learned that the man fit the description of James Schneider, who was still at large.
They narrowed their search to a decrepit abode in an alley in Hell's Kitchen, not far from the 60th Street stockyards. As they entered the alleyway they were greeted with a revolting stench. . . .
He was now driving past the very site of the Triangle fire itself--maybe he'd even been subconsciously prompted to come here. The Asch Building--the ironic name of the structure that had housed the doomed factory--was gone and the site was now a part of NYU. Then and now . . . The bone collector would not have been surprised to see white-bloused working girls, trailing sparks and faint smoke, tumbling gracefully to their deaths, falling around him like snow.
Upon breaking into Schneider's habitation, the authorities found a sight that sent even the most seasoned of them reeling with horror. The body of wretched Esther Weinraub--(or what remained of it)--was found in the basement. Schneider was bent on completing the work of the tragic fire and was slowly removing the woman's flesh through means too shocking to recount here.
A search of this loathsome place revealed a secret room, off the basement, filled with bones that had been stripped clean of flesh.
Beneath Schneider's bed, a constable found a diary, in which the madman chronicled his history of evil. "Bone"--(Schneider wrote)--"is the ultimate core of a human being. It alters not, deceives not, yields not. Once the facade of our intemperate ways of the flesh, the flawsof the lesser Races, and the weaker gender, are burnt or boiled away, we are--all of us--noble bone. Bone does not lie. It is immortal."
The lunatic writings set forth a chronicle of gruesome experimentation as he sought to ascertain the most effective way of cleansing his victims of their flesh. He tried boiling the bodies, burning them, rendering with lye, staking them out for animals, and immersing them in water.
But one method above all he favored for this macabre sport. "It is best, I have concluded"--(his diary continues)--"simply to bury the body in rich earth and let Nature do the tedious work. This is the most time-consuming method but the least likely to arouse suspicion as the odors are kept to a minimum. I prefer to inter the individuals while still alive, though why that might be I cannot say with any certainty."
In his heretofore secret room three more bodies were discovered in this very condition. The splayed hands and agog faces of the poor victims attest that they were indeed alive when Schneider piled the last shovelful of dirt upon their tormented crowns.
It was these dark designs that prompted the journalists of the day to christen Schneider with the name by which he was forever after known:--"The Bone Collector."
He drove on, his mind returning to the woman in the trunk, Esther Weinraub. Her thin elbow, her collarbone delicate as a bird's wing. He sped the cab forward, even risked running two red lights. He couldn't wait much longer.
"I'm not tired," Rhyme snapped.
"Tired or not, you need to rest."
"No, I need another drink."
Black suitcases lined the wall, awaiting the help of officers from the Twentieth Precinct to transport them back to the IRD lab. Mel Cooper was carting a microscope case downstairs. Lon Sellitto was still sitting in the rattan chair but he wasn't saying much. Just coming to the obvious conclusion that Lincoln Rhyme was not a mellow drunk at all.
Thom said, "I'm sure your blood pressure's up. You need rest."
"I need a drink."
Goddamn you, Amelia Sachs, Rhyme thought. And didn't know why.
"You should give it up. Drinking's never been any good for you."
Well, I am giving it up, Rhyme responded silently. For good. Monday. And no twelve-step plan for me; it's a one-stepper.
"Pour me another drink," he ordered.
Not really wanting one.
"No."
"Pour me a drink now!" Rhyme snapped.
"No way."
"Lon, would you please pour me another drink?"
"I--"
Thom said, "He doesn't get any more. When he's in a mood like this he's insufferable and we're not going to put up with him."
"You're going to withhold something from me? I could fire you."
