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"Old" appeals to him
Called one vic "Hanna"
Knows basic German
Underground appeals to him
The wall clock's pale numbers glowed: 5:45 a.m. His eyes returned to the poster. He couldn't see it clearly, just a ghostly pattern of pure white against a lesser white. But there was enough light from the dawn sky to make out most of the words.
Dual personalities
Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor
Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot?
Listened as he
broke vic's finger
Left snake as slap at investigators
The falcons were waking. He was aware of a flutter at the window. Rhyme's eyes skipped over the chart again. In his office at IRD he'd nailed up a dozen erasable marker boards and on them he'd keep a tally of the characteristics of the unsubs in major cases. He remembered: pacing, staring at them, wondering about the people they described.
Molecules of paint, mud, pollen, leaf . . .
Old building, pink marble
Thinking about a clever jewel thief he and Lon had collared ten years ago. At Central Booking the perp had coyly said they'd never find the loot from the prior jobs but if they'd consider a plea he'd tell them where he'd hidden it. Rhyme had responded, "Well, we have been having some trouble figuring out where it is."
"I'm sure you have," the snide crook said.
"See," Rhyme continued, "we've narrowed it down to the stone wall in the coal bin of a Colonial farmhouse on the Connecticut River. About five miles north of Long Island Sound. I just can't tell whether the house is on the east bank or the west bank of the river."
When the story made the rounds the phrase everybody used to describe the expression on the perp's face was: You had to fucking be there.
Maybe it is magic, Sachs, he thought.
At least 100 years old, prob. mansion or institutional
He scanned the poster once again and closed his eyes, leaning back into his glorious pillow. It was then that he felt the jolt. Almost like a slap on his face. The shock rose to his scalp like spreading fire. Eyes wide, locked onto the poster.
"Old" appeals to him
"Sachs!" he cried. "Wake up!"
She stirred and sat up. "What? What's. . . ?"
Old, old, old . . .
"I made a mistake," he said tersely. "There's a problem."
She thought at first it was something medical and she leapt from the couch, reaching for Thom's medical bag.
"No, the clues, Sachs, the clues . . . I got it wrong." His breathing was rapid and he ground his teeth together as he thought.
She pulled her clothes on, sat back, her fingers disappearing automatically into her scalp, scratching. "What, Rhyme? What is it?"
"The church. It might not be in Harlem." He repeated, "I made a mistake."
