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She sensed him trying to keep hope out of his voice.
"He's dead."
The criminalist gave no response for a moment. "I see."
"I'm sorry, Lincoln," she said softly.
Another pause and he said, "No first names, Sachs. Bad luck, remember?" His voice nearly caught. "All right. Get going. Run the scene. Time's running out for the Changs."
"Sure, Rhyme. I'm on it."
She quickly dressed in the Tyvek suit and went about processing the scene. Sachs did the fingernail scrapings, the substance samples, the ballistics, the footprints, the shell casings, the slugs. She took the pictures, she lifted prints.
But she felt she was just going through the motions. Come on, she snapped at herself. You're acting like you're some damn rookie. We don't have time to just collect evidence. Think about Po-Yee, think about the Changs. Give Rhyme something he can work with. Think!
She turned back to the body and processed it more carefully, considering everything that she found, demanding in her mind that every bit of evidence explain itself, offer an explanation of where it had come from, what it might mean.
One of the uniformed officers walked up to her but seeing her stony face he retreated quickly.
A half hour later she'd finished bagging everything, written her name on the chain of custody cards and assembled the evidence.
She made another call to the criminalist.
"Go ahead," Rhyme said grimly. How it hurt to hear the pain in his voice. For years she'd heard so much flat emotion, so much lethargy, so much resignation. That had been tough but it didn't compare to the pain now in Rhyme's voice.
"He was shot three times in the chest but we've got four casings. One casing's from a Model 51, probably the one we saw before. The others are .45. He was killed with that one, it looks like. Then I found the Walther that Sonny was carrying. There was trace on his leg--yellow paper flecks and some kind of dried plant material. And there was a pile of the same material on the cobblestones."
"What's your scenario, Sachs?"
"I think Sonny spots the Ghost leaving a store, carrying something in a yellow bag. Sonny follows him. He collars him in the alley here and gets the Ghost's new gun, the .45. He assumes that's his only weapon. Sonny relaxes and tells the Ghost to get onto the ground. But the Ghost pulls out his backup--the Model 51--and shoots through the bag, spattering the plant material and flecks of paper on Sonny. The bullet misses but the Ghost jumps him. There's a fight. The Ghost gets the .45 and kills Sonny."
"Because," Rhyme said, "the yellow paper and the plant material were on Sonny's legs--meaning the Ghost had the Model 51 in an ankle holster and fired low. The gunshot residue was high on his body--from the .45."
"That's what it looks like."
"And how do we use that scenario?"
"Wherever the Ghost bought that stuff that was in the bag, a clerk might know him and have an idea where he lives."
"You want to canvass all the stores near there to see who has yellow bags?"
"No, that'd take too long. It'd be better to find out what the plant material is first."
"Bring it in, Sachs. Mel'll run it through the chromatograph."
"No, I've got a better idea," she said. A glance at Sonny Li's body. She forced herself to look away. "It's probably Chinese herbs or spices. I'm going to stop by John Sung's apartment with a sample of it. He should be able to tell me right away what it is. He only lives a few blocks from here."
V
All in Good Time
Wednesday, the Hour of the Rooster, 6:45 P.M., to Monday, the Hour of the Monkey, 3 P.M.
To effect capture . . . the opponent's men must be entirely encircled without any adjacent places vacant . . . . Exactly as in war, when a post is surrounded, the soldiers are taken prisoner by the enemy.
--The Game of Wei-Chi
Chapter Forty-one
