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"You've worked harder on our exercises than any other patient of mine. I know you're resisting the test because you're afraid it won't've had any effect. Am I right?"
"Not really, Doctor. I'm just busy."
As if he hadn't heard, Sherman said, "I know you're going to find considerable improvement in your overall condition and functional status."
Doctor-talk could be as prickly as cop-talk, Rhyme reflected. He replied, "I hope so. But if not, believe me, it doesn't matter. I've got the muscle mass improvement, the bone density improvement . . . . Lungs and heart are better. That's all I'm after. Not motor movement."
Sherman eyed him up and down. "You really feel that way?"
"Absolutely." Looking around, he lowered his voice as he said, "These exercises won't let me walk."
"No, that won't happen."
"So why would I want some tiny improvement in my left little toe? That's pointless. I'll do the exercises, keep myself in the best shape I can and in five or ten years, when you folks come up with a miracle graft or clone or something, I'll be ready to start walking again."
The doctor smiled and clapped his hand on Rhyme's leg, a gesture he did not feel. Sherman nodded. "I'm so glad to hear you say that, Lincoln. The biggest problem I have is patients' giving up because they find that all the exercise and hard work doesn't really change their lives very much. They want big wins and cures. They don't realize that this kind of war is won with small victories."
"I think I've already won."
The doctor rose. "I'd still like those scans done. We need the data."
"As soon as--hey, Lon, are you listening? Incoming cliche! As soon as the deck is cleared."
Sellitto, who had no clue what Rhyme was talking about, or didn't care, gave him a hollow look.
"All right," Sherman said and walked to the door. "And good luck with the case."
"We'll hope for the best," Rhyme said cheerily.
The man of small victories left the town house and Rhyme immediately turned back to the evidence boards.
Sachs took a call and listened for a moment, hung up. "That was Bo Haumann. Those guys on the entry team? The ones who took the electricity? The first one's got some bad burns, but he'll live. The other one's been released."
"Thank God," Sellitto said, seeming hugely relieved. "Man, what that must've been like. All that juice going through you." He closed his eyes momentarily. "The burns. And the smell. Jesus. His hair was fucking burnt off . . . . I'll send him something. No, I'll take him a present myself. Maybe flowers. Think he'd like some flowers?"
This reaction, like his earlier behavior, wasn't typical of Sellitto. Cops got hurt and cops got killed, and everybody on the force accepted that reality in his or her own way. There were plenty of officers who'd say, "Thank God he's alive," and bless themselves and trot to the closest church to pray their thanks. But Sellitto's way was to nod and get on with the job. Not to act like this.
"No clue," Rhyme said.
Flowers?
Mel Cooper called out, "Lincoln, I've got Captain Ned Seely on the line." The tech had been talking to the Texas Rangers about the killing in Amarillo that VICAP had reported was similar to the incident at the museum.
"Speaker it."
He did and Rhyme asked, "Hello, Captain?"
"Yes, sir," came the response, a drawl. "Mr. Rhyme?"
"That's right."
"Got your associate's request for information on the Charlie Tucker case. I pulled what he had but it wasn't much. You think it's the same fellow causing a stir up your way?"
"The M.O.'s similar to an incident we had here this morning. His shoes were the same brand--so was the tread wear. And he left some fake evidence to lead us off, the same way he left those candles and occult markings at Tucker's killing. Oh, and our perp's got a Southern accent. There was also a similar killing in Ohio a few years later. That one was a contract hit."
"So y'all're thinkin' somebody hired this fella to kill Tucker?"
"Maybe. Who was he?"
