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Ron Pulaski now resigned himself to what he had to do. It was terrible, it was foolish, but he had no choice. He was cornered.
His head down, he muttered, "Okay."
"You'll do it?"
"I said I would," he snapped.
"That's smart, Ron. Very smart."
"But I want you to promise"--Pulaski hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing behind Whitcomb and then back--"that she and the baby'll be out today."
Whitcomb caught the glance and quickly looked behind him. As he did, the muzzle of his gun moved slightly off target.
Pulaski decided he'd played it just right, and he struck fast. With his left hand the young officer shoved the gun farther away and lifted his leg, pulling a small revolver from an ankle holster. Amelia Sachs had instructed him always to have one with him.
The killer cursed and tried to back up but Pulaski kept a death grip on his shooting hand and he swung the pistol into Whitcomb's face hard, snapping cartilage.
The man gave a muffled scream, blood streaming. The Compliance officer went down and Pulaski managed to rip his pistol out of his fingers but he couldn't keep a grip on it himself. Whitcomb's black weapon went cartwheeling to the ground as the men locked together in a clumsy wrestling match. The gun clunked to the asphalt without discharging and Whitcomb, wide-eyed with panic and fury, shoved Pulaski into the wall and grabbed for his hand.
"No, no!"
Whitcomb snapped forward with a head butt and Pulaski, recalling the terror of the club hitting him in the forehead years ago, recoiled instinctively. Which gave Whitcomb just the chance he needed to shove Pulaski's backup toward the sky, and with his other hand draw the Glock, aiming it at the young officer's head.
Leaving him with only en
ough time to issue a sound bite of prayer and to fix on an image of his wife and children, a vivid portrait to carry with him to heaven.
*
Finally the electricity came back on, and Cooper and Rhyme quickly got back to work on the evidence from the Joe Malloy killing. They were alone in the lab; Lon Sellitto was downtown, trying to get his suspension overturned.
The pictures of the scene were unrevealing and the physical evidence wasn't extremely helpful. The shoeprint was clearly 522's, the same as they'd found earlier. The fragments of leaves were from houseplants: ficus and Aglaonema, or Chinese evergreen. The trace was unsourceable soil, more of the Trade Towers dust, and a white powder that turned out to be Coffee-mate. The duct tape was generic; no source could be located.
Rhyme was surprised at the amount of blood on the evidence. He thought back to Sellitto's description of the captain.
He's a crusader. . . .
Despite his protests of detachment, he found himself very troubled by Malloy's death--and how vicious it had been. And Rhyme's anger burned hotter. His uneasiness too. Several times he glanced out the window, as if 522 were sneaking up at that moment, though he'd had Thom lock all the doors and windows and turn on the security cameras.
JOSEPH MALLOY HOMICIDE SCENE
* * *
* Size-11 Skechers work shoe
* Houseplant leaves: ficus and Aglaonema--Chinese evergreen
* Dirt, untraceable
* Dust, from Trade Center attack
* Coffee-mate
* Duct tape, generic, untraceable
"Add the plants and Coffee-mate to the nonplanted evidence chart, Mel."
The technician walked to the whiteboard and penned in the additions.
