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And he was exhausted.
"Twenty minutes, please."
" 'Please,' " Thom said with mock shock. "That didn't sound sincere."
It wasn't.
Though as things turned out, even twenty minutes was too much.
There virtually was no evidence, nothing to analyze, no conclusions to be drawn.
And yet the unsub had been just as clever as at the earlier scene.
The fire meant there was nothing left to trace back to his home, place of work or future attacks. The fire had turned nearly everything to ash and the water from the fire department had blended clues with extraneous materials and produced a useless black sludge. He was sure, too, that the few recognizable remnants--the Frappuccino bottle, the duct tape, the matches--would have come from the trash.
Even an analysis of the accelerant gasoline revealed it was an unbranded generic--and could have been bought in any of five hundred stations in the area.
Ah, fire, Rhyme reflected cynically.
As he'd written in his textbook:
Arson is one of the best ways to destroy trace evidence, friction ridge prints and shoe and boot prints. Investigators have to rely on evidence from entrance and exit routes and chemical analysis of the accelerant and ignition device for clues.
As for the things that might have helped--footprints along the perp's entrance and exit routes? And tool marks where he'd picked the locks? Of course, he'd worn booties and gloves--and had figured that any telltale clues would be destroyed by the firemen charging into the building, swinging axes and knocking down doors.
Which, of course, was exactly what happened.
Thom said, "Lincoln."
The grace period was up. It was time for bed.
Maybe something would occur to him in the morning.
6
But the dawn arrived with no brilliant insights regarding Unsub 26.
And none at midmorning... nor late afternoon.
They were no longer able to enlist the numbers-crunching forces from the police academy, to review the massive amounts of evidence from the scene on Twenty-sixth Street, though the head of the Crime Scene Unit agreed to dedicate some extra technicians. Marko had taken the bulk of the collected materials from Rhyme's to the labs in Queens.
But the hours rolled by and all the updates included variations on: "There's just too much evidence."
Clues had never failed Rhyme so badly as in this case. He'd built his whole professional life on finding the truth because of physical evidence. In fact, he was contemptuous of other forms of investigation. Witnesses lied, motives were fishy, vivid memories were completely wrong.
Locard's Principle...
/> At 6:00 p.m. Mel Cooper, Sachs and Rhyme were still laboring away, doing what they could with the several hundred samples that remained here in his parlor but not making any headway.
There's just too much...
Rhyme reached for one of the hair sample bags. "Let's keep going with follicles and CODIS." The consolidated database that contained DNA samples from tens of thousands of perpetrators.
But he set it down and wheeled back from a work table. His expression must have been particularly troubled. Sachs, too, stopped her analysis of a sheet of paper, walked behind him and massaged his shoulders, which were tense as stone.
It felt nice...
But didn't take away the frustration.
