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Sellitto gave a harsh laugh. "Not a good choice of words in this case, you don't mind."
She opened the attachment. "People buy a lot more with credit or debit cards nowadays. Even if the bill's only three, four dollars. Sure helps us, though. The canvassers talked to everybody who charged something around one p.m. on the eleventh. Mostly a bust but one of them got a picture." She printed out the photo attachments. Not terrible, she decided, but hardly high-def mug shots. "Has to be our man."
She read the officer's memo. "'The photographer was a tourist from Ohio. Shooting pictures of his wife sitting across from him. You can see in the background a man, blurred--because he's turning away fast and raising his hand to cover his face. Asked the tourists if they got a better look at him. They didn't and other patrons and the baristas didn't pay any attention to him.'"
Rhyme looked at the picture. Two tables behind the smiling woman was the presumed whistleblower. White. Solidly built, in a blue suit, an odd color, just shy of navy. He wore a baseball cap--suspicious, given the business attire--but seemed to have light-colored hair. A big laptop sat open before him.
"That's him," Sachs said. "He's got an iBook." She'd downloaded a picture of every model.
The criminalist observed, "Suit doesn't fit well. It's cheap. And see the Splenda packets on the table, along with the stirrer? Confirms he's our man."
"Why?" Sellitto asked. "I use Splenda."
"Not the substance--the fact it's on the table. Most people add sugar or sweetener at the milk station and throw the empty packets out, and the stirrers too. So there's less mess at the table. He's taking his detritus with him. Didn't want to leave friction ridge evidence."
Most objects, even paper, retain very good fingerprints where food is served because of grease from the meals.
"Anything else about him?" Pulaski asked.
"You tell me, rookie."
The young officer said, "Look how he's holding his right hand, palm cupped upward? Maybe he was about to take a pill. Could be a headache, backache. Wait, look, there's a box. Is it? A box at the side of the table?"
It seemed that there was. Blue and gold.
Rhyme said, "Good. I think you're right. And notice he's drinking tea--see the bag in the napkin?--in a coffeehouse? Looks pale. Maybe it's herbal. Not that unusual but a reasonable deduction could be stomach issues. Check antacid, reflux, indigestion medicine boxes that come in two colors."
A moment later Cooper said, "Could be Zantac, maximum strength. Hard to say."
"We don't need definitive answers on everything," Rhyme said softly. "We need direction. So he's probably got a bum gut."
"Stress from leaking classified government documents'll do that," Mel Cooper offered.
"Age?" Rhyme wondered.
"Can't tell," the young officer replied. "How could you tell?"
"Well, I'm not asking you to play a carnival game, rookie. We see he's stocky, we see he's got stomach issues. Hair could be blond but could be gray. Conservative dress. It's reasonable to speculate he's middle-aged or older."
"Sure. I see."
"And his posture. It's perfect, even though he's not young. Suggests a military background. Or could still be in the service, dressing civie."
They stared at the picture and Sachs found herself wondering, Why did you leak the kill order? What was in it for you?
A person with a conscience...
But are you a patriot or a traitor?
Wondering too: And where the hell are you?
Sellitto took a call. Sachs noticed that his face went from curious to dark. He glanced at the others in the room, then turned away.
Whispering now: "What?...That's fucked up. You can't just tell me that. I need details."
Everyone was staring at him.
"Who? I want to know who. All right, find out and let me know."
