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'But how do we date it more specifically?' Sellitto asked.
'The ink,' Rhyme said.
'Tags?' Cooper asked.
'Doubt it.' In the 1960s ink manufacturers began adding tags - chemical markers, in the same way that explosives manufacturers did - so that, in the event of a crime, the ink sample would be easy to trace to a single source or at least to a brand name of ink or pen. (The primary purpose of tagging was to track down forgers, though the markers also nailed a number of kidnappers and psychopathic killers, who left messages at the scenes of their crimes.) But the ink used for book printing, as in this sample, was sold in large batches, which were rarely if ever tagged.
So, Rhyme explained, they needed to compare the composition of this particular ink with those in the NYPD ink database.
'Extract the ink, Mel. Let's find out what it's made out of.'
From a rack of tools above the evidence examination tables, Cooper selected a modified hypodermic syringe, the point partially filed down. He poked this through the paper seven times. The resulting tiny disks, all of which contained samples of the ink, he soaked in pyridine to extract the ink itself. He dried the solution to a powdery residue, which he then analyzed.
Cooper and Rhyme looked over the resulting chromatogram - a bar chart of peaks and valleys representing the ink used in the printing of the mysterious book.
By itself, the analysis meant nothing, but running the results through the database revealed that the ink was similar to those used in the production of adult trade books from 1996 through 2000.
'Adult?' Pulaski asked.
'No, not your kind of adult books,' Sellitto said, laughing.
'My--' The officer was blushing furiously. 'Wait.'
Rhyme continued, 'It means as opposed to juvenile publishing. Legitimate books for adults. And the paper? Check acidity.'
Cooper ran a basic pH analysis, using a small corner of the paper.
'It's very acidic.'
'That means it's from a mass-produced commercial hardcover - not paperback because they're printed on newsprint. And it's commercial because more expensive, limited-edition books are printed on low-acid or acid-free paper.
'Add that to your team's to-do list, Lon. Find the book. I'm leaning toward nonfiction, the aforementioned years. Possibly true crime. And each chapter devoted to a different subject, since he sliced out only what he needed. Have your people start talking to editors, bookstores, crime book collectors ... and true crime writers themselves. How many could there be?'
'Yeah, yeah, in all the free time they have when they're not browsing for the trillion quotations featuring the words "the second".'
'Oh, and by the way, make it a priority. If our unsub went to enough trouble to find a copy of the book, cut out the pages and carry them around with him, I really want to know what's in it.'
The big detective was looking at the picture of the tattoo once more. He said to Cooper, 'Print out a picture of that, willya, Mel? I'll start hitting those tattoo parlors - is that what they still call 'em? Probably "studio" now. And get me a list of the big ones.'
Rhyme watched Cooper print out the picture then go online with the NYC business licensing agency. He downloaded a list of what seemed to be about thirty tattoo businesses. Cooper handed it to the detective.
'That many?' Sellitto grumbled. 'Wonderful. I just can't really get outside enough on these fine fall days.' He tossed the list and the photo of the tattoo into his briefcase. Then pulled on his Burberry and dug his wadded gloves from the pocket. Without a farewell he stalked out of the room. Rhyme once again heard the wind briefly as the door opened and slammed shut.
'And, rookie, how're we coming on the marble?'
The young officer turned to a nearby computer. He read through the screen. 'Still going through blasting permits. They're blowing up a lot of stuff in the city at the moment.'
'Keep at it.'
'You bet. I'll have some answers soon.' He turned his gaze to Rhyme. 'Hopefully.'
'Hopefully?' Rhyme frowned.
'Yep. I'm filled with hope that I don't get any more damn grammar lessons from you, Lincoln.'
* * *
237 Elizabeth Street
