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'And one more footnote - about Pam's mother,' Sachs said.
A young girl named Pam Willoughby and her mother had been kidnapped by the Bone Collector. Rhyme and Sachs had saved them - only to have Mom turn out to be someone other than an innocent victim. After learning this, Sachs and Rhyme had tried desperately to find the child. A few years ago they'd managed to rescue her. Pam was now nineteen, in college and working in New York. She'd become Sachs's de facto younger sister.
Sachs read to the end. 'The author's mostly concerned with the perp's psychological makeup: Why was he so interested in bones?'
The kidnapper had stolen human bones and carved, sanded and polished them. His obsession, it seemed, stemmed from the fact that he had suffered a loss in the past, loved ones killed, and he found subconscious comfort in the permanence of bones.
His crimes were revenge for that loss.
Rhyme said, 'First, I think we need to see if our unsub's got any connection to the Bone Collector himself. Lo
ok up the files. Track down any family members of the perp, where they lived, what they're up to.'
It took some time to unearth the files - the official reports and evidence were at the NYPD, in the archives. The case was quite old. Rhyme had some material on his computer but the word processing files weren't compatible with his new system. Some of the info was on three-and-a-half-inch disks, which Thom unearthed from the basement - the verb appropriate since the boxes were so dust-covered.
'What're those?' asked Pulaski, a representative of the generation that measured data storage in gigabytes.
'Floppy disks,' Sellitto said.
'Heard of them. Never seen one.'
'No kidding? And you know, Ron, they used to have big round black vinyl things you listened to music on. Oh, and we roasted our mastodon steaks over real fire, rookie. Before microwaves.'
'Ha.'
The disks proved useless but Thom also managed to find hard copies of the files in the basement. Rhyme and the others were able to piece together a bio of the Bone Collector and use the Internet (now working at a fine clip) to determine that the perp from back then had no living relatives, none close at least.
Rhyme was quiet for a moment as he thought: And I know why he doesn't have any family.
Sachs caught his troubled gaze. She gave a reassuring nod, which Rhyme didn't respond to.
'How about the survivors?'
More online research, more phone calls.
It turned out that aside from Pam none of the victims saved from the Bone Collector were still alive or living in the city.
Rhyme said brusquely, 'All right, doesn't sound like there's any direct connection to the Bone Collector case. Revenge might be a dish best served cold but too much time has elapsed for somebody to come after us for that.'
'Let's talk to Terry,' Sachs suggested.
The NYPD's chief psychologist, Terry Dobyns. He was the one who'd formulated the theory that the Bone Collector's obsession with bones was rooted in their permanence and reflected some loss in the perp's past.
Dobyns was also the doctor who'd been a pit bull after Rhyme's accident some years ago. He'd refused to accept Rhyme's withdrawal from life and his flirtation with suicide. He'd helped the criminalist adjust to the world of the disabled. And no 'How does that make you feel' crap. Dobyns knew how you felt and he guided the conversation in directions that took the hard edges off what you were going through while not shying from the truth that, yeah, sometimes life fucks with you.
The doctor was smart, no question. And a talented shrink. But Sachs's suggestion for enlisting him now was another matter altogether; she wanted a psychological profile of Unsub 11-5 and profiling was an art - not a science, mind you - that Rhyme found dubious at best.
'Why bother?' he asked.
'Cross our t's and--'
'No cliches, please, Sachs.'
'--dot our j's.'
Sellitto took sides. 'What can it hurt, Linc?'
'It'll take time away from doing something valuable - analyzing the evidence. It'll be distracting. That's what will hurt, Lon.'
