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Log on from the tablet attached to your chair.
And don’t waste time.
The clock, if you will, is running.
Rhyme typed in the URL and almost instantly he heard the man’s voice, in real time.
“Lincoln.”
The screen was black.
Rhyme said, “It’s not working. I can’t see you.”
“No. You won’t. My camera’s off. But you’re visible to me. Now, go to the second bookcase from the back of the parlor. With the old books in it. The antiques about criminal investigation.”
Rhyme frowned. “How did you … Ah, Andy Gilligan told you about it. My Judas.” He motored to the oak stand. Three or fourdozen volumes. One was not as ancient as the others.Crime in Old New York.It had been central to the first case he and Sachs had worked, tracking down a serial kidnapper nicknamed the Bone Collector.
“And?” Rhyme asked.
“There’s a reproduction of a book dating to the mid-sixteen hundreds.”
Even the facsimile was two hundred years old.
“Quite a title,” Hale said. “Andy told me.”
Looking at it, Rhyme recited,“The Triumphs of Gods Revengeagainst the crying and execrable sinne of (willfull and premeditated) murther.”
A subhead added another ten lines or so to the jacket.
Rhyme said, “It’s the first known true crime book.”
The killer mused, “Crime … Always an obsession—the inequity, the cruelty we humans visit on one another. Look at the popularity of the TV shows and podcasts.”
“I don’t watch, I don’t listen.”
“I know you don’t. I picked that book because it wasn’t likely you’d be flipping through it to answer a thorny present-day forensics question.”
“Ah, but never dismiss the old techniques out of hand. They can occasionally be helpful. We never want technology to substitute for sense, as I think you’d appreciate. The past should serve the present.”
“Let’s move along, Lincoln. There’s something behind the book.”
Rhyme lifted the volume off the shelf and clumsily set it aside. He reached in and extracted what had been hidden behind it, a roll of dark blue cloth. He set it on the chair’s tray and unfurled it. He looked down at the two hypodermics.
“What’s the drug?”
“Fentanyl. Now, that EKG in the corner? Hook yourself up to it.”
Rhyme stared at the needles for a long moment. “No.”
A pause.
The criminalist continued. “There’s something I have to do first.”
“The longer you wait—”
Firmly: “There’s something I’m going to do first … The birds.”
“The …?”
