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At one point, a large black bird nearly slammed into the camera, startling him.
When no clear suspects were evident, Rhyme turned his attention to the spectators, aware that perps do indeed return to the scene of the crime occasionally. He took note in particular of those who had visited the site on two separate occasions, if he could find them.
The most curious of these was a small, hunched-over homeless man in a bizarre orange and brown hat, like a nineteenth-century soldier’s, and a dirty brown overcoat. Rhyme noticed him because of his odd costume, yes, but also because of the man’s obsessive interest in the site. He held a blue-and-white coffee cup to collect change, but wasn’t doing much solicitation. He actually walked right past a businessman offering him a bill. He moved around the perimeter until the fire department’s Biotox unit arrived to neutralize the acid and they cleared everyone away.
Rhyme saw that he returned a couple of hours later. Most of the construction crew had gone home, so he just walked onto the site.
He seemed to be looking for something. Scavenging for valuables? Probably. He’d found something; there was a glistening metal object in his hand. If he spent much time there, maybe he’d be somebody for Sachs to talk to. If he could be located.
The second person who visited the site twice was memorable only because he was a musician. He carried a pale blue-gray guitarcase, the word “Martin” printed on the side. Rhyme had learned from an investigation years ago that this was one of the best acoustic brands in the world. The man holding it at the jobsite was of medium build, white and bearded, a dark baseball cap with no logo tugged down firmly on his head. He wore sunglasses. He was in a black leather jacket and blue jeans.
His first visit was an hour after the collapse, then he returned four hours later. Rhyme could not deduce the man’s purpose in being present. Unlike the homeless man, who was drawn to the wreckage, the musician was constantly scanning the crowds, as if he were planning to meet someone.
He made two circuits of the site on his second visit. Apparently not finding what or whom he sought, he turned and left. Rhyme could have captured an image, but the sunglasses and the low brim of the hat meant facial recognition wouldn’t work.
His presence, like that of the homeless man, was probably nothing. Coincidence.
He continued to scrub, three days ago, two, yesterday. Daytime. Nighttime. Nobody approached the base of the mast except the operator.
He reflected: You’d think they’d make an algorithm that could spot perps doing all kinds of things—like climbing tower cranes.
Algorithms. Computers, data …
A thought occurred: Today there was a new type of Edmond Locard’s “dust” in the criminalist’s world digital bits and bytes. The ones and zeros that could lead you to your suspect’s home or office as efficiently as soil samples and bloodstains.
Except not in this case.
He sighed and returned to the monitor, scrubbing through the near bird strike.
But wait …
He froze the playback and reversed, frame by frame.
The black thing filled the screen.
It wasn’t a bird.
“Mel. Is this what I think?”
The technician looked. “It is. A drone.” Cooper flew “unmanned ariel vehicles” as a hobby and knew them well.
The stopped image had caught two propellers in motion.
“Goddamn. That’s how he did it.”
Drones could not legally be flown in the city, but misdemeanors would be no deterrent to the Watchmaker.
“Would it be big enough to carry the payload?”
“A commercial model, yes.”
“They’re tracked aren’t they?”
“Right. FAA, the Bureau and Homeland Security. But the last two’re the most active.”
Rhyme instructed the phone, “Call Dellray.”
The FBI agent answered on the first ring.
