The Broken Window (9 page)

· Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes (see note below)

“The supposed perp
saved
his socks with blood on them and took them home with him? Bullshit.

Planted evidence.” Rhyme read through the material again. “What’s the ‘note below’?”

Sachs found it: a few paragraphs to the prosecutor from the lead detective about possible problems with this case. She showed it to Rhyme.

Stan:

A couple potential glitches the defense might try to bring up:

—Possible contamination issue: Similar tobacco flakes found at crime scene and perp’s home,
but neither the victim or the suspect smoked. Arresting officers and crime scene staff questioned,
but assured lead detective that they were not the source.

—Found no DNA linking material, other than victim’s blood.

—Suspect has an alibi, eyewitness who placed him outside his own house—about four miles away,
at around the time of the crime. Alibi witness is a homeless man who suspect gives money to
occasionally.

“Had an alibi,” Sachs pointed out. “Who the jury didn’t believe. Obviously.”

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“What do you think, Mel?” Rhyme asked.

“I’m sticking to my story. It all lines up too conveniently.”

Pulaski nodded. “The hair spray, the soap, the fibers, the lubricant… everything.”

Cooper continued, “They’re obvious choices for planted evidence. And look at the DNA—it’s not the
suspect
’s at the crime scene; it’s the
victim
’s at the suspect’s home. That’s a lot easier to plant.”

Rhyme continued to examine the charts, scanning slowly.

Sachs added, “But not all of the evidence matches. The old cardboard and the dust—those aren’t related to either scene.”

Rhyme said, “And the tobacco. Neither the vic nor the fall guy smoked. That means those might be from the real perp.”

Pulaski asked, “What about the doll’s hair? Does that mean he has kids?”

Rhyme ordered, “Tape up
those
pictures. Let’s take a look.”

Like the other scenes, the victim’s apartment and the perp’s house and garage had been well documented by the Crime Scene Unit. Rhyme scanned the photos. “No dolls. No toys at all. Maybe the real killer has children or some contact with toys. And he smokes or has some access to cigarettes or tobacco. Good. Oh, we’re on to something here.

“Let’s do a profile chart. We’ve been calling him ‘Mr. X.’ But we need something else for our perp…

What’s today’s date?”

“May twenty-second,” Pulaski said.

“Okay. Unknown subject Five Twenty-Two. Sachs, if you would…” He nodded toward a whiteboard.

“Let’s start the profile.”

UNSUB 522 PROFILE

· Male

· Possibly smokes or lives/works with someone who does, or near source of tobacco

· Has children or lives/works near them or near source of toys

· Interest in art, coins?

NONPLANTED EVIDENCE

· Dust

· Old cardboard

· Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6

· Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes

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Well, it was a start, he reflected, if a pretty lame one.

“Should we call Lon and Malloy?” Sachs asked.

Rhyme scoffed. “And tell them
what
?” He nodded at the chart. “I think our little clandestine operation’d get closed down pretty fast.”

“You mean, this isn’t official?” Pulaski asked.

“Welcome to the underground,” Sachs said.

The young officer digested this information.

“That’s why we’re in disguise,” Cooper added, pointing at the black satin strip on his tuxedo trousers.

He might have winked but Rhyme couldn’t tell through his dense glasses. “What’re our next steps?”

“Sachs, call Crime Scene in Queens. We can’t get our hands on the evidence in my cousin’s case. With the trial coming up, all the P.E.’ll be in custody at the prosecutor’s office. But see if anybody at the warehouse can send us the evidence from these earlier crimes—the rape and the coin theft. I want the dust, cardboard and rope. And, Pulaski, you go down to the Big Building. I want you to look through the files of every murder in the past six months.”

“
Every
murder?”

“The mayor’s cleaned up the city, didn’t you hear? Be thankful we’re not in Detroit or Washington.

Flintlock thought of these
two
cases. I’ll bet there are others. Look for an underlying crime, maybe theft, maybe rape, ending in homicide. Clear class evidence and an anonymous call right after the crime. Oh, and a suspect who swears he’s innocent.”

“Okay, sir.”

“And us?” Mel Cooper asked.

“We wait,” Rhyme muttered, as if the word were an obscenity.

Awonderful transaction.

I’m satisfied now. Walking down the street, happy, content. Flipping through the images I’ve just slipped into my collection. Images of Myra 9834. The visual ones are stored in my memory. The digital tape recorder has the others.

Walking down the street, watching sixteens around me.

I see them streaming down sidewalks. In cars, buses, taxis, trucks.

I see them through windows, oblivious to me as I study them.

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Sixteens… Ah, I’m not the only one who refers to human beings like this, of course. Not at all. It’s a common shorthand in the industry. But I’m probably the only one who
prefers
to think of people as sixteens, who feels comforted by the thought.

A sixteen-digit number is far more precise and efficient than a name. Names make me edgy. I don’t like that. It’s not good for me, not good for anybody, when I’m edgy. Names… ah,
terrible
. For instance, the surnames Jones and Brown each account for roughly .6 percent of the population of the United States. Moore is .3 percent, and as for everyone’s favorite, Smith—a whopping 1 percent. Nearly 3,000,000 of them in the country. (And given names, if you’re interested: John? Nope. It comes in number two—3.2 percent. James is the winner at 3.3 percent.)

So think of the implications: I hear someone say, “James Smith.” Well,
which
James Smith does he mean when there are hundreds of thousands? And those are just the living ones. Tally up all the James Smiths in history.

Oh, my God.

Drives me crazy just to think about.

Edgy…

And the consequences of mistakes can be serious. Say, it’s 1938 Berlin. Is Herr Wilhelm Frankel the Jewish Wilhelm Frankel or the gentile one? Made a big difference and, whatever else you feel about them, those brown-shirted boys were absolute geniuses at tracking identities (and they used computers to do it!).

Names lead to mistakes. Mistakes are noise. Noise is contamination. Contamination must be eliminated.

There could be dozens of Alice Sandersons, but only one Alice 3895, who sacrificed her life that I might own an American Family painting by dear Mr. Prescott.

Myra Weinburgs? Ah, not many, surely. But more than one. Yet only Myra 9834 sacrificed herself so that I might be satisfied.

I’ll bet there are plenty of DeLeon Williams, but only 6832-5794-8891-0923 is going to jail forever for raping and killing her so that I might remain free to do it all over again.

I’m en route to his house at the moment (technically his girlfriend’s, I’ve learned), carrying enough evidence to make sure the poor man is convicted of the rape/murder in about one hour of deliberation.

DeLeon 6832…

I’ve already called 911, a transaction in which I reported an old beige Dodge—his model of car—speeding away from the scene, a man inside, a black man. “I could see his hands! They were all bloody! Oh, get somebody there now! The screaming was terrible.”

What a perfect suspect you’ll be, DeLeon 6832. About half of the perpetrators commit rape under the influence of alcohol or drugs (he drinks beer in moderation now, but was in AA several years ago). The majority of rape victims know their assailant (DeLeon 6832 had once done some carpentry for the grocery store where the late Myra 9834 regularly shopped so it was logical to assume that they knew
Page 50

each other, though they probably didn’t).

Most rapists are thirty or under (the exact age of DeLeon 6832, as it turns out). Unlike drug dealers and users, they don’t have many prior arrests except for domestic abuse—and my boy has a conviction for assaulting a girlfriend; how perfect is
that
? Most rapists are from the lower social classes and economically disadvantaged (he’s been out of work for months).

And now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please note that two days prior to the rape the defendant bought a box of Trojan-Enz condoms, just like the two found near the victim’s body. (As for the two actually used—my own—they’re long gone, of course. That DNA stuff is very dangerous, especially now that New York is collecting samples from all felonies, not just rapes. And in Britain you’ll soon get swabbed when you get a citation because your dog messes the sidewalk or you make a dicey U-turn.) There’s another fact that the police might take into account if they do their homework. DeLeon 6832

was a combat vet who’d served in Iraq, and there was some question about what happened to his

.45-caliber sidearm when he left the service. He had none to turn in. It had been “lost” in combat.

But curiously he bought .45-caliber ammunition a few years ago.

If the police learn this, which they easily can, they might conclude that their suspect is armed. And digging a bit deeper, they’ll find that he was treated at a Veterans Administration hospital—for post-traumatic stress syndrome.

An unstable, armed suspect?

What police officer
wouldn’t
be inclined to shoot first?

Let’s hope. I’m not always completely confident about the sixteens I pick. You never know about unexpected alibis. Or idiotic juries. Maybe DeLeon 6832’ll end today in a body bag. Why not? Don’t I deserve a
little
good luck in compensation for the edginess God gave me? It’s not always an easy life, you know.

It should take about a half hour or so on foot to get to his house here in Brooklyn. Still warmly satisfied from my transaction with Myra 9834, I’m enjoying the walk. The backpack rides heavy on my spine.

Not only does it contain the evidence to plant and the shoe that left DeLeon 6832’s telltale footprint, but it’s filled with some treasures I’ve found prowling the streets today. In my pocket is, sadly, only a small trophy from Myra 9834, a portion of her fingernail. I’d like something more personal but deaths in Manhattan are a big deal, and missing parts draw a lot of attention.

I pick up my pace a bit, enjoying the triplet beat of the backpack. Enjoying the clear spring Sunday and the memories of my transaction with Myra 9834.

Enjoying the complete comfort of knowing that, though I am probably the most dangerous person in the city of New York, I am also invulnerable, virtually invisible to all the sixteens who would do me harm.

The light caught his attention.

A flash from the street.

Red.

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Another flash. Blue.

The phone sagged in DeLeon Williams’s hand. He was calling a friend, trying to find the man he used to work for, the man who skipped town after his carpentry business went under and left only debt behind, including more than $4,000 owed to his most dependable employee, DeLeon Williams.

“Leon,” the guy on the other end of the line was saying, “I myself don’t know where the prick is. He left
me
holding—”

“Call you back.”

Click.

The big man’s palms were sweating as he glanced through the curtain that he and Janeece had just put up Saturday (Williams feeling bad, bad, bad that she’d had to pay for them—oh, he hated being unemployed). He noticed that the flashes were from the grille lights of two unmarked police cars. A couple of detectives climbed out, unbuttoning their coats, and not because the spring day was so warm.

The cars sped off to block the intersections.

They looked around cautiously, then—destroying the last hope that this was some strange coincidence—walked to Williams’s beige Dodge, noted the tag, glanced inside. One spoke into his radio.

Williams’s lids lowered in despair as a disgusted sigh eased from his lungs.

She was at it again.

She…

Last year Williams had been involved with a woman who was not only sexy but smart and kind. Or so it had seemed at first. Not long after they started going out seriously, though, she’d turned into a raging witch. Moody, jealous, vindictive. Unstable… He was with her about four months and they were the worst of his life. And he’d spent much of that time protecting her own children from their mother.

His good deeds, in fact, had landed him in jail. One evening Leticia had swung a fist at her daughter for not scrubbing a pot clean enough. Williams instinctively grabbed the woman’s arm, while the sobbing girl fled. He’d calmed her mother down and the matter seemed settled. But several hours later he had been sitting on the porch debating how he could get the children away from her, perhaps back to their father, when the police arrived and he was arrested.

Leticia had pressed assault charges, displaying the arm bruised by his restraint. Williams was appalled.

He explained what had happened but the officers had no choice but to arrest him. The case went to trial, but Williams wouldn’t let the daughter take the stand in his defense, though the girl wanted to. He was found guilty of misdemeanor assault, the sentence community service.

But during the trial he’d testified to Leticia’s cruelty. The prosecutor believed him and gave the woman’s name to the Department of Social Services. A social worker showed up at her house to investigate the welfare of the children and they were removed and placed in the custody of their father.

Leticia began harassing Williams. It had persisted for a long time but then she’d disappeared, months
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ago, and Williams was just thinking recently that he was safe…

But now this. He knew she was behind it.