same materials produce the deadly alkaloid poison strychnine.
Cooper had the trappings of a computer-gamenerd—he lived with his mother, still wore madras shirts with chinos and had a Woody Allen physique. But looks were deceiving. Cooper’s longtime girlfriend was a tall, gorgeous blonde. Together they would sail in unison across ballroom floors in dance competitions, in which they were often top champions. Recently they’d taken up skeet shooting and winemaking (to which Cooper was meticulously applying principles of chemistry and physics).
Rhyme briefed him on the case and they turned to the evidence. Rhyme said, “Let’s look at the pack.”
Donning latex gloves, Cooper glanced at Sachs, who pointed out the paper bag containing the rape pack. He opened it over a large piece of newsprint—to catch bits of ambient trace—and extracted the bag. It was a thin plastic sack. No store logo was printed on it, only a large yellow smiley face. The tech now opened the bag, then paused. He said, “I smell something . . . . ” A deep inhalation. “Flowery. What is that?” Cooper carried the bag to Rhyme and he smelled it. There was something familiar about the fragrance, but he couldn’t decide what. “Geneva?”
“Yes?”
“Is that what you smelled back in the library?”
She sniffed. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Sachs said, “Jasmine. I think it’s jasmine.”
“On the chart,” Rhyme announced.
“What chart?” Cooper asked, looking around.
In each of his cases, Rhyme made whiteboard charts of evidence found at crime scenes and profiles of the perps. “Start one,” he ordered. “And we need to call him something. Somebody give me a name.”
No one had any inspiration.
Rhyme said, “No time to be creative. October ninth today, right? Ten/nine. So he’ll be Unsubone-oh-nine. Thom! We need your elegant handwriting.”
“No need to butter up,” the aide said as he stepped into the room with another coffeepot.
“Unsub one-oh-nine. Evidence and profile charts. He’s a white male. Height?”
Geneva said, “I don’t know. Everybody’s tall to me. Six feet, I’d guess.”
“You seem observant. We’ll go with that. Weight?”
“Not too big or small.” She fell quiet for a moment, troubled. “About Dr. Barry’s weight.”
Sellitto said, “Make it one eighty. Age?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see his face.”
“Voice?”
“I didn’t pay any attention. Average, I guess.”
Rhyme continued, “And light brown shoes, dark slacks, dark ski mask. A pack in a bag that smells of jasmine. He smells of it too. Soap or lotion maybe.”
“Pack?” Thom asked. “What do you mean?”
“Rape pack,” Geneva said. A glance at Rhyme. “You don’t need to sugarcoat anything for me. If that’s what you were doing.”
“Fair enough.” Rhyme nodded at her. “Let’s keep going.” He noticed Sachs’s face turn dark as she watched Cooper pick up the bag.
“What’s wrong?”
“The smiley face. On a rape pack bag. What kind of sick asshole’d do that?”
He was perplexed by her anger. “You realize that it’s good news he used that, don’t you, Sachs?”
“Good news?”
“It limits the number of stores we have to search for. Not as easy as a bag with an individuated logo on it but better than unprinted plastic.”
“I suppose,” she said, grimacing. “But still.”
Wearing latex gloves, Mel Cooper looked throughthe bag. He took out the tarot card first. It showed a man hanging upside down by his foot from a scaffold. Beams of light radiated from his head. His face was oddly passive. He didn’t seem to be in pain. Above him was the Roman numeral for twelve, XII.
“Mean anything to you?” Rhyme asked Geneva.
She shook her head.
Cooper mused, “Some kind of ritual or cult thing?”
Sachs said, “Got a thought.” She pulled out her cell phone, placed a call. Rhyme deduced that the person she’d spoken to would be arriving soon. “I called a
Cooper had the trappings of a computer-gamenerd—he lived with his mother, still wore madras shirts with chinos and had a Woody Allen physique. But looks were deceiving. Cooper’s longtime girlfriend was a tall, gorgeous blonde. Together they would sail in unison across ballroom floors in dance competitions, in which they were often top champions. Recently they’d taken up skeet shooting and winemaking (to which Cooper was meticulously applying principles of chemistry and physics).
Rhyme briefed him on the case and they turned to the evidence. Rhyme said, “Let’s look at the pack.”
Donning latex gloves, Cooper glanced at Sachs, who pointed out the paper bag containing the rape pack. He opened it over a large piece of newsprint—to catch bits of ambient trace—and extracted the bag. It was a thin plastic sack. No store logo was printed on it, only a large yellow smiley face. The tech now opened the bag, then paused. He said, “I smell something . . . . ” A deep inhalation. “Flowery. What is that?” Cooper carried the bag to Rhyme and he smelled it. There was something familiar about the fragrance, but he couldn’t decide what. “Geneva?”
“Yes?”
“Is that what you smelled back in the library?”
She sniffed. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Sachs said, “Jasmine. I think it’s jasmine.”
“On the chart,” Rhyme announced.
“What chart?” Cooper asked, looking around.
In each of his cases, Rhyme made whiteboard charts of evidence found at crime scenes and profiles of the perps. “Start one,” he ordered. “And we need to call him something. Somebody give me a name.”
No one had any inspiration.
Rhyme said, “No time to be creative. October ninth today, right? Ten/nine. So he’ll be Unsubone-oh-nine. Thom! We need your elegant handwriting.”
“No need to butter up,” the aide said as he stepped into the room with another coffeepot.
“Unsub one-oh-nine. Evidence and profile charts. He’s a white male. Height?”
Geneva said, “I don’t know. Everybody’s tall to me. Six feet, I’d guess.”
“You seem observant. We’ll go with that. Weight?”
“Not too big or small.” She fell quiet for a moment, troubled. “About Dr. Barry’s weight.”
Sellitto said, “Make it one eighty. Age?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see his face.”
“Voice?”
“I didn’t pay any attention. Average, I guess.”
Rhyme continued, “And light brown shoes, dark slacks, dark ski mask. A pack in a bag that smells of jasmine. He smells of it too. Soap or lotion maybe.”
“Pack?” Thom asked. “What do you mean?”
“Rape pack,” Geneva said. A glance at Rhyme. “You don’t need to sugarcoat anything for me. If that’s what you were doing.”
“Fair enough.” Rhyme nodded at her. “Let’s keep going.” He noticed Sachs’s face turn dark as she watched Cooper pick up the bag.
“What’s wrong?”
“The smiley face. On a rape pack bag. What kind of sick asshole’d do that?”
He was perplexed by her anger. “You realize that it’s good news he used that, don’t you, Sachs?”
“Good news?”
“It limits the number of stores we have to search for. Not as easy as a bag with an individuated logo on it but better than unprinted plastic.”
“I suppose,” she said, grimacing. “But still.”
Wearing latex gloves, Mel Cooper looked throughthe bag. He took out the tarot card first. It showed a man hanging upside down by his foot from a scaffold. Beams of light radiated from his head. His face was oddly passive. He didn’t seem to be in pain. Above him was the Roman numeral for twelve, XII.
“Mean anything to you?” Rhyme asked Geneva.
She shook her head.
Cooper mused, “Some kind of ritual or cult thing?”
Sachs said, “Got a thought.” She pulled out her cell phone, placed a call. Rhyme deduced that the person she’d spoken to would be arriving soon. “I called a
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