"So what happened?" Sachs asked. The question was directed toward Juliette Archer, who had, by voice command, just disconnected a phone call. They knew, of course, that the unsub had turned the microwave power way up but neither Rhyme nor Sachs had guessed how that could create a virtual bomb.
The intern replied, "The consumer products specialist at the microwave manufacturer." Nodding at the phone. "He said it looks like our unsub used the DataWise to override the control panel and up the power exponentially. He said it would be a lot--probably by forty or fifty times. Whatever he was making, tea or coffee, was superheated. When he opened the door, the air was a lot colder and it vaporized the liquid inside and the moisture in the porcelain mug itself--all ceramic absorbs liquids to some extent. The mug exploded like a hand grenade."
Archer nodded to the screen. "Even with microwaves that haven't been tampered with you get the same effect, if you overheat something. But that takes time. Our unsub? He basically caused fifteen minutes of high-power radiation to happen in about sixty seconds."
Rhyme had no idea such a ubiquitous device could be so dangerous.
Sachs's phone hummed and she read a text. "He's published another message." A few keystrokes and an email appeared on the high-def monitor near them.
Greetings! Are you learning about the EVIL results of your unbrideled lust for convenience?? Now, everytime you want to heat up some soup or coffee, you'll run the risk of five hundred degree steam and deadly bits of ceramic and glass piercing your bodies! Will it be the microwave in you're home? Or office? Or your son's dorm room?
Are you finally seeing that I'm doing nothing more to you than what your doing to Mother Earth! Do you know the impact your obsene love of THINGS have on the atmasphere, the waters? The land-fills, You are injecting our environment with toxins.
As yee buy, so shall yee reap.
Until tomorrow, I remain--
The People's Guardian
Nothing to be drawn from the message, other than he was continuing to front he was more ignorant than he actually was, Rhyme concluded.
Yee...
Nothing that is, except the substance of the rant: that more attacks were planned.
Mel Cooper said, "An exploding microwave... That's going to get attention."
It already was.
Since the first story appeared, written up by the reporter Sachs had spoken to, a flurry of coat-tail articles and broadcast news stories had appeared, looking at the danger of Internet of Things products. A number of writers and talking heads speculated that sales of smart appliances and equipment would soon be slumping, returns rising, and people simply not using products that might turn on them.
Rhyme, Sachs and the team were perhaps protecting some potential targets but Unsub 40 was also winning battles in his war against consumerism.
Sachs and Rhyme had had a follow-up conversation with Vinay Chaudhary, of CIR Micro, and he told them that every one of its customers had again received the security patch that would stop anyone's hacking into the network and taking control of the embedded product. The chief executive himself had personally sent a memo or called to remind them of the importance of updating.
In addition he was ordering that the code of all of his future products be modified to provide for automatic updates from CIR's own server.
"What else do we have?" Rhyme asked, gazing at the evidence bags Sachs had brought from the Times Square scene.
"A rich contact site," she told him. Referring to the place where their unsub had escaped from the jobsite, after reprogramming the microwave. This had been on the opposite side of the site, on 47th Street, where he'd had to use a crowbar to break through a padlock and chain. In crime scene work a rich contact is anywhere the perp engages in multiple or time-consuming activities. A victim or police officer, for instance, wrestling with a perp, an unsub dismembering a body (it takes time and effort) or an escapee breaking through a well-protected door or window.
"Friction ridges?"
"A hundred," Sachs said, but she'd already sent them through IAFIS. She'd gotten back a few hits but the prints belonged to individuals arrested for minor violations long ago--workers employed by the construction company or delivery people.
"Footprints?"
"Yes. One matches his. We got a bit of trace from the treads."
"What was it?" Rhyme wheeled closer to Mel Cooper, who was on the optical microscope. A low magnification. One mistake Rhyme had found was common among newbies in crime labs: cranking the 'scope to 100 power. That kind of voyeurism generally got you nowhere. Examining a bit of trace at 5X or, at most, 10X was all you needed. If you wanted a more micro view there was always the scanning electron microscope.
Looking at the screen, Cooper said, "More sawdust."
Sachs: "I got it at the jobsite, where he was standing, but it's different from the rough-cut particles indigenous to the site. It's much finer. Very similar to the mahogany at the earlier scene. Sanded again. Different wood, though."
Rhyme looked it over. "Walnut, I'd guess. No, I'm sure. Cellular structure and color temperature. Five thousand Kelvin."
Cooper agreed.
Archer asked Sachs, "Did you search the workshop at the theater?"
"No."
Rhyme observed that Sachs glanced at her closely, eyes settling briefly on the gold Celtic bracelet encircling her left wrist, strapped to the armrest of the Storm Arrow wheelchair. Sachs's gaze returned to the evidence chart.
A pause. Archer said, "He might've gone inside there to check out the brand of microwave before the attack. We know he was in the Theater District earlier."
"I didn't need to search it." Sachs, studying the bits of sawdust, answered absently.
Archer looked from Sachs to Rhyme. "Don't you think..." she began, implicitly questioning Sachs's decision.
The detective replied, "The workshop has a two-day-looping security video. Lot of souvenir thieves in theaters in New York. I had the security company review it. The perp wasn't inside on any of the existing tape... and the floors're mopped every night."
"Oh. I--"
Sachs said, "It was a reasonable question. And in a perfect world with unlimited resources I would have searched it. You play the odds."
Rhyme would probably have had someone search the scene. But Sachs was right about resources. Besides, he wasn't taking one woman's side against the other.
Rhyme: "Mel? What else?"
Cooper found more trace and examined it. "More glass splinters, probably from the same batch as before, and more glazing compound."
"What's that? In that bag?" A tiny plastic one.
"A fleck of something..."
"Let me see."
Cooper mounted it and projected the image onto the screen. It looked like a tiny opaque fish scale. A piece of the sawdust was stuck to it. Cooper said, "I can GC it. But there's not enough to preserve for court."
Rhyme said, "We'll have plenty of evidence to make a case against him. But we have to find him first." A nod toward Mel. "Burn it."
Cooper ran the sample through the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer. A few moments later he scanned the computer screen. "Ammonium rhodanide and dicyandiamide, urea, collagen."
Rhyme said, "Glue of some sort. I'll bet used in woodworking."
"That's it," Cooper said, after running the quantities of the found substances through a database. "Bond-Strong liquid hide glue. Mostly for musical instruments but woodworkers in any field use it."
Archer leaned forward, stony-faced, staring at the evidence bags. "Instrument making? What do we think?"
Rhyme was doubtful. "That's a rare hobby or profession. And if so he'd probably be a musician too. But we haven't found any other trace that suggests that. No resin from strings, no horsehair from violin or cello bows--they shed hairs abundantly, by the way. No tuning gear lubricants. No felt from bridges. No callus skin cells sloughed off--from fretboard or fingerboard use."
"You're a musician, Lincoln?" Archer asked. "I mean, we
re a musician?"
"Never touched an instrument."
"How do you know all that?"
"It pays to know the tools of the trade of potential perps and potential victims. Minimize the time you need to look up sources. It might make the difference between collaring the unsub and attending his next crime scene. So I'm leaning in favor of furniture making or fine carpentry. But: hobby or profession? Don't know which. And what exactly does he make with his varnish and glue and sandpaper and exotic woods? Keep going, Mel."
"A bit of vegetation," he called. "Stem or a leaf."
Rhyme looked it over. He laughed. "Then sometimes, Archer, despite all your diligent homework, you don't have a goddamn idea what you've found. Send a picture of the cellular structure and color temperature to the Horticultural Society Research Databank."
Cooper emailed jpgs of the sample to the HSRD. "Should have it back within a day or so," he said, reading the return email.
"Light a fire," Rhyme snapped. "Urgent, life or death... Don't care about John Doe's doctoral thesis on Venus flytraps. This has priority."
Cooper sent a follow-up and then turned back to the bags. "Okay, something else. A fragment of black, flexible plastic with some printing on it. Too small to make out any letters."
"Put it up."
Gazing at the screen, Rhyme could see instantly that it was wire insulation. "Our boy's done some electrical work. The wire's cut with a razor knife. Don't you think, Sachs?"
But she was looking at her phone, reading a text.
Archer said, "So he's not a pro."
"Why would you say that?"
"A pro would use a stripping tool, not a knife. Those plier-like things, I'd think."
"Good. Yes. But let's say probably not a pro. He might've had to leave his regular tool belt at home and found he had only a sharp blade to do some work with. Or, non-pro with two question marks?"
Archer smiled. Cooper started to write the punctuation marks. Rhyme said, "That was a joke."
He regarded the chart. Too many mysteries here. Rhyme decided to get some outside analysis from an expert and had the digitized files and photographs uploaded to a secure server, then sent the link to the man he had in mind. A moment later a text came back.
Yah, yah. Tomorrow.
Amused at the irreverence but irritated that he had to wait, he texted back, "K. I guess."
He thought: Well, beggars can't be... But shot the cliche dead before he completed it. And turned his chair to the parlor doorway as he detected the footfall of Ron Pulaski, who'd just let himself in with a key.
"Where've you been, Rookie? You have Gutierrez in custody yet?"
"Had to see somebody about a lead. Could've waited but I thought it was better to do it now, meet with this guy. Get it over with. And--"
"Fine, fine, fine. Amelia said you ran the canvass in Times Square. What'd you find?"
"The unsub, he got out through the far side of the jobsite."
"We know that. Tell me something I'm ignorant of."
"He was in a Carhartt jacket, one of those brown things contractors wear. And a hard hat. But he must've ditched 'em. We swept the area and didn't find them. And nobody matching his descrip was seen."
"That's not a word. 'Descrip.' There's 'nondescript' and there's 'description.' But there's no 'descrip.'"
"Well, it's in common usage on the street."
"So is methamphetamine. That's no reason to embrace it."
"Now, nothing on the subway CCTVs or any of the cameras in the COC. My thinking is he got a bus north or south. His height wouldn't be so prominent that way, sitting. I've sent a memo to Transit. Officers'll canvass all the drivers to see if they saw somebody fitting the description. Some of the buses have video and they'll look at those too."
"Good. The jobsite workers?"
"A couple of people saw him but they just said tall and skinny. Had a tablet of some kind."
"His weapon. That's what he used to sabotage the microwave." Rhyme backed up and continued to stare at the evidence chart. "Think, everybody. Speculate. The answer's there." His eye caught Archer's; she was looking his way with a smile. He recalled that this was how he'd begun his lecture at the college the other day. "Let's find it."
CRIME SCENE: 438 W. 46TH STREET, CONSTRUCTION SITE ACROSS STREET
- Offense: Attempted assault.
- Victim: Joe Heady.
- Union carpenter, Broadway. Was electrician and autoworker a few years ago in Detroit. Suffered only minor injuries.
- Means of attack: Hacked into microwave, fitted with DataWise5000 controller.
- Evidence
- Sawdust from walnut. Cut with same blade as mahogany. Probably a handheld saw or other tool, not electric.
- Bond-Strong liquid hide glue. Mostly used in making musical instruments, but craftsmen in any field use it.
- Glass splinters, probably from same batch as before.
- Additional glazing compound.
- Fragment of leaf. Sent out for analysis. Waiting for return.
- Fragments of electrical insulation, cut with razor knife.
- Additional elements of profile of suspect:
- Probably not a professional electrician.
- Fine woodworker or musical instrument maker (probably former).
- Wore Carhartt jacket, hard hat. Probably discarded.
- Additional message from People's Guardian.
CHAPTER 35
A cool spring evening.
Pleasant. Nick Carelli and Freddy Caruthers were walking down Fourth Avenue in Bay Ridge. Past a yoga store, past Rent-Your-Kilt, which drew a double take from Nick. Yep. That was the name.
From here you could see a bit of the Verrazano's crown. One hell of a bridge. After he'd been arrested he'd thought about jumping off it. But thinking about and doing are two very different animals. Would've upset his brother and mother too much. After the mad urge had passed he was ashamed he'd even considered it.
"There." Freddy pointed.
A block away. The Bay View Cafe. The diner looked pretty decent though the sign lied; there was no view of the bay. For one thing, it faced east. And it offered no view of any water--harbor or ocean or drainage canal or puddle.
"Should call it the Bay Somewhere Nearby Cafe."
"Huh?" asked Freddy. Then he got it. "That's good. Ha."
The place was clean inside. Nick looked around, noting where the hostess station was, what kind of cash register they had, where the kitchen was located, the doors that opened into it, what the Daily Special board looked like, how many servers and busboys there were--and if they looked like they spoke English as a first, second or third language. Or didn't speak it at all. Where the food was stored. Big cans of tomato sauce sat stacked against a back wall. Were they empty and just decorative?
Nick knew he had a lot to learn about the restaurant business. Still, he felt good about the prospect. He really hoped Vittorio Gera would come through and accept his offer.
Freddy tapped Nick's arm and directed him to a booth in the back, where a skinny guy in jeans and a black T-shirt under a brown sport coat sat sipping a Sam Adams from the bottle. He wasn't using the frosted glass the waitress had brought and the empty mug was sweating.
"Stan. I'm Freddy."
"Yo."
"This's Nick."
Hands were shaken and Nick sat down opposite Von, who had thick black hair that could've used a shampooing and trim. His right palm, Nick had felt upon the clasp, was callused. Wondered what his job was. Knuckles red. Maybe he boxed; he had the muscles for it. Nick the cop made observations like this. Nick the prisoner had too. He wasn't going to quash instinct now that he was neither.
Nick scooted over so Freddy could join him on his side of the booth. But Freddy said, "I gotta make some calls. Be five, ten minutes. Leave you guys to it."
"You know what you want to eat?" Nick called.
"I don't care. Burger. You guys order. Don't wait for me." He fished his phone out and headed to the
front of the restaurant, punching in a number. He smiled as he struck up a conversation with the person who'd picked up. Some people did that, smiled or frowned when talking, even though the guy on the other end of the line couldn't see them.
"So, you and Freddy go way back?" Von was reading the menu like there'd be a test later.
"School."
"School." Von's voice seemed to hint that that was a waste of time. "You drive cars, Nick?"
"I... You mean as a job?"
A laugh. "Naw, just you drive cars?"
"I can drive. I don't have one."
"Yeah?"
"Really."
Von laughed once more, as if that were the funniest thing in the world.
"What're your wheels?" Nick asked.
"Oh, whatever." And Von went back to the menu.
Nick too looked it over, wondering what would be the fastest thing to order. He wanted this to be over soon. Wasn't Von's bizarre personality. Well, it was partly that. Mostly Nick's gut told him that, despite what Freddy's homework showed, Von might be connected or whoever he worked for was, and one or both of them might have a record. That was a no-fly zone for Nick, a violation of his parole. He didn't want to ask Von because, if the answer was yes, then he'd know for certain. He wanted to tell his PO that he'd had no clue.
Best get the info about J and Nanci, buy the guy the best steak on the menu and shut up to let him eat it as fast as possible. Then get the hell out.
But even with the urgency there were the rituals that had to be obeyed, of course. The men chatted about sports, about the neighborhood, about business, even the goddamn weather. Von kept laughing at things that made no sense to laugh about. "There's a high-rise going up where the Knights social club used to be. You believe it, son-o?"
That was worth a yuk or two.
Nick caught the waitress's eye and she approached. "We're ready."
Von ordered a salad to start, extra Thousand Island dressing, and chicken Parmesan.
Nick got a burger. "Rare."
Von gazed at him with grinning astonishment. "You're not worried, worms and shit?"
Nick, gripping patience tightly, said, "I'm not worried."
"Suit yourself."
"No fries," Nick said.
Von blinked, reared back. "You're fucking crazy. They're great here, the best. I mean, the best."