Free A Textbook Case by Jeffery Deaver Page B

drew or picked.
    Marko said, “I missed my class already. At the academy. Any chance I could stay and help out?”
    Apparently the horror of the scene wasn’t going to deter him.
    Sellitto said, “Detective Sachs’s lead crime scene. Up to her.”
    One of the biggest problems in law enforcement was getting enough people to help in an investigation. And you could
never
have enough crime scene searchers. She said, “Sure, appreciate it.” She nodded toward the entrance to the parking garage beneath the building. “I’ll take the ramp and the scene itself. You and those other teams handle the—”
    Marko interrupted. “Secondary and tertiary scenes. Entrance and egress points. I took Detective Rhyme’s course.”
    He said this proudly.
    “Good. Now tell me exactly where the vic is.”
    “Go down the ramp two levels. She’s on the bottom one at the back. The only car there.” He paused. “Can’t miss it.”
    Worst…
    “Okay. Now, get to those scenes.”
    “Yes’m, Detective. We’ll get on the grid.”
    Sachs nearly smiled. He’d slung the last word out like a greeting among initiates in a secret club. Walking the grid…. It was Rhyme’s coined phrase for searching a scene in the most comprehensive way possible, covering every square inch—twice.
    Marko joined his colleagues.
    “Hey, you’re a ma’am now, Amelia.”
    “It was just an ‘m. Don’t make me older than I feel.”
    “You could be his… older sister.”
    “Funny.” Then Sachs said, “Get a bio on the vic, too, Lon. As much as you can.”
    For some years now she had worked with Lincoln Rhyme and under his tutelage she’d become a fine crime scene searcher and a solid forensic analyst. But her first skill and love in policing was people—a legacy from her father, who was an NYPD patrol officer all his life. She loved the psychology of crime, which Lincoln Rhyme tended to disparage as the “soft” side of policing. But Sachs believed that sometimes the physical evidence didn’t lead you to the perp’s doorstep. Sometimes you needed to look closely at the people involved, at their passions, their fears, their motives. All the details of their lives.
    Sellitto hulked off, gesturing Patrol Division officers to join him and they huddled to arrange for canvass teams.
    Sachs opened a vinyl bag and withdrew a high-def video camera rig. As she’d done with her weapon, she wiped this down, too, with the alcohol swabs. She slipped the lightweight unit over the plastic cap encasing her head. The small camera sat just above her ear and a nearly invisible stalk mike arced toward her mouth. Sachs clicked the video and audio switches and winced when loud static slugged her eardrum. She adjusted it.
    “Rhyme, you there?”
    A moment of clatter. “Yes, yes, you there, you at the scene? Are you on the grid, Sachs? Time’s wasting.”
    “Just got here. I’m ready to go. How are you feeling?”
    “Fine, why wouldn’t I be?”
    A three-hour microsurgery operation a couple of days ago?
    She didn’t answer.
    “What’s that light? Jesus, it’s bright.”
    She’d glanced at the sky and a slash of morning sun would have blasted into the video camera and onto the high-def monitor Rhyme would be looking at. “Sorry.”
    In a gloved hand Sachs picked up the evidence collection bag—a small suitcase—and a flashlight and began walking down the ramp into the garage.
    She was glancing at her feet. Odd.
    Rhyme caught it, too. “What’m I looking at, Sachs?”
    “Trash.” The ramp was filthy. A nearby Dumpster was on its side and the dozen garbage bags inside had been pulled out and ripped open. The contents covered the ground.
    It was a mess.
    “Hard to hear you, Sachs.”
    “I’m wearing an N-Ninety-five.”
    “Chemical, gas?”
    “That first responding told me it was a good idea.”
    “It’s really dark,” the criminalist then muttered.
    The video camera automatically went to low-light mode—that greenish tint from spy movies and