Page 6 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

The question remains: Will it be murder?

Maybe this is just a message. Pure, and ponderous, talk. Intimidation.

When people are about to die, they don’t get desperate and try to fight or run. They’re passive and perhaps cry or perhaps ask, “Why, why, why?” but little more than that. Maybe there’s some negotiation: Promises of money, or sex. Promises of changed ways. Mutterings of regret.

Never begging for mercy. Which I find interesting.

AC/DC’s diatribe seems to be winding down. The motion with the knife slows. The bound man is crying.

And, of course, I’m wondering whatIshould do.

Playing God means making tough decisions.

Sitting forward in anticipation, eyes on the wicked knife, which seems stained with dried blood, I ask myself: What’s it going to be?

4

Mr. Rhyme,” Coughlin was saying, “you analyze evidence in your town house, is that correct?”

“In alaboratoryin my town house, yes.”

“Not a bad commute,” the man offered casually, smiling. Several jurors joined him.

Rhyme dipped his head, acknowledging the tepid cleverness.

“What precautions do you take to make sure there is no contamination of the evidence gathered at the crime scene by substances in the town house?”

“We comply with the American Forensic Institute’s Committee of Area Contamination Guidelines. One hundred percent.”

“Tell us specifically how?”

“The lab is scrubbed three times a day with disinfectants. It’s separated from the rest of the town house by a floor-to-ceiling glass divider, with positive pressurization so intake of substances from outside cannot happen. No one goes into the lab without wearing protective clothing—bonnets, booties, mask and a lab coat. Glovestoo. This protects them and protects the evidence from contamination.”

“Booties, you said.”

“Like the sort surgeons wear.”

“With all respect to your condition, Mr. Rhyme, you can’t put booties on your wheels, now, can you?”

“I mostly supervise the lab work of others.”

“Do you ever go into the—is it called a sterile area?”

Rhyme hesitated again. He glanced at the prosecutor. Sellars’s face revealed a hint of uneasiness. “Yes, sterile area. And I do go in occasionally to analyze evidence. I wear all of the other personal protective gear I just mentioned and—”

“I’d like to focus on the wheels of your chair. How do you protect them against contamination?”

“The wheels are carefully cleaned by my aide before I go inside. They’re brushed and scrubbed.”

Coughlin glanced at the wheelchair. It was an Invacare model with large wheels in the center and two coaster wheels in the front and two in the back. This let Rhyme turn in any direction he wished without having to drive forward or back.

“This is the chair you’d use when you go into the lab?”

“Yes, but again—”

“‘Yes’ is fine, sir. Now what type of tires are those?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

---