He cut the clothesline binding her ankles, leaned forward and whispered, “Hanna, kommen Sie mit mir mit, Hanna Goldschmidt…”

“Nein,” she muttered, her voice trailing to silence.

He leaned closer, lightly slapped her face. “Hanna, you must come with me.”

And she screamed: “Mein Name ist nicht Hanna.” Then kicked him square in the jaw.

A burst of yellow light flashed through his head and he leapt sideways two or three feet, trying to keep his balance. Hanna sprang up, raced blindly down a dark corridor. But he was after her fast. He tackled her before she’d gotten ten yards away. She fell hard; he did too, grunting as he lost his breath.

He lay on his side for a minute, consumed with pain, struggling to breathe, gripping her T-shirts as she thrashed. Lying on her back, hands still cuffed, the girl used the only weapon she had – one of her feet, which she lifted in the air and brought down hard onto his hand. A spike of pain shot through him and his glove flew off. She lifted her strong leg again and only her bad aim saved him from her heel, which slammed so hard into the ground it would’ve broken bones if she’d connected.

“So nicht!” he growled madly and grabbed her by the throat with his bare hand and squeezed until she squirmed and whined and then stopped squirming and whining. She trembled several times and went still.

When he listened to her heart the beating was very faint. No tricks this time. He snatched up his glove, pulled it on and dragged her back through the tunnel to the post. Bound her feet once more and put a new piece of tape on her mouth. As she came to, his hand was straying over her body. She gasped at first and shrank away as he caressed the flesh behind her ear. Her elbow, her jaw. There weren’t many other places he wanted to touch her. She was so padded… it disgusted him.

Yet beneath the skin… He gripped her leg firmly. Her wide eyes stared as he fumbled in his pocket and the knife appeared. Without a moment’s hesitation he cut through her skin down to the yellow-white bone. She screamed through the tape, a manic wail, and kicked hard but he held her tight. Enjoying this, Hanna? The girl sobbed and groaned loudly. So he had to lower his ear to her leg to hear the delicious sound of the tip of the blade scraping back and forth on the bone. Skrisssss.

Then he took her arm.

They locked eyes for a moment and she shook her head pathetically, begging in silence. His gaze dropped to her pudgy forearm and again the cut was deep. Her whole body went rigid with the pain. Another wild, muted scream. Again he lowered his head like a musician, listening to the sound of the blade scraping the ulna. Back and forth. Skrisssss, skrisssss… It was some moments later that he realized she’d fainted.

Finally he pried himself away and returned to the car. He planted the next clues then took the broom from the trunk and carefully swept over their footsteps. He drove up the ramp, parked, left the engine running and climbed out once more, carefully sweeping away the tire tracks.

He paused and looked back down the tunnel. Staring at her, just staring. Suddenly a rare smile crossed the bone collector’s lips. He was surprised that the first of the guests had already shown up. A dozen pairs of tiny red eyes, two dozen, then three… It seemed they were gazing at Hanna’s bloody flesh with curiosity… and what might have been hunger. Though that could have been his imagination; Lord knew, it was vivid enough.

MEL, GO THROUGH THE COLFAX WOMAN’S CLOTHES. Amelia, would you help him?”

She offered him another pleasant nod, the sort meant for polite society. Rhyme realized he was really quite angry with her.

At the tech’s direction she pulled on latex gloves, gently opened the clothing and ran a horsehair brush through the garments, above large sheets of clean newsprint. Tiny flecks fell out. Cooper picked them up on tape and examined them through the compound ’scope.

“Not much,” he reported. “The steam took care of most of the trace. I see a little soil. Not enough to D-G. Wait… Excellent. I’ve got a couple of fibers. Look at these…”

Well, I can’t, Rhyme thought angrily.

“Navy blue, acrylic-and-wool blend, I’d guess. It isn’t coarse enough to be carpet and it’s not lobed. So it’s clothing.”

“In this heat he’s not going to be wearing thick socks or a sweater. Ski mask?”

“That’d be my bet,” Cooper said.

Rhyme reflected, “So he’s serious about giving us a chance to save them. If he was bent on killing, it wouldn’t matter if they saw him or not.”

Sellitto added, “Also means the asshole thinks he can get away. Doesn’t have suicide on his mind. Might just give us some bargaining power if he’s got hostages when we nail him.”

“I like that optimism of yours, Lon,” Rhyme said.

Thom answered the buzzer and a moment later Jim Polling climbed the stairs, looking disheveled and harried. Well, shuttling between press conferences, the mayor’s office and the federal building would do that to you.

“Too bad about the trout,” Sellitto called to him. Then explained to Rhyme, “Jimmy here’s one of those real fishermen. Ties his own flies and everything. Me, I go out on a party boat with a six-pack and I’m happy.”

“We’ll nail this fucker then worry about the fish,” Polling said, helping himself to the coffee Thom had left by the window. He looked outside and blinked in surprise to find two large birds staring at him. He turned back to Rhyme and explained that because of the kidnapping he’d had to postpone a fishing trip to Vermont. Rhyme had never fished – never had the time or inclination for any hobbies – but he found he envied Polling. The serenity of fishing appealed to him. It was a sport you could practice in solitude. Crip sports tended to be in-your-face athletics. Competitive. Proving things to the world… and to yourself. Wheelchair basketball, tennis, marathons. Rhyme decided if he had to have a sport it’d be fishing. Though casting a line with a single finger was probably beyond modern technology.

Polling said, “The press is calling him a serial kidnapper.”

If the bootie fits, Rhyme reflected.

“And the mayor’s going nuts. Wants to call in the feds. I talked the chief into sitting tight on that one. But we can’t lose another vic.”

“We’ll do our best,” Rhyme said caustically.

Polling sipped the black coffee and stepped close to the bed. “You okay, Lincoln?”

Rhyme said, “Fine.”

Polling appraised him for a moment longer then nodded to Sellitto. “Brief me. We got another press conference in a half hour. You see the last one? Hear what that reporter asked? What did we think the vic’s family felt about her being scalded to death?”

Banks shook his head. “Man.”

“I nearly decked the fucker,” Polling said.

Three and a half years ago, Rhyme recalled, during the cop-killer investigation, the captain had smashed a news crew’s videocam when the reporter wondered if Polling was being too aggressive in his investigations just because the suspect, Dan Shepherd, was a member of the force.

Polling and Sellitto retired to a corner of Rhyme’s room and the detective filled him in. When the captain descended the stairs this time, Rhyme noticed, he wasn’t half as buoyant as he had been.

“Okay,” Cooper announced. “We’ve got a hair. It was in her pocket.”

“The whole shaft?” Rhyme asked, without much hope, and was not surprised when Cooper sighed. “Sorry. No bulb.”

Without a bulb attached, hair isn’t individuated evidence; it’s merely class evidence. You can’t run a DNA test and link it to a specific person. Still, it has good probative value. The famous Canadian Mounties study a few years ago concluded that if a hair found at the scene matches a suspect’s hair the odds are around 4,500 to 1 that he’s the one who left it. The problem with hair, though, is that you can’t deduce much about the person it belonged to. Sex is almost impossible to determine, and race can’t be reliably established. Age can be estimated only with infant hair. Color is deceptive because of wide pigmentation variations and cosmetic dyes, and since everybody loses dozens of hairs every day you can’t even tell if the suspect is going bald.