“Mr. Jorgensen, I’m here about a crime that was committed this morning.”

“Ah, sure, of course.” Lips pursing, he glanced at Sachs again and his expression was clear: resignation and disgust. “And what was I supposed to have done this time?”

This time?

“The crime was a rape and murder. But we know you weren’t involved. You were here.”

A cruel grin. “Ah, keeping track of me. Sure.” Then a grimace. “Goddamnit.” This was in response to something he found, or didn’t find, in the bit of book spine he was dissecting. He tossed it into the trash. Sachs noticed half-open garbage bags containing remnants of clothes, books, newspapers and small boxes that had also been cut apart. Then she glanced into the larger microwave and saw that it contained a book.

Germ phobic, she supposed.

He noticed her gaze. “Microwaving’s the best way to destroy them.”

“Bacteria? Viruses?”

He laughed at the question as if she were joking. He nodded at the volume in front of him. “But sometimes they’re really hard to find. You have to, though. You need to see what the enemy looks like.” Now a nod at the microwave. “And pretty soon they’ll start making ones that you can’t even nuke. Ah, you better believe it.”

They…them…Sachs had been a beat cop in the Patrol Division for some years-a portable, they were called in cop slang. She’d worked Times Square back when it was, well, Times Square, before the place became Disneyland North. Patrolwoman Sachs had had lots of experience with the homeless and emotionally disturbed. She recognized signs of paranoid personality, maybe even schizophrenia.

“Do you know a DeLeon Williams?”

“No.”

She offered the names of the other victims and fall guys, including Rhyme’s cousin.

“No, never heard of any of them.” He seemed to be answering truthfully. The book took all his attention for a long thirty seconds. He removed a page and held it up, grimacing again. He pitched it out.

“Mr. Jorgensen, this room number was found on a note near the crime scene today.”

The hand with the knife froze. He looked at her with scary, burning eyes. Breathlessly he asked, “Where? Where the hell did you find it?”

“In a trash bin in Brooklyn. It was stuck to some evidence. It’s possible this killer discarded it.”

In a ghastly whisper he asked, “You have a name? What does he look like? Tell me!” He half rose and his face grew bright red. His lips trembled.

“Take it easy, Mr. Jorgensen. Calm down. We’re not positive he’s the one who left the note.”

“Oh, he’s the one. You bet he is. That motherfucker!” He leaned forward. “You have a name?”

“No.”

“Tell me, goddamnit! Do something for me for a change. Not to me!”

She said firmly, “If I can help you, I will. But you have to stay calm. Who are you talking about?”

He dropped the knife and sat back, shoulders slumped. A bitter smile spread across his face. “Who? Who? Why, God, of course.”

“God?”

“And I’m Job. You know Job? The innocent man God tormented. All the trials he inflicted? That’s nothing compared to what I’ve been through… Oh, it’s him. He found out where I am now and wrote it down on that note of yours. I thought I’d escaped. But he’s got me again.”

Sachs thought she saw tears. She asked, “What’s this all about? Please, tell me.”

Jorgensen rubbed his face. “Okay…A few years ago I was a practicing doctor, lived in Connecticut. Had a wife and two wonderful children. Money in the bank, retirement plan, vacation house. A comfortable life. I was happy. But then a strange thing happened. No big deal, not at first. I applied for a new credit card-to get miles in my frequent-flier program. I was making three hundred thousand a year. I’d never missed a credit card or mortgage payment in my life. But I was rejected. Some mistake, I thought. But the company said that I was a credit risk since I’d moved three times in the past six months. Only I hadn’t moved at all. Somebody had gotten my name, Social Security number and credit information and rented apartments as me. Then he defaulted on the rent. But not before he’d bought nearly a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise and had it delivered to those addresses.”

“Identity theft?”

“Oh, the mother lode of identity theft. God opened credit cards in my name, ran up huge bills, had the statements sent to different addresses. Never paid them, of course. As soon as I’d get one straightened out he’d do something else. And he kept getting all this information on me. God knew everything! My mother’s maiden name, her birthday, my first dog’s name, my first car-all the things companies want to know for passwords. He got my phone numbers-and my calling card number. He ran up a ten-thousand-dollar phone bill. How? He’d call time and temperature in Moscow or Singapore or Sydney and leave the phone off the hook for hours.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because he’s God. And I’m Job… The son of a bitch bought a house in my name! A whole house! And then defaulted on it. I only found out when a lawyer working for a collection agency tracked me down at my clinic in New York and asked about making payment arrangements for the three hundred and seventy thousand dollars I owed. God also ran up a quarter million in online gambling debts.

“He made bogus insurance claims in my name and my malpractice carrier dropped me. I couldn’t work at my clinic without insurance, and nobody would insure me. We had to sell the house and, of course, every penny went to the debt quote I had run up-which was by then about two million dollars.”

“Two million?”

Jorgensen closed his eyes briefly. “And then things got worse. My wife was hanging in there throughout all of this. It was hard but she was with me…until God had presents-expensive ones-sent in my name to some former nurses at the clinic, bought with my credit card, and that included invitations and suggestive comments. One of the women left a message at home thanking me and saying she’d love to go away for the weekend. My daughter got it. She was crying uncontrollably when she told my wife. I think she believed I was innocent. But she still left me four months ago and moved in with her sister in Colorado.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Oh, well, thank you very much. But I’m not through yet. Oh, no. Just after my wife left, the arrests started. It seems guns purchased with a credit card and fake driver’s license in my name were used in armed robberies in East New York, New Haven and Yonkers. One clerk was seriously wounded. The New York Bureau of Investigation arrested me. They finally let me go but I’ve still got an arrest on my record. That’ll be there forever. Along with the time the Drug Enforcement Agency arrested me because a check of mine was traced to the purchase of illegally imported prescription drugs.

“Oh, and I was actually in prison for a while-well, not me: somebody that God sold fake credit cards to and a driver’s license in my name. Of course, the prisoner was somebody altogether different. Who knows what his real name is? But as far as the world is concerned, government records show that Robert Samuel Jorgensen, Social Security number nine two three, six seven, four one eight two, formerly of Greenwich, Connecticut, was a prisoner. It’s on my record too. For-ever.”

“You must’ve followed up, called the police.”

He scoffed. “Oh, please. You’re a cop. You know where something like this falls in the priority of police work? Just above jaywalking.”

“Did you learn anything that might help us? Anything about him? Age, race, education, location?”

“No, nothing. Everywhere I looked there was only one person: me. He took me away from myself… Oh, they say there are safeguards, there are protections. Bullshit. Yes, if you lose a credit card, maybe you’re protected to a point. But if somebody wants to destroy your life, there’s nothing you can do about it. People believe what computers tell us. If they say you owe money, you owe money. If it says you’re a bad insurance risk, you’re a bad risk. The report says you have no credit, then you have no credit, even if you’re a multimillionaire. We believe the data; we don’t care about the truth.