“‘Bye!”

“Let’s fill in the portrait of our friend.”

Sachs picked up the marker and stepped to the whiteboard.

UNSUB 522 PROFILE

· Male

· Possibly smokes or lives/works with someone who does, or near source of tobacco

· Has children or lives/works near them or near source of toys

· Interest in art, coins?

· Probably white or light-skinned ethnic

· Medium build

· Strong-able to strangle victims

· Access to voice-disguise equipment

· Possibly computer literate; knows OurWorld. Other social-networking sites?

· Takes trophies from victims. Sadist?

· Portion of residence/workplace dark and moist

NONPLANTED EVIDENCE

· Dust

· Old cardboard

· Hair from doll, BASF B35 nylon 6

· Tobacco from Tareyton cigarettes

· Old tobacco, not Tareyton, but brand unknown

· Evidence of Stachybotrys Chartarum mold

Rhyme was looking over the details when he heard Mel Cooper laugh. “Well, well, well.”

“What?”

“This is interesting.”

“Be specific. I don’t need interesting. I need facts.”

“It’s still interesting.” The lab man had been shining a bright light on the slit-open spine of Robert Jorgensen’s book. “You were thinking the doctor was crazy, talking about tracking devices? Well, guess what? Oliver Stone may have a movie here-there is something implanted in it. In the spine tape.”

“Really?” Sachs said, shaking her head. “I thought he was nuts.”

“Let me see,” Rhyme said, his curiosity piqued and skepticism on temporary hold.

Cooper moved a small high-definition camera closer to the examining table and hit the book with an infrared light. It revealed underneath the tape a tiny rectangle of crisscrossed lines.

“Take it out,” Rhyme said.

Carefully Cooper slit the spine tape and removed what appeared to be an inch-long piece of plasticized paper printed with what looked like computer circuit lines. Also, a series of numbers and the manufacturer’s name, DMS, Inc.

Sellitto asked, “The fuck is it? Really a tracking device?”

“I don’t see how. There’s no battery or power source that I can find,” Cooper said.

“Mel, look up the company.”

A fast business search revealed it was Data Management Systems, based outside Boston. He read a description of the outfit, one division of which manufactured these little devices-known as RFID tags, for radio frequency identification.

“I’ve heard about those,” Pulaski said. “It was on CNN.”

“Oh, the definitive source for forensic knowledge,” Rhyme said cynically.

“No, that’s CSI,” Sellitto said, drawing another aborted laugh from Ron Pulaski.

Sachs asked, “What does it do?”

“This is interesting.”

“Again, interesting.”

“Essentially it’s a programmable chip that can be read by a radio scanner. They don’t need a battery; the antenna picks up the radio waves and that gives them enough juice to work.”

Sachs said, “Jorgensen was talking about breaking off antennas to disable them. He also said you could destroy some of them in a microwave. But that one”-she gestured-“he couldn’t nuke. Or so he said.”

Cooper continued, “They’re used for inventory control by manufacturers and retailers. In the next few years nearly every product sold in the U.S. will have its own RFID tag. Some major retailers already require them before they’ll stock a product line.”

Sachs laughed. “That’s just what Jorgensen was telling me. Maybe he wasn’t as National Enquirer as I thought.”

“Every product?” Rhyme asked.

“Yep. So stores know where the stuff in inventory is, how much stock they have, what’s selling faster than other things, when to restock the shelves, when to reorder. They’re also used for baggage handling by airlines so they know where your luggage is without having to visually scan the bar code. And they’re used in credit cards, driver’s licenses, employee IDs. They’re called ‘smart cards’ then.”

“Jorgensen wanted to see my department ID. He looked it over real carefully. Maybe that’s what he was interested in.”

“They’re all over the place,” Cooper continued. “In those discount cards you use in grocery stores, in frequent-flier cards, in tollbooth smart pass transponders.”

Sachs nodded at the evidence boards. “Think about it, Rhyme. Jorgensen was talking about this man he called God knowing all about his life. Enough to steal his identity, to buy things in his name, take out loans, get credit cards, find out where he was.”

Rhyme felt the excitement of moving forward in the hunt. “And Five Twenty-Two knows enough about his victims to get close to them, get inside their defenses. He knows enough about the fall guys to plant evidence that’s identical to what they have at home.”

“And,” Sellitto added, “he knows exactly where they were at the time of the crime. So they won’t have an alibi.”

Sachs looked over the tiny tag. “Jorgensen said his life started to fall apart around the time he got that book.”

“Where’d he buy it? Any receipts or price stickers, Mel?”

“Nope. If there were he cut them out.”

“Call Jorgensen back. Let’s get him in here.”

Sachs pulled out her phone and called the transient hotel where she’d just met with him. She was frowning. “Already?” she asked the clerk.

Doesn’t bode well, Rhyme reflected.

“He’s moved out,” she said after hanging up. “But I know where he’s going.” She found a slip of paper, placed another call. Though after a brief conversation she hung up, sighing. Jorgensen wasn’t at that hotel either, she said; he hadn’t even called to make a reservation.

“Do you have a cell number?”

“He doesn’t have a phone. He doesn’t trust them. But he knows my number. If we’re lucky he’ll call.” Sachs walked closer to the tiny device. “Mel. Cut the wire off. The antenna.”

“What?”

“Jorgensen said now that we’ve got the book, we’re infected too. Cut it off.”

Cooper shrugged and glanced at Rhyme, who thought the idea was absurd. Still, Amelia Sachs didn’t spook easily. “Sure, go ahead. Just make a notation on the chain-of-custody card. ‘Evidence rendered safe.’”

A phrase usually reserved for bombs and handguns.

Rhyme then lost interest in the RFID. He looked up. “All right. Until we hear from him, let’s speculate… Come on, folks. Be ballsy. I need some thoughts here! We’ve got a perp who can get his hands on all this goddamn information about people. How? He knows everything the fall guys bought. Fishing line, kitchen knives, shave cream, fertilizer, condoms, duct tape, rope, beer. There’ve been four victims and four fall guys-at least. He can’t follow everybody around, he doesn’t break into their houses.”

“Maybe he’s a clerk at one of those big discount stores,” Cooper suggested.

“But DeLeon bought some of the evidence at Home Depot-you can’t buy condoms and snack food there.”

“Maybe Five Twenty-Two works for a credit card company?” Pulaski suggested. “He can see what people buy that way.”

“Not bad, rookie, but some of the time the vics must’ve paid cash.”

It was Thom, surprisingly, who provided one answer. He fished out his keys. “I heard Mel mention the discount cards earlier.” He displayed several small plastic cards on his key chain. One for A &P, one for Food Emporium. “I swipe the card and get a discount. Even if I pay cash the store still knows what I bought.”

“Good,” Rhyme said. “But where do we go from there? We’re still looking at dozens of different sources the victims and fall guys shopped at.”

“Ah.”

Rhyme looked at Sachs, who was staring at the evidence board with a faint smile on her face. “I think I’ve got it.”

“What?” Rhyme asked, expecting the clever application of a forensic principle.