Motorola radio and pulled on the headset she’d borrowed from the Sheriff’s Department Central Communications Office. She spent a moment finding the frequency Steve Farr had given her. The reception was lousy.
“Rhyme?”
“I’m here, Sachs. I’ve been waiting. Where’ve you been?”
She didn’t want to tell him that she’d spent a few minutes trying to learn more about the psychology of Garrett Hanlon. She said only, “Took us some time to get here.”
“Well, what’ve we got?” the criminalist asked.
“I’m about to go in.”
She motioned Margaret back into the living room then kicked the door in and leapt back into the corridor, pressed flat against the wall. No sound from the dimly lit room.
Got herself stung 137 times . . .
Okay. Pistol up. Go, go, go! She pushed inside.
“Jesus.” Sachs dropped into a low-profile combat stance. Several earnest pounds of pressure on the trigger, she held the gun steady as a mountain at the figure just inside.
“Sachs?” Rhyme called. “What is it?”
“Minute,” she whispered, flicking the overhead light on. The gun sight rested on a poster of the creepy monster in the movie Alien.
With her left hand she swung the closet door open. Empty.
“It’s secured, Rhyme. Have to say, though, I don’t really care for the way he decorates.”
It was then that the stench hit her. Unwashed clothing, bodily scents. And something else. . . .
“Phew,” she muttered.
“Sachs? What is it?” Rhyme’s voice was impatient.
“Place stinks.”
“Good. You know my rule.”
“Always smell the crime scene first. Wish I hadn’t.”
“I meant to clean it up.” Mrs. Babbage had padded up behind Sachs. “I shoulda, before you got here. But I was too afraid to go in. Besides, skunk’s hard to get out unless you wash in tomato juice. Which Hal thinks is a waste of money.”
That was it. Crowning the smell of dirty clothes was the burnt-rubber scent of skunk musk. Hands clasped desperately, looking like she was about to cry, Garrett’s foster mother whispered, “He’ll be mad you broke the door.”
Sachs said to her, “I’ll need a little time alone here.” She ushered the woman out and closed the door.
“Time’s wasting, Sachs,” Rhyme snapped.
“I’m on it,” she responded. Looking around. Repulsed by the gray, stained sheets, the piles of dirty clothes, the dishes glued together with old food, the Cell-o bags filled with the dust of potato and corn chips. The whole place made her edgy. She found her fingers in her scalp, compulsively scratching. Stopped, then scratched some more. She wondered why she was so angry. Maybe because the slovenliness suggested that his foster parents didn’t really give a damn about the boy and that this neglect had contributed to his becoming a killer and a kidnapper.
Sachs scanned the room fast and noticed that there were dozens of smudges and finger- and footprints on the windowsill. It seemed he used the window more than the front door and she wondered if they locked the children down at night.
She turned to the wall opposite the bed and squinted. Felt a chill slide through her. “We’ve got ourselves a collector here, Rhyme.”
She looked over the dozen large jars—terrariums filled with colonies of insects clustered together, surrounding pools of water in the bottom of each one. Labels in sloppy handwriting identified the species: Water Boatman . . . Diving Bell Spider. A chipped magnifying glass sat on a nearby table, beside an old office chair that looked as if Garrett had retrieved it from a trash heap.
“I know why they call him the Insect Boy,” Sachs said, then told Rhyme about the jars. She shivered with revulsion as a horde of moist, tiny bugs moved en masse along the glass of one jar.
“Ah, that’s good for us.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a rare hobby. If tennis or collecting coins turned him on, we’d have a harder time pinning him to specific locations. Now, get going on
“Rhyme?”
“I’m here, Sachs. I’ve been waiting. Where’ve you been?”
She didn’t want to tell him that she’d spent a few minutes trying to learn more about the psychology of Garrett Hanlon. She said only, “Took us some time to get here.”
“Well, what’ve we got?” the criminalist asked.
“I’m about to go in.”
She motioned Margaret back into the living room then kicked the door in and leapt back into the corridor, pressed flat against the wall. No sound from the dimly lit room.
Got herself stung 137 times . . .
Okay. Pistol up. Go, go, go! She pushed inside.
“Jesus.” Sachs dropped into a low-profile combat stance. Several earnest pounds of pressure on the trigger, she held the gun steady as a mountain at the figure just inside.
“Sachs?” Rhyme called. “What is it?”
“Minute,” she whispered, flicking the overhead light on. The gun sight rested on a poster of the creepy monster in the movie Alien.
With her left hand she swung the closet door open. Empty.
“It’s secured, Rhyme. Have to say, though, I don’t really care for the way he decorates.”
It was then that the stench hit her. Unwashed clothing, bodily scents. And something else. . . .
“Phew,” she muttered.
“Sachs? What is it?” Rhyme’s voice was impatient.
“Place stinks.”
“Good. You know my rule.”
“Always smell the crime scene first. Wish I hadn’t.”
“I meant to clean it up.” Mrs. Babbage had padded up behind Sachs. “I shoulda, before you got here. But I was too afraid to go in. Besides, skunk’s hard to get out unless you wash in tomato juice. Which Hal thinks is a waste of money.”
That was it. Crowning the smell of dirty clothes was the burnt-rubber scent of skunk musk. Hands clasped desperately, looking like she was about to cry, Garrett’s foster mother whispered, “He’ll be mad you broke the door.”
Sachs said to her, “I’ll need a little time alone here.” She ushered the woman out and closed the door.
“Time’s wasting, Sachs,” Rhyme snapped.
“I’m on it,” she responded. Looking around. Repulsed by the gray, stained sheets, the piles of dirty clothes, the dishes glued together with old food, the Cell-o bags filled with the dust of potato and corn chips. The whole place made her edgy. She found her fingers in her scalp, compulsively scratching. Stopped, then scratched some more. She wondered why she was so angry. Maybe because the slovenliness suggested that his foster parents didn’t really give a damn about the boy and that this neglect had contributed to his becoming a killer and a kidnapper.
Sachs scanned the room fast and noticed that there were dozens of smudges and finger- and footprints on the windowsill. It seemed he used the window more than the front door and she wondered if they locked the children down at night.
She turned to the wall opposite the bed and squinted. Felt a chill slide through her. “We’ve got ourselves a collector here, Rhyme.”
She looked over the dozen large jars—terrariums filled with colonies of insects clustered together, surrounding pools of water in the bottom of each one. Labels in sloppy handwriting identified the species: Water Boatman . . . Diving Bell Spider. A chipped magnifying glass sat on a nearby table, beside an old office chair that looked as if Garrett had retrieved it from a trash heap.
“I know why they call him the Insect Boy,” Sachs said, then told Rhyme about the jars. She shivered with revulsion as a horde of moist, tiny bugs moved en masse along the glass of one jar.
“Ah, that’s good for us.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a rare hobby. If tennis or collecting coins turned him on, we’d have a harder time pinning him to specific locations. Now, get going on
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