The watchmaker

chapter three

BEFORE AND AFTER......

"The Thanksgiving Day parade had come and gone without incident and now Christmas was in full swing, crowds everywhere. But floating along the festivities like a reflection in the department store's holiday window was the persistent image of the towers that were no longer there and the people no longer with us. And of course, the big question; What would happen next? Adam Jefferson had his own before and after as he understood this concept very well. There had been a time when he could walk and function, and then came the time when he could not. One moment he was as healthy as everyone else, searching a crime scene, and a minute later a beam had struck him, snapped his neck, and left him a C-4 quadriplegic, almost completely paralyzed from the shoulders down.

Before and after. There are moments that change you forever, and yet Adam Jefferson believed that if you made an icon of them, the events became more potent. And then the bad guys win. Jefferson had come to believe that he himself wasn't so different in the After. His physical condition, his skyline, you could say, had changed. But he was essentially the same person as in the before; a cop and a scientist who was impatient, temperamental (sometimes obnoxious), relentless, and intolerant of incompetence and laziness. He didn't play the gimp card, didn't whine, and didn't make an issue of his condition.

As he listened to the report of a National Public Radio announcer on a cold Tuesday afternoon, the fact that certain people in the city seemed to be giving in to self-pity irritated him. "I'm going to write a letter," he announced to Thom.

The slim young aide, in dark slacks, white shirt, and thick sweater, glanced up from where he was overdecorating for Christmas.

"Letter?"

He explained his theory that it was more patriotic to go about business as usual. "I'm going to give them hell. The Times, I think."

"Why don't you?" asked the aide, whose profession was known as a caregiver.

"I'm going to," Adam said adamantly.

"Good for you... though one thing."

Adam lifted an eyebrow. The criminalist could and did get great expressions out of his extant body parts: shoulders, face, and head.

"Most people who say they are going to write a letter don't. People who do write letters just go ahead and write them. They don't announce it. Ever notice that?"

"Thank you for the brilliant insight into psychology, Thom. You know nothing is going to stop me now."

"Good," repeated the aide.

Using the touchpad controller, the criminalist drove his red storm arrow wheelchair closer to one of the half-dozen large, flat-screen monitors in the room. "Command," he said into the voice recognition system via a microphone attached to the chair. "Word processor," which dutifully opened on the screen. The doorbell rang, and Thom went to see who the visitor was. Adam closed his eyes and was composing his rant or letter to the world when a voice intruded.

"Hey, Adam, Merry Christmas."

"Uhm, ditto," Adam grumbled to the disheveled Lon Sellito, walking through the doorway. The big detective had to maneuver carefully; the room had been a quaint parlor in the earlier days but was now filled with forensic gear, optical microscopes, chemicals, books, and magazines, and thick wires which ran everywhere. But when Adam had taken an interest in forensic psychology, a lot of equipment came with it.

"Command, volume level three," the environmental control unit obediently turned down the word processor.

"Not in the spirit of the season," are we," Lon asked.

Adam didn't answer. He looked back at the monitor.

"Hey, Jackson." Lon bent down and petted a small, long-haired dog curled up in an NYPD evidence box. He was temporarily living here; his former owner, Thom's elderly aunt, had passed away after a long illness, leaving Jackson with Thom to take care of.

"We got a bad one, Adam," Sellito said standing up. He started to take off his overcoat but changed his mind. "Jesus, it's cold."

"Bad?" Sellito repeated.

Adam glanced at Sellito with a c****d eyebrow.

"Two homicides, same M.O more or less."

"Lots of bad ones out there, Lon. How's this one any badder?"

"Got a call from the Big Building. Brass wants you and Amelia on this one. They said they are insisting."

"Oh, insisting."

"I promised I wouldn't tell you they said that. You don't like to be insisted."

"Can we get to the 'bad' part, Lon? Or is that too much to ask?"

"Where's Amelia?"

"Westchester, on a case, should be back soon."

Lon held up a wait-a-minute finger as his cellphone rang. He had a conversation, nodding and jotting down notes. He disconnected and glanced at Adam. "Okay, here we have it. Sometime last night, our perp, he grabs..."

"He?" Adam asked pointedly.

"Okay, we don't know the gender for sure. Anyway, he grabs some poor schmuck and takes them to that boat repair pier on the Hudson. We're not sure exactly how he does it, but he forces the guy or woman to hang on over the river and cuts their wrists. The vic holds on for a while, looks like long enough to lose a shitload of blood, but then just lets go."

"Body?"

"Not yet. Coast Guard and ESU are searching."

"I heard plural."

"Okay, we got another call a few minutes later. To check out an alley downtown near the Broadway. The perp's got another vic. A uniform finds this guy duct-taped and on his back. The perp rigged this iron bar weights about seventy-five pounds above his neck. The vic has to hold it up to keep from getting his throat crushed."

"Seventy-five pounds? Okay, given the strength issues, I'll grant you the perp's s*x probably is male."

"So the vic's holding up the bar, which maybe he does for a while, but he doesn't make it," Lon continued.

"Who's the vic?"

"Name's Theodore Adams. Lived near Battery Park. A 911 call came in last night from a woman who said her brother was supposed to meet her for dinner last night and never showed. That's the name she gave. We're going to give her a call this morning."

"Why do you say it's the same M.O.?" Adam asked.

"Perp left a calling card at both scenes. Clocks."

"As in tick-tock?"

"Yup, the first was by the pool of blood on the pier. The other was next to the Vic's head. it was like the doer wanted them to see it and I guess hear it".