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Taylor had warned that a severe enough bout could lead to a heart attack or stroke.
    Berger took in the facts with some sympathy then said, “Before I got into my present line I specialized in geriatric orthopedics. Mostly hip and joint replacements. I don’t know much neurology. What about chances for recovery?”
    “None, the condition’s permanent,” Rhyme said, perhaps a little too quickly. He added, “You understand my problem, don’t you, doctor?”
    “I think so. But I’d like to hear it in your words.”
    Shaking his head to clear a renegade strand of hair, Rhyme said, “Everyone has the right to kill himself.”
    Berger said, “I think I’d disagree with that. In most societies you may have the power but not the right. There’s a difference.”
    Rhyme exhaled a bitter laugh. “I’m not much of a philosopher. But I don’t even have the power. That’s why I need you.”
    Lincoln Rhyme had asked four doctors to kill him. They’d all refused. He’d said, okay, he’d do it himself and simply stopped eating. But the process of wasting himself to death became pure torture. It left him violently stomach-sick and racked with unbearable headaches. He couldn’t sleep. So he’d given up on that and, during the course of a hugely awkward conversation, asked Thom to kill him. The young man had grown tearful—the only time he’d shown that much emotion—and said he wished he could. He’d sit by and watch Rhyme die, he’d refuse to revive him. But he wouldn’t actually kill him.
    Then, a miracle. If you could call it that.
    After The Scenes of the Crime had come out, reporters had appeared to interview him. One article—in The New York Times —contained this stark quotation from author Rhyme:
    “No, I’m not planning any more books. The fact is, my next big project is killing myself. It’s quite a challenge. I’ve been looking for someone to help me for the past six months.”
    That screeching-stop line got the attention of the NYPD counseling service and several people from Rhyme’s past, most notably Blaine (who told him he was nuts to consider it, he had to quit thinking only about himself—just like when they’d been together—and, now that she was here, she thought she should mention that she was remarrying).
    The quotation also caught the attention of William Berger, who’d called unexpectedly one night from Seattle. After a few moments of pleasant conversation Berger explained that he’d read the article about Rhyme. Then a hollow pause and he’d asked, “Ever hear of the Lethe Society?”
    Rhyme had. It was a pro-euthanasia group he’d been trying to track down for months. It was far more aggressive than Safe Passage or the Hemlock Society. “Our volunteers are wanted for questioning in dozens of assisted suicides throughout the country,” Berger explained. “We have to keep a low profile.”
    He said he wanted to follow up on Rhyme’s request. Berger refused to act quickly and they’d had several conversations over the past seven or eight months. Today was their first meeting.
    “There’s no way you can pass, by yourself?”
    Pass  . . .
    “Short of Gene Harrod’s approach, no. And even that’s a little iffy.”
    Harrod was young man in Boston, a quad, who decided he wanted to kill himself. Unable to find anyone to help him he finally committed suicide the only way he was able to. With the little control he had he set a fire in his apartment and when it was blazing drove hiswheelchair into it, setting himself aflame. He died of third-degree burns.
    The case was often raised by right-to-deathers as an example of the tragedy that anti-euthanasia laws can cause.
    Berger was familiar with the case and shook his head sympathetically. “No, that’s no way for anyone to die.” He assayed Rhyme’s body, the wires, the control panels. “What are your mechanical skills?”
    Rhyme explained about the ECUs—the E&J controller that his ring finger operated, the sip-and-puff