Sharp Force, page 16
“That seems risky if the robot is capable of recording whatever’s going on,” I reply.
“It’s not allowed in secure areas like the Situation Room,” Benton says. “And having robotic dogs around isn’t new. The Secret Service is already using them in certain situations. To patrol the fence line around the White House, for example.”
“I’ve seen videos of them at Mar-a-Lago,” I recall.
“Part of Zain’s internship involves R&D of this sort of thing,” Benton explains. “I guess when your uncle is a U.S. senator who may be the next president, you get special privileges and access.”
“Sounds like Zain Willard might be capable of causing all kinds of sophisticated trouble such as signal jamming and hacking?” I suggest.
“Maybe so.”
“And most of all, would he have the ability to use holograms to stalk, spy and create a public panic?” I ask.
“Maybe. But the timing wouldn’t make much sense.”
The phantomlike hologram was seen by first responders while Zain was bleeding on the sidewalk, Benton points out. Some fifteen minutes later, Marino and Fruge saw the same projected apparition as Zain was driven away in the ambulance.
“Marino mentioned something about a drone,” I tell Benton, and surprise glints in his eyes.
I explain what Marino told me about the two men he believes are CIA spies.
“I hope he doesn’t run his mouth about that,” Benton says.
“Then you think the Slasher is using a drone?”
“In fact, we know he is, and not the sort of thing your average hobbyist buys off the internet. It’s been detected intermittently in the earlier cases. And it was picked up by sensors on Mercy Island before and after this morning’s home invasion.”
“Then I don’t see how it could have been Zain at the controls,” I decide. “He was in the ambulance when Marino saw the phantomlike hologram.”
“And if Zain’s the killer, what happened to the weapon?” Benton is putting on thick socks and Chelsea boots. “How could he hide it after the fact without tracking his own blood everywhere?”
“He couldn’t. As much as he was bleeding, he would have left a trail no matter what.” I’m looking at my phone, checking the internet for a mention of this morning’s attack.
So far, nothing.
“I remember when Calvin Willard first ran for office long ago, about the time we left Virginia thinking we’d never be back.” Skimming through a slew of emails, I mark them as unread for later. “And here we are, and he’s likely going to be the Democratic nominee for president. Favored to win in the latest polls.”
“Let’s hope that never happens,” Benton says.
“And of course, the Secret Service would have no reason to watch Zain?”
“No.” Benton clips his badge holder, his pancake holster to his belt.
“Does Calvin Willard know what’s going on?” I ask from my closet, grabbing a winter tactical jacket.
“Yes, the senator knows.” Benton slides his pistol into the holster. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Kay?”
He looks at me as he walks to my bedside table, and I know what’s coming.
“No, I didn’t forget. But I wish you would,” I tell him.
“Statute eighteen-point-two.” He retrieves my Glock from the bedside drawer.
“Do we really have to think about this today?” I tuck a lip balm in a pocket of my cargo pants. “Don’t we have enough to deal with?”
“Statute eighteen-point-two,” he repeats. “A White House involvement in a hugely sensational serial murder case, and you’ll be under even more scrutiny than ever. Politics and extreme publicity, and your enemies will come after you given the chance.”
“As you’ve said before. More than once. And they come after me anyway.”
“It will be worse.”
“I don’t like keeping track of a gun while shrouded in PPE, dealing with a very bloody scene that’s contaminated with bleach.” I watch him de-cock the Glock, rendering it safe.
He drops out the pistol’s magazine, clearing a semi-jacketed hollow-point from the chamber while explaining that the Slasher’s drone has stealth and other high-tech capabilities. That’s how he spies on his victims. It’s how he creates his holograms.
“You don’t want to be noncompliant.” Benton hands me the gun, the ammunition. “All you need is someone like Maggie Cutbush or Elvin Reddy finding out that you’re not obeying the law. Even if it’s a stupid one.”
Earlier in the year, the Virginia General Assembly passed a bill mandating that certain first responders, investigators, government officials, even schoolteachers are required to be sworn in as civilian cops. I’ve been one since I began my career as a medical examiner in Miami where I was born and raised.
But carrying my peace officer badge and weapon was always up to my discretion. Not anymore because of statute §18.2. It states that there will be adverse consequences if the employee does not agree to be trained to enforce the law. This includes carrying a concealed handgun pursuant to this section…
Snapping the Glock’s slide forward, I reload the magazine without chambering a round. I tuck the pistol into the back of my waistband for now. Opening a dresser drawer, Benton finds the thin black leather wallet holding my civilian law enforcement credentials. He hands it to me.
“You’ve been qualifying on the range for as long as we’ve known each other,” he says in a gentler tone as we leave the bedroom. “You know how to handle yourself in police situations. It’s second nature to you.”
He’s looking up a number in his contact list as we follow the hallway. I’m behind him on the stairs, listening as he cancels the Rosewood.
“… Thank you as always for being so understanding…” Benton is saying. “Yes, yes, we’ll definitely try again…”
I envision the majestic hotel with its view of central London, and reality sets in hard. The trip isn’t going to happen. It really isn’t.
Off the phone now, Benton says to me, “They wished you a Merry Christmas, already had a cake and a bottle of champagne ready.”
I open the entryway closet as Merlin saunters through the living room, headed toward us. Collarless, still muttering and meowing, he doesn’t look happy. I pet him, asking if he’s hungry.
“This is the way he was last night.” I pick up my black Pelican scene case the size of a large toolbox. “Acting spooked as if he senses something.”
“An unpleasant thought.” Benton grabs a Secret Service tactical coat that will conceal the gun on his hip.
“Maybe it’s just the wildlife, the raccoon and who knows what else is out there. I hope it’s not for some other reason.” I can’t stop seeing the two red orbs that appeared after Marino drove away from the house.
Collecting my Kevlar briefcase from the table near the front door, I tuck my Glock into a side compartment equipped with a rapid-release Velcro tab.
“Where is Georgine Duvall’s place in Yorktown?” I ask.
“The historic area.” Benton takes the scene case from me. “It would appear from real estate records that the house has been in her family for generations.”
“I remember her mentioning how much she loved the place. She said she had happy memories of going there when she was growing up,” I reply. “Historic Yorktown is very close to Williams & Mary where Zain is in grad school.”
Benton carries my scene case past the Christmas tree. Santa lights up, cheerily hailing us. Merlin hisses just like he always does, and I don’t blame him.
“Lucy obviously knows what’s happened to Georgine. How did she seem when you were talking to her?” I ask.
“You’d never know she was her patient once,” Benton says.
“I hate to think what this will reopen,” I reply as we reach the kitchen. “Lucy’s first year at UVA was brutal for her. And it wasn’t exactly a cakewalk for me either.”
CHAPTER 20
Most mornings we eat at the café table overlooking the birdfeeders and garden. There’s no time for that now, and it’s still dark out, the shades down. Our breakfast will be to-go. But first things first.
I open a cupboard for Merlin’s grain-free wet food made from whitefish. Emptying the can into his bowl, I set it on the mat near the fireplace. He begins wolfing it down, looking up anxiously every other second as text messages land on my phone.
In the car heading to the office, Shannon informs me.
Please make sure Dr. Schlaefer knows that I’m on my way to the scene, I write her back. He’s to get the decomp room ready and start when the body arrives.
Next, I hear from Fabian. The van is gassed up and loaded.
Any special requests before I boogie? he writes.
Two body pouches. One heavy-duty, one standard, both white, I text him.
Already taken care of. Except they’re black.
Have to be white. Trace evidence shows up better, I answer.
Got it.
And I need the medical kit I keep in my office credenza, I add.
The one for living patients?
Yes, I answer.
An update from DNA examiner Clark Givens lets me know that he’ll pack the laser scanner needed for 3-D mapping the bloodstain evidence.
“What’s your pleasure?” Benton opens the refrigerator. “Cream cheese, fig preserves? How about butter? Shall we splurge?”
“May as well,” I tell him. “God only knows when we’ll have time to eat again.”
It’s now almost six-fifteen. My headache is better but not gone, my eyes scratchy from too little sleep. I can tell that Benton isn’t feeling much better as he places two multigrain bagels on a cutting board, finding the bread knife.
Checking on the weather, I peek behind the curtain over the sink, and it’s pitch-black out, distant thunder rumbling. The thermometer on the windowsill reads forty degrees Fahrenheit, the backyard socked in by fog.
Trees and foliage are dark shapes moving in the wind, lightning flickering through clouds as my phone begins to vibrate on the countertop.
“Hi,” I answer Lucy’s call. “How’s it going?”
“Leaving Mercy Island. I was just in the admissions area of the hospital.” Her voice sounds over speakerphone, and I can tell she’s in the car.
“Merry Christmas, Lucy.” Benton is slicing bagels in half.
“I’m sorry about your trip.”
“So are we,” I answer. “What’s the latest?”
“I’m trying to get info about patients on the forensic unit, among other things,” she tells us. “Most important is accessing recordings from the security cameras, but it’s not looking good.”
“The cameras have always been an issue when I’ve responded to deaths there.” I’m filling the coffee machine’s reservoirs with water and almond milk. “It’s deliberate. Very much to their advantage when nothing is recording.”
“There aren’t many cameras for a place this size, all of them in areas that aren’t helpful,” Lucy replies. “Such as the staff parking lot. And the loading dock where deliveries are made. Some are offline. Including the ones at the entrance of the island.”
“Par for the course.” I open the tin of coffee beans. “They’ve had so many scandals, the staff is experienced at obstruction. They make sure there’s as little record as possible. Then when something bad happens, they dig deeper into protect mode. They lie. They obfuscate.”
“The director is stonewalling, citing HIPAA this and HIPAA that,” Lucy replies.
“Graden Crowley must be beside himself.” I pour the Jamaican coffee beans into the machine, smelling the rich aroma. “The hospital’s blighted past is about to be made public by Dana Diletti. And now the Slasher has just murdered a psychiatrist there.”
“Lucy, when’s the last time you and Georgine Duvall had contact?” Benton places the bagels inside the toaster oven.
“My freshman year at UVA.” Her voice has cooled over the phone.
“Were you aware that she’s good friends with Calvin Willard?” He watches the bagels as if they won’t toast otherwise.
“I’d have no reason to be aware,” she answers. “But I’m not surprised, and it makes me wonder what’s gone on inside Thirteen Shore Lane. Who might have been in and out of the house besides Zain Willard? What was the killer seeing when he was spying?”
“Spying with the drone Marino was asked about by two men allegedly from the CIA?” I inquire.
“Based on what I’ve been hearing, Marino looked suspicious as hell trespassing in someone’s gazebo,” Lucy says. “And we know what he’s like when confronted.”
“The agents involved probably wondered if he was the killer.” Benton takes the lids off tubs of butter and cream cheese. “And I can see why it might have crossed their minds.”
“Bottom line, around the time of the attack a drone was detected intermittently in the area,” Lucy says.
“Benton says a drone has been used in the other murders,” I reply.
“And we don’t want the killer knowing we’re aware of that,” she says.
“Then you best remind Marino not to be talking about it to anyone but us,” Benton says.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Lucy goes on to explain that transmissions are picked up whenever the Slasher overrides the autonomous function, entering commands that divert the drone from operating as programmed.
“When that occurs, a signal is transmitted in the four-fifty-megahertz range,” Lucy describes. “The same bandwidth as the walkie-talkies a lot of emergency medical techs use.”
“Adding to the confusion at a crime scene.” I marvel at the ingeniousness of it. “You might assume the signals detected are from the rescue squads.”
Lucy says that the drone in question isn’t the typical quadcopter. It’s a Hoberman sphere about the size of a medicine ball and equipped with Keyence AI sensors. Propelled by thrust vectoring nozzles, the orb has scissorlike joints that can fold into different shapes and sizes. It’s stable in stormy weather and able to maneuver in zero visibility.
“Got to go. Just pulling up to HRT,” Lucy tells us.
She’s in Quantico at the FBI Academy’s Hostage Rescue Team. Hangared there is the beast of a helicopter called the Doomsday Bird that she pilots for the Department of Homeland Security.
“See you later. Be careful out there,” she adds as I cover to-go cups with plastic lids.
Benton and I put on our jackets. He arms the security system and opens the door, shutting it behind us. The warning beeps pierce the gloom, then abruptly stop. I listen for the strange animal sounds I heard last night, but everything is quiet.
The overcast has begun to brighten along the dark horizon, a sharp wind gusting but not as powerfully. Lightning veins the sky, thunder mumbling as the storm retreats out to sea like a warring armada. Benton carries my scene case across the back porch, the deep snow melted by heavy rain and rising temperatures.
We make our way down steep steps, water dripping from trees, the fog thick and cold. Lights blink on as we follow the footpath leading to the driveway. Benton pulls out the scene case’s retracted handle, the wheels loud like a drum roll over pavers, the slush several inches deep in spots.
I think of what Janet said about screams and hoots made by an animal not found in any database. I’m waiting for the startling vocalizations again, but all is still. I see things that aren’t there, shadows shapeshifting, and it’s imagined. Lightning strobes like a camera flash going off, illuminating the garden and greenhouse, and I can barely make out the purple glow of Dorothy’s UV light.
When Benton and I reach the former carriage house, he opens the wooden doors, vanishing in the inky blackness. The Tesla’s electric engine is quiet as he drives out, and I close the carriage house doors, locking them. I settle into the passenger’s seat, headlights painting over huge magnolias dense with rubbery leaves.
Tall hardwood trees arch bare branches over us like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral as we pass the guest cottage, our headlights illuminating pavers and woods. I look up at turbid clouds, halfway expecting the red-eyed ghost to appear. Or maybe an orb-shaped drone that makes no sound.
At the end of the driveway Benton eases to a stop, and we wait for the heavy metal gate to lurch along its track. We’ve been having trouble with it getting stuck. Often it ends up half open or half shut, depending on how you look at it. As we’re sitting here, our every detail is detected by multiple AI-assisted cameras and sensors.
Software is conducting facial and voice recognition, capturing our vehicle type and license tag while detecting any electronic devices we have. Information is constantly analyzed and uploaded in real time.
WTF? Marino is texting me now.
He explains that he’s inside the bedroom where Georgine Duvall was murdered, going over it with forensic lights. I open photographs he’s taken with a filter in the UV spectrum, startled by what I see. Bloody smudges on a hallway runner fluoresce a neon fiery red as if made with luminescent poster paint.
WTF is right, I text Marino as Benton pulls away from the gate limping shut behind us. Wonder what’s lighting up?
Got no idea. But nothing like this was at the other three Slasher scenes, Marino replies, sending another photograph.
This one is of a wingchair in a corner of the bedroom, an area of the seat cushion glowing the same electric red. I pass along to Benton what’s going on as I send DNA scientist Clark Givens another message. Before he heads to Mercy Island, I need him to grab a handheld Raman spectrometer from the trace evidence lab.
“Hopefully, it can help me identify the composition of whatever’s reacting to UV light, causing the fluorescence,” I explain to Benton as he turns left on Prince Street. “Assuming it’s the Slasher again, he likely doesn’t realize he left a trace of something that he carried to the scene this time.”
Digging into our breakfast bag, I pull out the bagels, unwrapping them.
“He must have had this residue on the bottom of his feet, and also on whatever he set down on the bedroom chair.” Benton takes a bite of his bagel. “God, that’s good, if I do say so myself.”
