Sharp Force, page 23
I wander to the bookcase between windows, maybe a dozen old volumes missing their dust jackets. J. R. R. Tolkien. George Orwell. C. S. Lewis. Ralph Waldo Emerson. I slide out A Dream of John Ball by Victorian socialist William Morris.
Ex Libris Georgine Duvall, reads the bookplate in the front cover. Scrawled under it in her loopy handwriting, Society gets the criminals it deserves, and I photograph it with my phone.
“That mean something to you?” Marino asks.
I tell him it sounds like something she would quote. I know that’s what she believed, her empathy outrunning her common sense and good judgment. Ultimately, that must have something to do with why Lucy stopped seeing her.
“I found it the height of irony that Georgine was idealistic and anti-capitalism while living on a multimillion-dollar horse farm. Not to mention the priceless things they collected,” I explain. “She and her husband seemed like genuinely good people. But hopelessly idealistic.”
“Sound like fucking phonies to me,” Marino snorts.
“They meant no harm.” As I’m saying this, I still believe it. “But they were wrongheaded and naïve. Most of all, too trusting.”
“A good way to get murdered,” he says.
“And cause damage to people you’re convinced you’re helping.” I’m thinking of Lucy again.
I notice tiny holes in plaster suggesting something once hung on the bare living room walls. I tell Marino that when I knew Georgine and her husband, they had a formidable art collection. Several Andy Warhols and Picassos. A few horse paintings by George Stubbs, dogs by Landseer. A Monet or two.
“They loved to show off their collection to visitors. I was sure they’d get burglarized,” I recall.
“Glad they weren’t capitalists,” Marino says snidely.
A TV is on a stand in a corner, and there are a few floor lamps, shiny brass with white pleated shades. The furnishings aren’t much better than I’d expect in a dorm room.
The small artificial Christmas tree in a corner looks like one you’d buy in a grocery store. It’s scantily hung with shiny ball ornaments, and a few strands of lights that aren’t turned on. I find it odd there are no other decorations. It doesn’t seem this was Georgine’s favorite time of year anymore.
It seems she came here to escape the holidays if anything. The house doesn’t appear to have been cleaned in quite a while, and that’s not like her either. The fireplace is thick with gray ashes that have blown onto the hearth and floor. I notice dust bunnies under an end table, and cobwebs high in a corner.
“I sure would like to know what was going on with her,” I comment while continuing to look around. “Because everything I’m seeing is out of character. Not that we were close. But I knew her well enough.”
I can’t imagine Georgine would furnish her Mercy Island pied-à-terre so spartanly, nothing matching or tasteful. I have no sense that she ever lived here. I don’t know why she would buy the former chapel to begin with. But perhaps she thoughtfully decorated it at first, filling it with lovely furniture, hanging art on the walls.
“Does she have an office in the house?” I ask Marino. “Any sign of any paperwork, anything like that?”
“Nope,” he says. “Just a computer tablet on the desk in her bedroom. Her phone is there too, and I didn’t touch them, will leave that for Lucy and Tron.”
“What about filing cabinets?”
“None here,” he replies.
“I’m assuming Georgine keeps her patients’ records in Yorktown. Maybe she made a mention of someone she was having trouble with. A patient, for example.” I explain what I’m thinking. “Maybe we can get a better idea of her relationship with Zain Willard. I’d like to take a look at her medical notes before the feds haul them away.”
“Lucy and Benton are the feds. I’m sure they can make that happen,” Marino says.
Moving closer to the coffee table, I look at the laptop computer, the books on machine language, robotics and blockchain technology. I pick up one of them as Marino watches. There’s no name inside, but many sections are underlined, a lot of comments in the margins.
“Zain’s got several computers in his room on the third floor,” Marino says. “Based on what I saw on his desk, he’s also into gaming, and, like I mentioned, he’s got a robot dog. Not a real dog he has to take care of and pay attention to. That tells me something about him.”
As I flip through the book on robotics, a check falls out. Signed by Calvin Willard, it’s made out to Georgine Duvall in the amount of $18,000 and dated yesterday. Tax Free is typed on the memo line.
“Holy shit,” Marino says. “He must have been paying her for something. I doubt he was giving her that kind of money for no reason.”
“You might be right that she was Zain’s personal shrink,” I decide.
The living area opens into a kitchen of modern stainless-steel appliances, an art glass chandelier hanging over a table in front of a window, the shade down.
I notice the clean dishes in the drain rack, the bread and bakery goods on the counter near a black leather Gucci pocketbook that looks old. Next to it is a set of keys on a keychain that’s attached by a ring to a holstered pepper spray. I wouldn’t expect Georgine to own much less carry such a thing.
“Looks like she’d gotten security conscious when she didn’t used to be,” I comment, the odor of bleach making my eyes water.
“I would hope so considering where this place is located,” Marino says.
“That didn’t used to be a concern for her,” I reply. “She didn’t worry about who she let in her house, for that matter. And I remember her commenting that her husband insisted on setting the alarm at night. Otherwise, she wouldn’t bother.”
“Nothing appears to be stolen,” Marino informs me. “She’s got four hundred and ninety dollars in her wallet. And a bunch of credit cards. But in the other Slasher murders, nothing was missing either.”
“Burglary isn’t what motivates him,” I reply. “In the other cases, it doesn’t appear he rifled through anything. He came in to kill. And then left.”
“Maybe it’s not on his agenda because he doesn’t need money,” Marino says. “Maybe because he’s got a rich uncle who’s always going to take care of him.”
On top of the kitchen garbage can is a large pizza box, and I ask if it’s from last night.
“I’ve looked at the receipt,” Marino says.
“Of course you did.”
“A meat lover’s large ordered from Donato’s Pizzeria at around six p.m.,” he says.
“Delivered or picked up?”
“Delivered. Took about an hour, probably because of the weather.”
“How does that work when someone shows up at the hospital’s front gate with a food delivery?” I wonder.
“An intercom.” Marino points out the speaker box next to light switches. “You talk to whoever you’re expecting. You can push a button to open the front gate remotely. All the homes here have the same thing, Crowley told me.”
“Do we know if hospital security officers were patrolling last night?” I ask. “Do we know if they patrol at all?”
I’m looking inside the pantry. Cans of soup, tuna fish, cases of water and other basic supplies. Also bottles of liquor and beer. A mop, a broom, a dustpan. A few miscellaneous tools, a plastic tray filled with screws and nails.
“Crowley says that all of them were working the Christmas party,” Marino says. “They weren’t driving around in the storm.”
“How many is all of them?”
“Supposedly a total of three were on duty, and it’s not their job to patrol the residences because they’re privately owned,” Marino explains. “No security back here in other words.”
“Did Zain Willard order the pizza?” I open the refrigerator. “Who paid for it?”
I don’t see any leftover slices or have the impression that Georgine or Zain did much in the way of cooking. There are packages of deli meats, takeout containers of yogurt, potato salad, soups, macaroni and cheese, and bags of premixed salad with packets of dressing. Also ketchup, mustard, jellies and jams, and a couple bottles of white wine.
In the freezer are ice cube trays, packages of hot dogs and hamburgers, a bag of frozen cherries, a skull-shaped bottle of Crystal Head Vodka.
“Zain called in the pizza and paid for it in cash when it was delivered, based on the receipt,” Marino tells me.
“How do you know he’s the one who called in the order?” I ask.
“It’s his cell phone number on the receipt.”
“And you know it’s his number how…?” I hope to hell he didn’t call it.
“I asked Janet. That was earlier before I decided not to talk to her anymore.”
“If Graden Crowley was telling you the truth, Georgine wasn’t home when the pizza was delivered.” I’m working out the timeline. “She was with him at the Christmas party until he dropped her off here at nine p.m. It would be helpful if we can verify that.”
“It shouldn’t be hard. A lot of people would have seen her there. They can’t all lie about it. And hopefully cameras picked it up,” Marino says.
“Unless they’re not working like most of them, including the ones here.” I open the stainless-steel trash can at the end of the counter.
Pulling out the bag, I look inside.
“I took a peek earlier,” Marino says. “Nothing grabbed my attention.”
My gloved hands dig through paper towels, paper plates, coffee grounds, a tuna fish can, numerous water bottles. Also, an empty bottle of Schramsberg Blanc de Blancs champagne, and a few pizza crusts.
“Are we to assume Zain ate an entire large meat lover’s pizza by himself?” I ask.
“I know I could. I could do it right now,” Marino says.
“And you’re almost twice his size.”
I pluck the champagne bottle out of the trash, setting it upright on the counter.
“It doesn’t fit with everything else I’m seeing,” I tell him.
I point to the oak wine rack to the left of the refrigerator. The four reds and three whites are premier cru burgundies. I saw two bottles of white Bordeaux inside the refrigerator, and they aren’t cheap either.
“All of it is French and expensive.” I’m standing in front of the wine rack looking at the labels. “Maybe that means nothing. But the champagne is from California and inexpensive, comparatively speaking. I’m wondering if it was a gift from someone.”
CHAPTER 29
I open the dishwasher. Inside are three champagne glasses, several plates and bowls, the silverware holder full. Dishes have been rinsed but not washed.
“Why three glasses?” I ask. “Maybe somebody was drinking with Georgine and Zain last night?”
“Somebody like Graden Crowley?” Marino takes photographs of the wine rack. “Maybe when he brought her home, he came inside for a while. Maybe the champagne is from him.”
“That’s crossing my mind.”
Inside what I suspect was once a china closet is a stackable washer and dryer. Both are filled with what appears to be Zain’s clothing. He was home last night while Georgine was attending the hospital’s Christmas party. Yet he couldn’t empty the dryer and start another load of wash.
“I have little doubt that Zain was accustomed to people picking up after him,” I comment as I leave the kitchen for the dining room.
There’s not so much as a chair inside, a metal plate over the opening in the ceiling for a light fixture. Heavy damask draperies are drawn across the windows. Around a corner is a hallway, and midway down is the curved oak staircase leading up to the second and third floors.
The first open doorway is the main bedroom, the lights out. The wooden blinds are closed inside, the sharp, pungent odor of bleach slamming into my senses. It’s overwhelming through my surgical mask. I change my gloves and booties, putting on a plastic face shield.
“I realize the power was out when you first got here, everything dark.” I stand in the doorway looking in at the shape of the body on top of the bed. “But do we know if the light switch was on or off?”
“If was off,” Marino says.
I flip up the switch, the bedroom illuminated, and I wouldn’t recognize Georgine Duvall, bloody and riddled with gaping wounds. Her eyes and mouth are barely open, her mutilated face solid red.
“The same thing we’ve seen before, and the killer’s got to be wearing night-vision glasses of some sort,” Marino says as we peer in from the doorway. “Otherwise, he couldn’t see what he was doing.”
“Frenzied.” I describe my first impression.
“My guess is when she stopped moving, he started in with the biting. He poured bleach to destroy the DNA.”
“Perhaps he was doing all this when he heard someone coming downstairs,” I suggest.
I know instantly by the large amount of coagulating blood on the hallway runner and spattered on the whitewashed wall that this is where Zain was injured.
“It appears he was ambushed as he reached the bottom of the stairs in the dark,” I tell Marino.
“Unless he inflicted the injuries on himself.”
“Either way, it happened here. And if he really was attacked by the Slasher, it’s believable Zain didn’t know what hit him,” I reply. “I don’t doubt that it would have taken him a moment to realize he was bleeding.”
“His story is that he fell to the floor and played dead.” Marino sets down my scene case. “That’s what he told Officer Horace.”
“It would seem the killer didn’t bother checking,” I reply. “Just as he didn’t check to make sure how many people were staying in the house.”
Across from the bedroom is a bathroom. I step inside, turning on the light, remembering the white subway tile floor, the white porcelain pedestal sink and mirrored medicine cabinet. The cast iron clawfoot tub and shower are combined, a Wedgwood-blue curtain pushed back on either side.
“I’m not seeing any blood or sign that it was cleaned up in here,” I tell Marino. “It doesn’t look like Zain Willard came in here after he was cut.”
“My impression, too,” Marino says as he crouches by my open scene case in the hallway. “And I sprayed with Bluestar and didn’t get anything significant.”
The chemical reagent causes invisible blood to fluoresce. When people clean up a scene, it’s not possible to remove every trace of blood. It lights up between tiles and floorboards. Swipe marks from towels and mops become visible. Blood is a tattletale. It doesn’t forgive or forget.
“I would expect Zain might have stepped inside the bathroom to check on his injuries,” I comment. “Except with the power off, I suppose he couldn’t see. Unless he thought to turn on his cell phone’s flashlight.”
“Or maybe he didn’t go in there to look because he already knew about his injuries. If he did it to himself.” Marino comes back to that every time.
“Or he was in a panic. Desperate to get out of the house and call for help.” I’ve opened the medicine cabinet.
Inside is a bottle of face cleanser, a tube of toothpaste. The toothbrush is in a glass on the sink, and the cosmetic bag must be Georgine’s. Marino watches as I remove a square plastic box with a palette of eye shadows. Eyeliner pencils and mascara. Lipstick. Concealer and face powder. None of it is expensive.
I inspect a tube of ointment, triamcinolone for itching and swelling. Georgine Duvall’s name is on the label, the prescription filled a week ago, as was a bottle of clonazepam.
“Sounds like she was suffering from anxiety,” I tell Marino. “I’m wondering if this could be related to her carrying pepper spray on her keychain.”
Returning to the hallway, I’m mindful not to step on blackish stains, the coagulating blood thick like drying tar on the pale blue and gray hall runner.
“Right over there is where something fluoresced.” Marino points to an area of carpet that doesn’t look bloody. “Somebody tracked something on the rug, and it showed up this bright cherry red in UV light like I told you earlier. Otherwise, you can’t see it. Whatever the stuff is, it’s invisible to the naked eye.”
“The problem is, we don’t know how long the residue has been here,” I reply. “Or on the chair inside the bedroom that you mentioned. And it doesn’t appear anyone cleans very often.”
“But if the source is something inside the house, how come it doesn’t show up anywhere else?” Marino says.
“You walked through the house with the UV light?”
“You know me, Doc. No leaf left unturned.”
“When Clark Givens gets here with the Raman, we’ll see if we can figure out what the residue might be,” I reply.
“What we can know for a fact is Zain was cut right here on this bloody part of the rug,” Marino says. “After that, he made his way outside to where Officer Horace found him.”
I take a photograph of a bloody handprint on the hallway wall. It appears Zain might have lost his balance, maybe when he fell to the floor. Drops on the carpet runner and oak flooring verify his story.
At some point after he was injured, he was upright and walking away from here, through the dining room, the living room, and out of the house.
I look through the doorway at the butchered body tangled in bedcovers. Marino has placed more sticky mats on the floor. He continues to assure me that he took photographs and swabs first thing when he and Fruge got here during the early morning hours.
“It was pitch-dark inside the house at that time, as you can imagine with the power out. The killer wouldn’t have been able to see anything without a flashlight or night-vision goggles,” Marino explains as we swap out shoe covers again.
We stuff soiled ones into the biohazard bag we brought with us from the foyer. Changing my gloves, I retrieve a long chemical thermometer and a disposable scalpel from my scene case. Beneath the acrid stench of bleach, I detect the putrid-sweet odor of blood breaking down, the early stages of decomposition getting started.
I move aside a bloody sheet and duvet, a pair of blood-soaked pajamas in a heap on the foot of the bed. I pick up the top, then the bottoms for a better look at the slits and slashes from the knife. Areas of sparing show the satiny fabric is pale blue before it turned dark red.
