Sharp Force, page 26
“Robbie’s battery is dead,” Benton lets them know.
“Sounds about the way I feel,” Tron answers, dark and exotically attractive with a smile that’s hard to resist.
“But before he conked out on us, he said he went into autonomous mode when the Wi-Fi was signal jammed,” I tell them.
I explain there appears to be blood on the bottom of the robot’s feet, and it could be Zain Willard’s. But it might be Georgine Duvall’s. After the attack Robbie must have come downstairs.
“In autonomous mode he would be disconnected from the internet and completely reliant on his sensors,” Lucy informs us. “He would respond to noises and images, also motion, light, possibly odors.”
“Odors such as bleach?” I ask.
“Maybe even blood,” Tron volunteers. “Depending on what he’s programmed to detect and respond to.”
“Screaming, arguing, running, the sound of Zain’s voice, it could be anything he alerted on,” Lucy adds. “But I can’t say for sure until we take a look at how he’s designed and what the parameters are.”
“We’ll be extremely interested in anything the cameras may have recorded,” Benton says. “If Robbie went downstairs while the killer was still inside the house, we might have just won the lottery.”
“I would imagine he has I.R. capabilities,” Lucy adds. “Meaning he can navigate and film in complete darkness.”
“If only we could be so lucky.” I open my briefcase, pulling out the foil-wrapped device Benton removed from the undercarriage of our car.
I give it to Lucy as we tell them we’re off to the hospital on Seminary Road. Benton intends to question Zain Willard while I look at his injuries. Lucy stares at the former chapel, sunlight shining on the stucco, illuminating the stained-glass windows on either side of the door that’s now missing its brass handles and lock.
The soggy yard has small ponds of standing water, the brown grass patched with snow in the shade of old trees and boxwoods. I wonder what she’s thinking about Georgine Duvall, but now’s not the time to ask her.
“How’s your mom?” I ask instead.
“Last I talked to her, she was getting ready to head to our place.”
“Our place?” Then I remember.
My sister and Marino were supposed to housesit while Benton and I were overseas.
“Yep,” Lucy says.
“But Benton and I canceled our trip.” I’m dismayed by the thought of Dorothy and Marino under the same roof with us while they’re at war.
“Mom knows you’re not going,” Lucy says. “She has an idea what we’re doing, obviously. This case is all over the news. She’s hoping we’ll be home in time to have a late Christmas dinner together. She said to tell you she’s cooking.”
“Cooking what?” I worry.
Dorothy isn’t known for her culinary talents.
“She said it would be a surprise.” Lucy looks at me, shrugging. “But I know she’s baking cookies, and I’m guessing she’ll whip up tacos. That’s usually what she makes when she’s surprising us.”
“Oh God. Tacos on Christmas,” I reply.
Benton and I climb into the Tesla, and the road running through the hospital grounds is wet. The traffic has gone from a standstill to nonexistent when we drive through the entrance gate, the same FBI police officers there as before. They move sawhorses to let us through.
TV satellite trucks are parked on the roadside, news correspondents and their crews busy filming. I recognize David Muir and Anderson Cooper. Helicopters hover over Mercy Island, a lot of people on the roads now. It takes the better part of a half hour to retrace our steps through Old Town, the restaurants and bars bustling.
We pick up King Street to West Braddock, driving close to my office, and I send a text to Shannon asking for an update. Doug Schlaefer is up to his elbows in Georgine Duvall’s autopsy. Once he’s dictated his provisional report, my secretary will transcribe it. She complains that TV crews are hanging around my headquarters, filming bodies being picked up and delivered.
“More of the same,” I tell Benton the latest. “Apparently one of the local networks is buzzing a drone around.”
Past Episcopal High School’s tennis courts and playing fields are the Virginia Theological Seminary and a synagogue. Then wooded neighborhoods with homes decorated for the holidays as we reach the sprawling modern brick hospital. It’s doing a brisk business on Christmas, and I’m not surprised.
Some of their patients who didn’t fare well have ended up at my office this morning. According to Shannon, we have six cases so far, half of them motor vehicle fatalities involving alcohol. A woman who shot herself in the head died in surgery here and is inside my morgue cooler.
The hospital grounds are messy with slush, the parking lots packed. It takes a few minutes to find a visitor’s spot, and Benton texts Secret Service agents inside that we’re on location. We push through the glass front door, the lobby crowded with unhappy people waiting in plastic chairs, some of them injured, others clearly unwell.
Piped-in Christmas music seems incongruous as we walk through. Benton stops at the information desk, the woman working it older with wispy white hair. She’s wearing a green Christmas sweater with Mrs. Claus on it.
“Here to see Zain Willard.” Benton flashes his badge.
“Let me check.” Her face is uneasy as she reaches for the phone.
“You don’t need to check,” he says. “I know what room he’s in.”
“But I’ve been instructed…” she starts to fret.
“Several of our agents should already be there waiting for us,” Benton explains. “And I have the chief medical examiner with me.”
“Has someone died?” She looks at me in alarm.
“If you could just tell us how to get to his room?” Benton keeps pushing.
She tells us that Zain Willard is on the second floor. He’s on the orthopedic wing because there were no other private rooms available. As we walk off, she’s talking on the phone, alerting someone that we’re coming.
“We’re going to need privacy,” I tell Benton. “I don’t want to examine him in front of an audience.”
We’ve stopped by a stainless-steel elevator door, waiting for it to open.
“I don’t want doctors, residents, nurses or whatever watching as I scan him with a UV light,” I continue to explain.
The elevator door slowly opens, a medical aide pushing out a man in a wheelchair, both legs in casts. His face is bruised and he’s wearing a neck brace. We step inside and a moment later are getting out on the second floor.
The ward where Zain Willard has a private room is locked. A Secret Service agent is standing guard, a young blond woman in a dark suit.
“How’s it going?” Benton asks her.
“Nothing eventful,” she answers.
“Has he had visitors?”
“Calvin Willard’s in there with him,” she says to my dismay.
“How long has the senator been here?” Benton asks.
“Several hours.” She pushes an intercom button on the wall.
“May I help you?” The female voice over the speaker sounds familiar.
“You can open up,” the blond agent answers, and the electronic lock clicks free.
Benton pushes through the door, and ahead is the nurses’ station behind windows. The U-shaped desk is decorated with swags of artificial greenery, a small lighted tree in a corner. I’m startled to hear someone call out my name.
“Don’t mean to intrude.” Reba O’Leary appears from behind glass, and it was her voice I heard over the intercom.
She’s in pink scrubs, and I’m reminded that she’s working four a.m. to four p.m. today. I introduce her to Benton, asking why she’s on this floor.
“They’re shorthanded, a lot of car crashes during the night, a lot of broken bones,” she says, her eyes bloodshot and lusterless. “I go where needed. But I started out my shift in the E.R.”
“Did you see Zain Willard when he was brought in?” I ask.
“I’d just gotten here, and he was almost hysterical. Practically out of his mind.” She looks unnerved. “He kept talking about a ghost attacking him with a knife.”
“It wasn’t a ghost,” Benton says.
“The Phantom Slasher again. I know what’s all over the news.” She keeps glancing around as if afraid someone is listening. “I can tell you Zain Willard wasn’t faking anything. He was terrified. He kept worrying that the ghost was going to find him and finish him off.”
“Did he offer details about what happened to him?” I ask her.
“He said one thing that you should know.” She looks nervous, and I can tell she’s mindful of the cameras in the ceiling. “When I heard you were coming up here, I wanted to be sure I told you.”
“How did you hear we were coming up here?” Benton asks.
“One of the Secret Service agents was telling the senator that the medical examiner was on the way,” she says. “I happened to be taking Zain’s vitals. And I was waiting for you.”
“What is it I should know?” I ask her.
“He said that when his neck was cut, he had to dig his necklace out of it.”
“If true, that’s very important,” I reply.
“I guess the blade hit the chain, embedding it into the incision,” Reba explains. “Maybe accounting for why the cuts to his neck aren’t all that deep.”
“The necklace probably saved his life,” I reply. “When it’s examined in the labs, we’ll know if that’s what happened.”
“It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing someone would make up,” Benton adds. “And even if the cuts to his neck were self-inflicted, he might have forgotten he had the necklace on."
“I can see that happening,” I reply. “Either way, he’s lucky to be alive.”
“Thanks again for coming to my house last night.” Reba looks at me. “It was very kind.”
“How are your sons this morning?” I ask.
“My sister’s with them.” Reba’s face turns red as she blinks back tears. “Well, I don’t want to hold the two of you up. And I’d better get back to what I’m doing.”
CHAPTER 33
We walk through the orthopedic unit and I’m aware of rooms occupied by patients, most of them with visitors. I hear people talking, televisions playing. Someone is sobbing, and I catch glimpses of limbs in bandages and casts. A young woman wears a metal halo brace for a fractured neck.
Zain’s room is in a corner, two Secret Service agents sitting outside the closed door.
“Is he still in there?” Benton asks right off about Calvin Willard.
“Sure is,” one of the agents says.
“Any problems?” Benton tucks his phone in a pocket.
“He’s not the easiest to deal with.” The other agent lowers his voice. “He smiles. But he’s not smiling inside, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ve been around him before,” Benton replies.
He opens the door, and we enter a room with a view of parking lots. The foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains are a bruised rolling haze on the faraway horizon, the sun bright, the room painted in light. For hospital accommodations, Zain’s are luxurious. A bathroom, a couch.
Benton and I take off our coats, placing them on a chair with my briefcase and medical kit. I introduce us and the senator doesn’t react. His back is to us as he stands by the window looking at his phone. He doesn’t want us here. I feel it like radiation.
“Good morning,” I say to Zain.
“I’ve had better.”
He’s sitting up in bed tethered to IV lines, his neck and left arm thick with gauze. I don’t know how I’m going to examine him. I’m not sure what I’ll be able to see.
“We’ve met before,” Zain says to Benton. “But not you.” He looks at me as if pleased that I’m here. “Benton’s probably told you that he and I are acquainted.”
I’ve noticed right away that Zain has dried blood in his hair. I’m careful not to stare.
“Yes, we’ve been around each other many times over the years,” Benton says, and Calvin Willard turns away from the window, staring at us. “At the White House and other places. I’m very sorry about all this, Zain.”
“You need to make this quick. As you can see, Zain’s been through a lot and is exhausted.” The senator says this to me, his strong-featured face ashen.
Tall and lanky, he’s in a dark blue warm-up suit and snow boots. A shock of slate-gray hair is combed over to hide his baldness.
“We’re going to need a few minutes alone with your nephew, Senator,” Benton says.
“Not happening in a million years. Our attorney is on his way here, and you need to wait outside until he arrives.”
“It’s okay.” Zain’s blue eyes are laser focused on me, and he sounds sedated. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m a victim. I don’t need a lawyer. What’s most important is catching the monster who did this before he does it again to someone else.”
“Yes, you do need a lawyer, son.” His uncle’s demeanor softens when he looks at him. “I don’t think you understand what can happen. You’ve never understood it.”
“I know exactly what can happen, and I’ve got nothing to hide. Because I didn’t do anything wrong,” Zain insists. “We need to do everything we can to help catch the Slasher. I don’t want him and his ghost coming back to finish me off.”
“We won’t let that happen,” his uncle promises. “Nobody’s going to hurt you again. I’ll make sure of it.”
A spike of anger, and Calvin Willard fixes his attention on Benton as if I’m not in the room.
“The house on Mercy Island has an alarm system,” the senator says. “How the hell could she let something like this happen? How did someone just walk into the house? How did she let someone follow her there?”
He’s talking about Georgine Duvall and doesn’t seem the least bit sorry that she’s dead. I sense his hostility and resentment as Benton explains that the Phantom Slasher uses a signal jammer when he shows up to murder.
“It wasn’t her fault or Zain’s that the alarm system wasn’t working,” Benton says.
“I always worried about her judgment. It wasn’t that long ago I stopped by, and the front door was unlocked, the alarm off.” The senator continues blaming the victim.
“If you’d give us a few minutes?” Benton says. “Maybe wait outside the room?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the senator replies, sitting down on the brown Naugahyde sofa.
I pull on a pair of gloves as the door opens, and a young man in surgical scrubs walks in with paperwork. He introduces himself as Zain’s surgeon, and he looks sleep-deprived and harried.
“Which one of you is Doctor Scarpetta?” he asks.
“That would be me.” I assume he might have concluded that since I have a medical kit and am wearing gloves.
“The notes you’ve requested.” He hands me a file folder without much in it. “But I can give you the upshot on his injuries.”
The surgeon explains that Zain suffered two cutting wounds to the front of his throat, one approximately two inches long, the other closer to three, requiring a total of twenty-four stitches. He was extremely lucky that the wounds are “relatively superficial,” missing any major blood vessels in the neck.
I think of the silver necklace Reba O’Leary mentioned. It would explain the two incisions. They’re from a single stroke interrupted by the knife hitting the chain Zain was wearing.
“Three millimeters more, and the blade would have cut his carotid,” the surgeon explains.
“I understand he needed a transfusion?” I ask.
“He bled most heavily from the cut to his left arm,” the surgeon tells me. “His radial artery was severed, and that’s the reason for most of the blood loss. Not his neck, although it would have bled heavily.”
He explains that he repaired the artery with an anastomosis, suturing the vessel end to end like a straw that’s been cut in half. It doesn’t appear that Zain suffered any nerve damage. He’s expected to have a complete recovery. The biggest risk now is infection, and he’s on an antibiotic prophylactically.
“He’ll have a few scars he can brag about.” The surgeon gives his patient a weary smile. “You’ve got my surgical notes.” He says this to me. “Let me know if you have questions.”
Then he’s gone, the door shutting.
“What is it exactly that you plan to do?” Calvin Willard stares at me with distrusting gray eyes.
“We have questions,” Benton answers before I have the chance. “And Doctor Scarpetta wants to take a look at him.”
“He’s bandaged like a mummy. What do you expect to see?” the senator says to me.
“It’s okay, Uncle Calvin.” Zain seems unfazed, inching his way up straighter in bed.
He seems to be enjoying the attention.
“I want to check him for any other injuries—” I start to explain.
“You don’t have to tell them a damn thing, son,” his uncle interrupts. “I can order them to leave right now.”
“That just makes me look guilty,” Zain counters. “I didn’t do anything. Why would I do something like that to Georgine? Why would I hurt her?”
His eyes well with tears, his voice trembling.
“She was like a mother to me. Why would I do this to myself?” He holds up his bandaged arm and touches his swathed neck.
“When did Georgine go to bed last night?” Benton asks him.
“I think it was getting close to midnight when she turned in.”
“And you, Zain?”
“Around the same time.”
“Were the two of you getting along before turning in for the night?” Benton asks.
“We always got along. And if you’re implying that I might have reason to hurt her?”
“I’m not implying anything,” Benton says. “But would you have had a reason, Zain?”
“Why would I?” He stares at Benton.
“Okay, this needs to stop,” Calvin says, getting up from the sofa, staring at us in disgust as he moves in front of the window.
“The more you answer my questions with questions, the less you’re helping yourself,” Benton tells his nephew.
