Page 112 of Sharp Force
“Sounds a little bit like Rowdy O’Leary,” Benton replies as we pick up the Beltway.
“Exactly. He was mowed down in a hit-and-run.” Marino talks excitedly. “Then he starts getting payments from the Cayman Islands.”
“And Trad Whalen was involved in his case,” Benton adds. “And he’s obviously trying to intimidate us.”
He tells Marino that when the state trooper pulled us over early this morning, he attached a hacking device on our car. Benton adds that Whalen was just tailing us again.
“I think we know the reason,” Marino replies. “Calvin Willard doesn’t want you investigating his nephew. He’s telling you to back off or bad shit will happen.”
“What about Rapid DNA?” I ask. “Any luck yet?”
“We’ve verified Georgine Duvall’s identity, not that there was a shred of doubt. The only DNA profile recovered from the broken fake fang is her own,” Marino informs me.
“That’s too bad,” I reply. “But I’m not surprised since it was embedded in her body.”
“Lee Fishburne says it’s like you figured, Doc, and the three-D-printed tooth is made from acrylic,” Marino explains. “And he says something weird showed up on SEM with the residue that lit up.”
The trace evidence examiner used the scanning electron microscope to look at the fluorescing powder I swabbed at the scene. He’s verified that the information from the Raman spectrometer is correct. But included in the powdery mixture of chlorophyll and calcite are microscopic fragments of reddish-black animal hair that we can’t identify.
“Lee has no idea what the hell it is,” Marino explains. “He says, and I quote, that the structure of the medulla doesn’t match anything in the databases.”
“What about the swabs I took on the stairs and the bottom of Robbie’s feet?” I ask.
“Both Georgine’s and Zain’s DNA are on the robotic dog,” Marino says. “Clark says the smears are a mixture of their blood. He believes the robot walked in both.”
“Not good for Zain either,” Benton comments.
“His goose is cooked. He’ll go to trial for being the Slasher, and Bose Flagler’s already sharpening his knives.” Marino’s choice of words is unfortunate. “He can’t wait to take Zain Willard down.”
It’s almost one o’clock when we reach Dulles International Airport, and I think of the dismal irony. This is where we would have been headed in a few hours for a very different reason had the Slasher not struck again. Benton and I would be getting ready to fly to London instead of on our way to Georgine Duvall’s Yorktown home.
The news is nonstop about her murder. Dana Diletti is giving interviews on CNN, Fox and the major TV networks while the governor reminds the public that we don’t know for a fact who the Phantom Slasher is.
… We shouldn’t assume he’s been caught. We need to remain vigilant,she’s saying on social media.We don’t have evidence proving who this is. Only rumors. And biased opinions when this shouldn’t be about politics. I’m asking everyone not to rush to judgment…
Faye Hanaday is texting that she’s examined Zain’s necklace under the microscope. A defect in the sterling silver chain looks recent and is consistent with his story about the knife hitting it.
“Unfortunately, that doesn’t help him either,” Benton says as he parks outside Signature Flight Service. “Bose Flagler’s going to say Zain did it to himself.”
“If so, it would make more sense that it was an attempted suicide,” I reply as we climb out.
“And maybe it was.”
“Faye says the blade must have hit the necklace with considerable force to leave the deep gash she’s seeing,” I tell Benton.
“Attempted suicide doesn’t mean he didn’t murder Georgine. Any way we look at it, Zain’s got a major problem,” he explains as we walk inside the small private terminal.
Soft music plays, the handsome lobby decorated for the holidays, the air fragrant with cinnamon, clove and citrus. Globed candle flames waver on tables, a perfectly proportioned Christmas tree glowing by the fireplace. Only a few passengers are sitting on the plump leather furniture, waiting for private flights somewhere.
At the front desk we help ourselves to a glass bowl of peppermints. We give the agent a tail number, showing our IDs while making small talk. Her name is Joan, retired from the Air Force. We’ve been around her before when meeting Lucy here.
“Have a good one,” she says.
“We’ll see you on our way back,” Benton promises, and she remotely unlocks the door.
We head out to the beefy black helicopter waiting on the tarmac, the four blades gently rocking in the wind. Radomes cover cameras and other instruments attached to the belly, and the platform skids have gun mounts for snipers.
The Doomsday Bird looks more like a military attack helicopter than law enforcement, the nanocarbon paint stealthy, an M230 chain gun mounted under the fuselage. Tron and Lucy are in olive-green flight suits, making sure nobody gets close.
