Page 2 of Sharp Force
Fumbling her car key, she bends down, groping to pick it up, her attention everywhere, and I can imagine her swearing under her breath. She yanks open the driver’s door, heaving her big pocketbook across the stick shift and into the passenger’s seat. Locking herself in, she’s glancing around frantically, and it’s out of character.
A former court stenographer in her sixties, my secretary is no stranger to human nature’s savagery. She’s aware of what can happen when one least expects. There’s little she’s not seen and has always seemed fearless. But a serial killer dubbed the Phantom Slasher has gotten to her and a lot of people as he continues terrorizing Northern Virginia.
Shannon complains that she doesn’t sleep well anymore. Living alone in a ground-level condo, she doesn’t feel safe. She’s talked about moving to a high-rise or leaving this area altogether. Installing a security system and deadbolts on doors, she keeps a Smith & Wesson “Ladysmith” revolver by her bed.
I watch her VW on the video display, the engine puttering, the headlights blinking on. Then she’s driving through the security gate, taillights fading in the roiling grayness.
…Better watch out, better not cry… shrills the Jackson 5, and it’s too late for that.
Rowdy O’Leary didn’t watch out and died rather much the way he lived. Eating and drinking as he pleased, never exercising, chronically depressed. According to his wife, he was theperfect packageuntil six years ago when he was struck by a car while jogging at night.
“A hit-and-run, whoever did it never caught,” Reba O’Leary said to me over the phone before I began the postmortem. “After that a light went out inside Rowdy. He gave up.”
I’m dropping sections of liver into the plastic bucket by my feet when the vintage wall phone begins to clangor. The black push-button model is decades old, the handset cradled by a metal hook that you push down to hang up, reminding me of my childhood.
The long cord is always hopelessly snarled, a sign taped to cinder block demandingClean Hands Only. There’s no caller ID, and I won’t be able to see who it is. But not many people have this number. Those who do aren’t likely to interrupt autopsies in progress.
An exception is Pete Marino, a former homicide detective I’ve worked with most of my career. He’s now my head of investigations for the statewide medical examiner system. He’s also married to my sister, Dorothy, making him family. That gives him extra privileges, at least in his mind.
He doesn’t hesitate to intrude no matter the circumstances or the hour. Taking off my gloves, I toss them into the trash. Turning off the boom box, I flip up my face shield, pulling down my surgical mask, the stench so intense it seems to discolor the air.
I pick up the handset, pressing it against my ear. “Doctor Scarpetta,” I answer.
“Hate to bother you. I know it’s a bad time to talk,” Marino says.
I can tell he’s inside his big pickup truck, the police scanner quietly chattering while he listens to a Megyn Kelly podcast. I catch the edge of her saying something about the CIA and how to know if someone’s lying.
“You’re supposed to be home, Marino.” I’m breathing with my mouth, not my nose. “And yes, it’s a bad time.”
“We’ve got a sensitive situation,” he announces. “And I’m on my way to help Fruge out.”
“Why would you need to meet with a police investigator on Christmas Eve?” I ask suspiciously. “You’re off for the holiday.”
“My presence has been specifically requested by the complainant at the scene.”
He has a habit of talking in police jargon when he knows I won’t approve of whatever it is he’s decided.
“You’ve lost me,” I reply, and it’s not fair what he’s doing.
“We’re following up on something from Dana Diletti that could be important,” Marino says, and the celebrity TV journalist is rather much the bane of my existence. “She has a tip about the Phantom Slasher cases. It sounds like something’s happened that’s got her pretty shook up.”
“Careful. She’s not known for being trustworthy.” I shouldn’t have to remind him.
“What she says she witnessed sounds credible, Doc.”
“Credible to whom?” I ask.
“Point being, it’s not hearsay.”
“What isn’t?” I’m trusting this less every second.
“It’s to be expected that the Slasher would know who Dana Diletti is and watch her on TV as she talks about him,” he reasons.
“Is she the one saying this, Marino? Or are you?”
“We can expect the Slasher to follow everything in the media.He gets off on being headline news while scaring the crap out of everybody with his fake ghost.”
Marino’s referring to a computer-generated hologram the Slasher uses to stalk and terrorize his victims. Knocking out the Wi-Fi with signal jammers, he invades homes undetected, leaving no fingerprints or DNA. We’re no closer to catching him.
