Page 50 of Sharp Force
“Apparently, she sold the place and moved eight years ago. Her primary residence is now in Yorktown.” It’s Benton saying this. “She uses her home on Mercy Island when she needs to be on site at the hospital. And Zain Willard has stayed there before. Multiple times.”
“How do you know when he’s stayed there? You got a fucking Ouija board or something?” Marino’s voice over speakerphone isn’t gracious about it.
“Georgine Duvall and her house on Mercy Island are listed in his background information. It’s where he stays when he’s working at the White House,” Benton says. “Typically, when William & Mary breaks for the summer and holidays.”
“Do we know what she was doing at the hospital? Possibly, seeing patients?” I inquire. “When did she get there? How long ago?”
I envision the psychiatrist’s strong face and warm dark eyes. I remember her soothing voice with its lilting Virginia accent, and I’m gripped by guilt. I didn’t agree with her ideas and methods. But I liked her. I should have tried to keep in touch. It was up to me to reach out, and I didn’t because of Lucy.
“When I’ve worked deaths on Mercy Island, I’ve never heard Georgine Duvall mentioned,” I tell Benton and Marino. “I’ve neverseen her name on any paperwork, what little I manage to get from the staff.”
“She started there around the time her husband died, according to intel I’m getting from Lucy,” Benton says, and I worry how she’s reacting to the news about her former psychiatrist’s brutal death.
Early in my career, Georgine Duvall directed the mental health services at the University of Virginia. Lucy was a student there, her freshman year a difficult one personally. Tormented by emotions she didn’t understand, she was drinking too much and engaging in reckless behavior.
Intensive and frequent counseling sessions with Georgine went on for months before Lucy quit without explanation. The most I could get out of her was that she no longer found the therapy helpful.
“Was Zain Willard renting a room from Georgine Duvall?” I ask, propped up in bed, writing down the information. “I’m wondering why he was staying with her and had before.”
“All I know is what Zain Willard told the first responding officer.” Marino’s big voice sounds inside the bedroom. “Zain and Georgine Duvall had moved into her house on Mercy Island two weeks ago.”
“Meaning, the Slasher must have been watching and knew her whereabouts,” Benton says. “He’s probably been spying on her with his hologram. Which you claimed to see when you arrived at the scene, Pete?”
“It’s not what I claim,” he cranks. “I saw it, as did other people. Fruge and me were parking when the thing appeared as the ambulance was driving away with Zain Willard.”
“Describe it,” Benton says.
“The same figure in black, his eyes glowing red, exactly what Dana Diletti saw inside her bedroom. He was waving a big knifearound, and I almost pulled out my gun. A lot of good it would have done to shoot a damn ghost.”
“I’ll point out that attacking two victims and leaving one of them alive is a deviation from the previous cases,” Benton says. “Those women lived alone. Their bodies weren’t found for several days.”
“My guess is Georgine Duvall was the intended target, and the Slasher didn’t realize more than one person was in the house,” Marino answers. “He was caught off guard.”
“That’s quite an oversight for someone who obsessively stalks and spies.” Benton pushes off the bedcovers.
“Obviously, he’s losing control the same way Bundy did in the end when he went on his rampage in the Florida sorority house.” Marino holds forth as if he’s the profiler.
“There are departures from what we’ve seen in the previous cases.” Benton climbs out of bed. “Considering the details all over the internet, we have to worry about copycats.”
“I don’t believe a copycat did what I just saw.” Marino is getting impatient.
“You’re probably right, but we need to keep an open mind,” Benton says, and now his phone is ringing.
“Hi…” he answers. “Going someplace quiet…”
Stepping inside the bathroom, he shuts the door.
CHAPTER 17
“What have you done so far?” I ask Marino over speakerphone as lightning illuminates the window shades.
“Took photos and videos. I grabbed temps with the I.R. thermometer, making sure not to touch anything,” he says. “The body was ninety-six-point-five degrees, the ambient air about seventy. And a lot of the blood was still wet.”
“Obviously, she hadn’t been dead long by the time you got there with Fruge,” I reply. “When did the Wi-Fi go down?”
“About three a.m. And we know that after the killer fled the scene, Zain Willard left the house to find a cell signal a couple acres away. He called nine-one-one at three-forty-five while he was bleeding on the sidewalk.”
“Suggesting Georgine Duvall was killed between three and three-thirty,” I decide. “And time of death isn’t going to be the question in this case. It’s everything else.”
