Page 51 of Sharp Force
“I didn’t realize she was someone you knew during Lucy’s college days.” Marino is probing. “That’s too bad. Is there anything you remember about her that might be helpful?”
“Only that Georgine was too trusting with her patients,” I reply. “She wasn’t much for boundaries. But as I’ve said, that was a long time ago.”
“If you’re not up to dealing with the case, I understand. I can call Doc Schlaefer,” Marino says, and he doesn’t mean it.
“You already know that isn’t going to happen,” I answer. “Obviously, Benton and I will postpone our trip.”
“That’s too bad, what a shame, Doc.” Marino doesn’t mean that either. “But it’s a good thing. Because on top of everything else, I’m pretty sure there are spooks roaming around out here. And I’m not talking about holograms now. I’m talking about the CIA.”
“What makes you say that?”
“A little while ago these two guys appeared out of nowhere in an old pickup truck. They got in my face demanding to see my creds, asking all kinds of questions, treating me like a suspect if you can believe it,” Marino protests.
I can believe it easily. His default is to be distrusting, aggressive and noncollaborative. I can imagine how he acted when confronted by undercover agents of any description.
“They wanted to search my backpack. So I said be my guest, knock yourself out,” he goes on. “Nothing much in it but crime scene shit, extra ammo, my protein bars, the roll of toilet paper I always carry.”
“What were they looking for? Do you have any idea?” I’ve rested my pen on the page, having learned long ago not to write down his every utterance.
“Computer equipment, remote-control devices or apps on my phone like maybe I’m the one carving up people while deploying fake ghosts,” he explains. “Then they wanted to know if I might be flying a drone out here.”
“Why were they asking? Did they say?”
“No, but one must have been detected in the area, which doesn’t make sense,” Marino replies.
The weather isn’t drone-friendly, the wind quite strong, he explains. And it was much too early for a TV crew to be flying a drone. The media doesn’t know what’s happened yet.
“And it couldn’t have been the local cops or the feds,” he goes on. “Not the CIA either, right? Or the two spies would have known whose drone it was. So that leaves the Slasher.”
“What made you think the two men are spies?” I continue glancing at the closed bathroom door, Benton’s voice a murmur as he talks on the phone.
“I didn’t buy their bullshit story about being sent by the FAA because of the scene’sclose proximity to Washington National,” Marino explains, and I don’t buy it either.
I’ve never heard of the Federal Aviation Administration responding to a homicide scene because it happens to be near an airport. But I’m familiar with the CIA and other clandestine organizations whose operatives dispense disinformation as easily as they breathe. I don’t expect secret agents to tell the truth. Even if they’re family.
“When did you arrive at the scene?” I dig in the nightstand drawer again, finding the bottle of Advil.
“About four a.m., maybe a few minutes after,” Marino answers.
“That was quick.” I shake two gel capsules into my hand, reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand.
“Like I said, I was with Fruge. When she got the call, we were checking out the pier where Rowdy O’Leary was fishing when he ended up in the river. So we were only a few minutes away,” Marino explains. “I just texted you some pics so you can see what you’re about to confront.”
I click on images of Georgine Duvall tangled in the blood-soaked bedcovers, and I remember when we were together last. In her early thirties then, she was compelling with a bright smile, herhair auburn. An accomplished equestrian and tennis player, she was athletically built and extremely bright.
Her short hair is so bloody now I can’t tell the color, her nude body savaged by multiple sharp force injuries. The bowels protrude from the slashed-open abdomen, the cuts to the neck deep, the lower arms and hands gashed. Several fingers are almost severed.
“After the fact, the killer poured the bleach, leaving the empty bottle in plain view on the bedroom floor,” Marino says.
“The same high-concentrate brand?”
I envision the white gallon jug I’ve seen before, the potent chlorine solution destructive to DNA and other biological evidence.
“You got it,” Marino says. “And as you can see, he bit the shit out of her. He was more violent with her than the others. Again, making me wonder if he has some personal connection with her and the hospital.”
“Possibly,” I reply. “But Benton says the violence is escalating. That will only get worse.”
I zoom in on the breasts and buttocks, the multiple bite marks avulsing the skin and underlying tissue. The gruesome wounds are more animal-like than human and would have been excruciatingly painful. But based on the lack of a vital response, she no longer had a blood pressure by then. Thankfully, she wasn’t feeling anything.
