Page 54 of Sharp Force
I instruct her to make sure security is alerted, and to expect federal agents showing up. Possibly even members of the intelligence community. We’ve been visited before during autopsies that, unbeknownst to us, were of interest to the CIA, U.S. Army Intelligence, the National Security Agency, to name a few.
Usually, the undercover agents claim to be from nongermane government agencies like the Department of Agriculture. Or in this case, the FAA. I don’t go into detail, but my secretary understands, and I tell her to keep me updated.
“How well do you know Zain Willard?” I ask Benton. “You’re in and out of the White House, the Capitol. I assume your paths have crossed.”
“That’s about the extent of it.” He heads to his closet as I walkout of the bathroom. “I’ve seen him there and other places. This nerdy kid who’d rather talk to an AI chatbot or a robot than people. I realize he’s not really a kid. But he seems a lot younger than he is.”
“Where was he when Georgine Duvall was murdered? Are we sure he was upstairs in his room as he claims? Did he really hear her scream?” I pick up a black shirt embroidered with my office logo andK. Scarpetta, Chief Medical Examiner.
“I’m wondering whether she was capable of screaming. I was going to ask you that,” Benton says as hangers scrape along the clothes rod. “You’ve seen the photographs, I assume.”
“Marino texted a few, and the incisions to the anterior neck would have severed the vocal cords and trachea.” I envision the gory images. “She wasn’t making a sound after that.”
“Then she might have screamed at first when she woke up while being attacked,” Benton supposes.
“Very possibly, as it appears she tried to ward off the blade. She has classic defensive injuries, suggesting the first cuts were to her hands and arms and not her neck,” I explain, pulling on a pair of cargo pants.
“Then Zain may be telling the truth about hearing her scream.”
“If so, it wouldn’t have been for long. Has he offered any helpful details?”
“Not so far.” Benton works his arms through the sleeves of a faded denim shirt. “Maybe he’ll remember more when I talk to him in the hospital later today. And we’ll want you to take a look at him.”
“Willing to help in any way. But I’ll be limited in what I can determine after surgery and other therapeutic interventions. I’ll insist that I’m not alone with him.”
“We have agents posted outside his room, and I’ll be with you,” Benton says.
“Still no weapon recovered, I assume?” I ask.
“Not that I’m aware of. Nor would I expect there to be.” He zips up his jeans. “The knife the Slasher uses has special meaning to him. He brings it with him and leaves with it. I suspect it’s something he’s had a long time.”
“Any chance of an inside job? Is it possible Zain Willard killed Georgine Duvall?” I tuck in my shirt. “More to the point, could he be the Phantom Slasher?”
“Of course, we have to consider that.” Benton finds a belt. “But I have my serious doubts. As I’ve said before, I believe the Slasher is older, more likely in his thirties or forties. I base this on his organizational skills, his meticulous planning and lack of impulsivity.”
“Except it was different this time,” I reply. “He didn’t know how many people were staying in a place he’d targeted. And he didn’t check to make sure Zain was dead. Something seems to have gone off the rails. Marino may be right about that.”
“What I know for a fact is Zain was badly injured,” Benton says. “I don’t believe he’s faking anything. The first officer to arrive at the scene discovered him some distance from the house about to pass out.”
“Hopefully his bloody trail was photographed before the rain started in with a vengeance,” I reply.
“It was.”
“And swabs were taken to confirm the source?”
“Yes.”
“The killer seems to work in the dark,” I point out. “It’s possible he might have accidentally cut himself. We have to make sure none of the blood is his.”
“I believe he’s using night-vision eyewear and can see what he’s doing just fine. If only we could be so lucky that he’d cut himself andbleed somewhere.” Benton hands me his phone. “This is from the first responding officer’s body cam.”
Pressing the arrow for Play, I watch Zain Willard seated cross-legged in a slurry of snow and slush on the sidewalk. A freezing rain smacks down in big slow drops.
He could pass for twelve or thirteen, angelically pretty, his curly blond hair tinted teal blue at the tips. He stares up at the camera with wide shocked eyes, shivering, teeth chattering in a chiaroscuro of streetlights and shadows.
“… Easy does it. Everything’s going to be okay.” The officer is talking while his body camera films. “Try to stay calm. You’re safe now, buddy…”
Zain has on a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers with no socks. He’s covered with blood that has soaked into the watery slush, turning it the pale red of a cherry snow cone. I notice a thick silver chain around his neck.
