Page 56 of Sharp Force
“Hopefully, I’ll know more when I walk around the scene.” Benton riffles through neckties.
“Is Zain right- or left-handed?” I retrieve our passports, the French and British currency from the top of my dresser.
“Right-handed it’s been my impression from the times I’ve been around him at the White House and elsewhere,” Benton says. “But I’ll confirm.”
“For the sake of the argument, let’s say he killed Georgine Duvall.” I walk across the bedroom, headed to the gun safe. “Why injure himself after the fact? Why take a risk like that?”
“Possibly as an alibi. Or for sympathy and attention. Those would be the typical reasons someone would self-injure in a case like this.” Benton picks a blue paisley tie that goes with denim. “The first thing we need to know for a fact is whether Zain could have cut his own throat. Would that have been possible?”
“Based on what I saw in the video, yes. But let me emphasize how difficult and dangerous that would be.” I enter the password on the safe’s push-button keypad. “In addition to the willpower and tolerance for pain required, one slip of the blade and he could have severed his carotid, bleeding out in minutes.”
I push down on the steel handle, opening the safe’s heavy door. A glimpse of fine timepieces and other jewelry, and I tuck in our passports, the British pounds, the euros.
“He has a gash to his right forearm.” I continue describing what I saw in the photos Marino texted. “Also, cuts to the fingers and palm of his right hand. Depending on the severity of the injuries, he could have suffered permanent damage to ligaments and tendons.”
“And he could have done all that to himself?” Benton is reading something on his phone.
“If he had the stomach for it.” I shut the thick steel door with a loud clank. “But if he did this to himself, he’s lucky to be alive.”
“I’m skimming his background assessment right now,” Benton says. “Zain’s right-handed. Five foot four, one hundred and twenty pounds. He’s small and rather frail, as you just saw in the video.”
“An assailant doesn’t need to be big and strong if he has a knife and his victim is asleep,” I answer.
“I don’t believe it’s him,” Benton says. “I don’t think he killed Georgine Duvall or anyone else. But that doesn’t mean he’s telling the truth about what happened this morning. For one thing, what took him so long to head downstairs after he supposedly heard her scream? By the time he got there, she likely was dead, and the bleach had been poured.”
“The same questions are crossing my mind.” I collect my computer-assisted smart ring from the nightstand.
“He took the time to put on clothes. What else was he doing?” Benton asks.
“We need his jeans, sweatshirt, shoes, whatever he had on, including a silver necklace I noticed in the video.”
“I’m told that Officer Horace has taken care of personal effects and other evidence,” Benton says.
“Told by whom?”
“Lucy talked to him.” Benton picks up his badge wallet.
“Never heard of Officer Horace before this morning.”
“Apparently a rookie. But forward-thinking enough to get swabs,” Benton replies.
“Of what?” I ask.
“Any trace evidence or DNA that might have been transferred to Zain. Supposedly when he fell to the floor after being attacked in the dark, the killer almost tripped over him.”
“In other words, they had physical contact, and afterward no bleach was splashed all over either of them. Maybe DNA was transferred and not destroyed for once.” I don’t feel hopeful, but maybe we’ll catch a break.
“This is according to what Horace passed along to Lucy.Apparently, while he rode in the ambulance, he got photographs and swabs in addition to more information,” Benton tells me.
“That was quick thinking since rescue squads and hospitals aren’t in the business of preserving evidence. The killer fled. Then what, according to Officer Horace?” I ask.
“Zain tried nine-one-one, but the Wi-Fi was down. The SOS emergency feature on his phone also was disabled. He had to go outside to find a signal so he could call for help,” Benton says. “He left the fenced-in property through the front gate, following the sidewalk to where Officer Horace found him.”
“I wonder where Zain was on Valentine’s Day at around three a.m. when Emma Chopra was slashed to death in bed?” I reply.
“Hopefully we’ll get answers when we start interrogating his phone and other electronic devices.”
“What about last May when Ashley Tait was murdered on Mother’s Day?” I open a dresser drawer for a pair of socks. “Where was Zain?”
