Page 62 of Sharp Force
Digging into our breakfast bag, I pull out the bagels, unwrapping them.
“He must have had this residue on the bottom of his feet, and also on whatever he set down on the bedroom chair.” Benton takes a bite of his bagel. “God, that’s good, if I do say so myself.”
“We know he has a murder kit.” I dig in, the cream cheese and figs a delicious combination.
“Some type of tote bag.” Benton wipes his hands with a napkin. “He has gloves, possibly other PPE, bleach, the knife that he’s attached to, whatever else he brings with him and then carries away after the fact.”
“Maybe the tote bag is the source of a residue that’s not visible in normal light,” I suggest. “Maybe it’s been transferred from where he lives or works.”
We drive through our historic neighborhood, most old homes Georgian or Victorian and immaculately preserved. Lights are starting to come on in the windows, people getting up to enjoy a holiday breakfast and open presents. The charcoal-gray sky brightens by degrees as if on a rheostat, the rising sun a chalky smudge.
Traffic is steady, doesn’t matter that it’s Christmas, and I think of the killer getting around. No matter the holiday or time, there are always people on the roads this close to Washington, D.C. The Slasher may do much of his stalking with a drone and holographic technologies. But he shows up in person to break in and murder.
“He’s getting to and from the victims’ neighborhoods somehow. I keep wondering how he’s doing that,” I’m saying to Benton. “If we include this morning, he’s struck four times in four different locations within a ten-mile radius. I should sayat leastfour times. We don’t really know.”
“More than meets the eye, because he’s not new at this. The pacing of the attacks, his ability to create havoc while evading the police, tells me he’s experienced.” Benton repeats what he’s been saying all along. “I suspect he’s committed criminal acts over the years that haven’t been connected, but this is different. He’s hitting his stride. On a violent bender and craving the attention.”
“While getting around undetected somehow.” I go back to that. “I’m surprised there are no reports of a vehicle seen in the areas where the victims lived. I would think software algorithms would pick up on a suspicious car at certain hours. We know there are security cameras all over the place. And satellites.”
“Satellites using radar and AI can see through overcast,” Benton replies. “But obviously, they aren’t sweeping every inch of the planet. They’re oriented to cover certain locations of interest to the government.”
“Do you think the Slasher has a way of knowing what areas are under surveillance by cameras, even satellites, and those that aren’t?” It’s an awful thought.
“I’ve begun to suspect as much,” Benton says. “This is a violent sexual psychopath who appears relatively normal on the surface. He knows how to avoid being seen. It’s not anyone typical.”
CHAPTER 21
Holiday lights sparkle in the heart of Old Town, some of the decorations blown down and soggy in the ice-watery mess. Snow that hasn’t melted is patchy white on rooftops and winter-brown grass. I don’t see anybody out walking or jogging, the roadside empty of the usual parked cars.
Restaurants and bars are empty, and through shadowy glass I can make out the shapes of tables and chairs, nothing open except hotels. In the distance, the George Washington Masonic National Memorial looms like an ancient temple, the top of it veiled in mist.
Everywhere I look I see handsome edifices and precise engineering, evidence of an advanced and civil society it would seem. But within those solid walls are tragedies waiting to happen and humans who do unthinkable things. At moments like this I’m weighed down by the gravity of our impermanent and imperfect existence.
How much easier if I didn’t know so much. It would be reassuring never to scratch below the surface, to avoid looking up at the heavens wondering who might be looking back. But I can’t ignore what’s all around me. As Dorothy likes to say, once the truth genie gets out, it’s not possible to put it back in the bottle.
Which is why you don’t always want to let it out to begin with,she often warns.
According to her it’s wiser to remain selectively ignorant. Best not to question if you don’t want the answer.
Why do you have to know everything, Kay?
Dorothy’s been saying that most of our lives.
Why can’t you learn to leave well enough alone?
I’m hearing her in my head as Benton drives, paralleling the Potomac River several streets over. No doubt, Dorothy is sleeping off her night of drinking and arguing with Marino. I hope I didn’t add to the tension between them.
But he was with me for hours, driving to the O’Learys’ house, not wanting to leave me alone for a moment. Meanwhile, my sister was by herself, the timing unfortunate.
“I hope Dorothy’s all right,” I say to Benton. “I’ve sent several texts and she’s not answering.”
“I have a feeling she wasn’t in great shape by the time she’d finished fighting with Marino and went to bed.”
“Should we be worried? What if she forgot to set the alarm after he left?”
It’s too early to call and wish her a Merry Christmas, and now’s not the time for a personal conversation. I type Lucy a text.
All okay with your mom? Haven’t heard from her.
