Page 83 of Sharp Force
He tells Marino about our being pulled over by the trooper on our way here, and how aggressive he was. But Benton doesn’t mention the tracking device.
“I’ll be outside.” He zips up his Secret Service jacket, putting on his sunglasses.
He wants to let the scene speak to him and needs to be alone to channel. His method is to save the worst for last. He won’t look at the body until he’s scrutinized everything leading up to it.
I no longer hear Lucy’s helicopter as Benton opens the front door, a chilly damp wind blowing in. Sunlight paints over the sticky mats, illuminating our footprints on them. He walks out as Marino checks his phone, a dark expression crossing his face.
“What now?” I ask as the door shuts.
“Have you heard from her?” He means Dorothy.
“Not yet.”
“I texted her again when you were pulling up. Still nothing.”
“I’m sorry. You know how she can get, but I hear she’s fine,” I tell him. “Benton and I talked to Janet a little while ago—”
“Fucking troublemaker.” He cuts me off.
“Dorothy’s already been in communication with her this morning.” I hate to tell him.
“What a shock.”
He opens the front door, inspecting the brass hardware. The exterior curved handle and keyhole are corroding from exposure to the elements. Several of the FBI crime scene investigators stand up, and Marino waves them off.
“How much longer?” one of them yells.
“We’ll let you know!” Marino shouts.
“We need to get in…!”
“You ready to rock and roll, Doc?” Marino shuts the door again.
We work our legs into flimsy white coveralls that always make me think of a FedEx envelope. Tyvek rustles, the same polyethylene material used to wrap a building under construction. We zip up, putting on new face masks and gloves.
“What are you doing?” I ask as Marino opens his toolbox.
“You’ll see.”
“I never trust it when you say that.”
Usually he would laugh or joke, but he doesn’t react. Fueled bybruised feelings and anger, he isn’t interested in approval or permission. I watch him pick out screwdrivers, realizing his intention.
“Marino?”
His Tyvek-covered boots lightly stick to the mats by the front door. He begins studying the interior knob and lock lever. He picks up a small flathead screwdriver.
“And why is this our responsibility?” I ask. “Since when?”
His answer is to put on LED magnifiers that look like high-tech opera glasses.
“What’s gotten into you?” I say to him, but it’s not hard to figure out the answer.
“I know what the hell I’m doing better than any of them. That’s what’s gotten into me,” he replies. “I’m sick and tired of pretending a bunch of newbie cops and big-shot federal agents are smarter than me.”
“Nobody’s treating you that way,” I reply. “Not today.”
He uses the screwdriver to pry up the interior knob’s backplate.
