Page 84 of Sharp Force
“Like I’m nothing more than a morgue diener. An old horse who can’t learn any new tricks.” He mixes metaphors as usual.
Behind the backplate is a lever that he manipulates with the screwdriver blade. He pulls the interior knob out of the door, exposing two screws that hold the exterior handle in place. He tries to turn a screw, but it’s not budging.
“It’s rusted in there pretty good, and I’ve got to do this carefully. Don’t want to strip the threads, and if the screw breaks that will be even worse,” he explains. “There should be WD-40 in my scene case.”
I find the can of lubricant, handing it to him. Flipping up the red straw, Marino lightly sprays the two screws. Setting the WD-40 on the floor, he picks up a Phillips screwdriver.
“No telling how long ago everything was installed,” he observes. “The door looks really old and wasn’t always red. The hardware’s definitely been replaced at some point, but not anytime recently. Probably decades ago. Now we’re talking.”
The screw turns, and he keeps working with the light touch, the sure hand of a surgeon. I snap open the locks on my scene case, finding evidence labels and a Sharpie. Marino drops the steel screw into a small plastic evidence bag.
“I used to do stuff like this all the time. Not just at crime scenes but fixing up my own house.” He starts on the second screw. “Back in the day when I could install and fix whatever I wanted without the peanut gallery deciding otherwise.” He means my sister.
Moments later he’s removed the screw, grabbing the front handle before it clatters to the stone porch. Sunlight fills the borehole, and he begins working on the deadbolt.
“Whoever touched it with bloody hands wasn’t wearing gloves,” he says. “Zain I’m all but positive.”
Marino pries off the deadbolt mounting plate, exposing the screws, and they look old and rusty like the others.
“Mostly what we’re going to find out is what you and me already know,” he says. “There won’t be any tool marks left by the Slasher. The lock wasn’t jimmied open. Nothing was pried, I can see that already. I wonder if that’s true in the first three cases?”
We don’t know. At the earlier scenes, Marino wasn’t removing door handles or anything else that’s not our department.
“I guarantee the Slasher used a key,” Marino deduces.
“How might someone have gotten hold of a key, assuming the person didn’t already have one?” I ask. “Unless Georgine hid one somewhere. Or maybe Zain did while staying on Mercy Island whenever he’s up this way.”
“We know the Slasher had to be spying on Georgine.” Marino sprays more WD-40. “He might have seen where she hid a spare key. Or maybe he saw someone else hide or retrieve it.”
“He may have done the same thing with the other victims.” I take off my gloves, throwing them away.
Picking up my phone, I check messages.
“The Slasher’s figuring out where his victims hide their house keys.” Marino works on another screw. “Then he strikes, probably coming and going through the front door like he lives there.”
As we’re talking, I read the latest messages from Clark Givens and Fabian. Hospital staff are arriving for work, and they’re behind a long line of cars trying to drive onto the island. Every one of them will be checked by the police.
This could take a while,Clark texts.
Marino is telling me about Zain Willard’s 1968 muscle car, a hornet-green Cougar in mint condition. It’s not something he likely drove in bad conditions. And it’s conspicuous.
“Apparently he uses Georgine Duvall’s Cadillac to run errands when the two of them are here at the same time,” Marino explains. “Maybe he’s also been borrowing it without her knowing. As quiet as electric cars are, she might not have heard him drive out of the garage during the early morning hours. If he’s the Slasher, maybe that’s what he’s been driving to his victims’ neighborhoods.”
“How do you know for a fact that she let Zain borrow her car?” I ask. “Although it wouldn’t surprise me.”
I’m not going to tell him that Georgine used to do the same thing with Lucy. I was stunned when she came to visit me in Richmond on one occasion, showing up in her psychiatrist’s Land Rover.
“Graden Crowley said he’s seen Zain driving her Cadillac Lyriq.” Marino works on another screw.
“The car’s cameras should be able to prove that,” I reply. “I would think it has a black box, a data recorder.”
“I’m not sure it would tell you where the car went unless a GPS location was entered.” Marino drops the screw into the small plastic bag. “And the Slasher’s way too smart to do that.”
“But it would tell you if the car was driven around the time of the murders,” I reply.
“Usually, black boxes don’t store data longer than thirty days. I know that’s true with the one in my truck,” he explains. “And the last time the Slasher struck before now was on Halloween, almost two months ago. So, forget it.”
“And if Zain Willard is the killer, he didn’t need to drive anywhere last night.” I feel another wave of discouragement.
