Page 96 of Sharp Force
“Then what? He came back downstairs and cut himself?”
“I hope for his sake whatever you just swabbed doesn’t turn out to be Georgine’s blood,” Benton replies.
Zain’s bedroom has a brick fireplace and big windows. I remember when Benton and I walked through the house five years ago, wewere told the third floor was where the chaplains lived. The drapes are drawn, and I nudge aside a floral-printed swag.
Beyond the backyard and wooden dock, sunlight shines on a wide stretch of ruffled water that’s brownish from sediment stirred during the storm. The fog has burned off, and I can see the hazy shore of Washington, D.C., on the other side of the river.
Walking away from the window, I begin looking around. An array of computer screens, several keyboards are on the desk as Marino described. There are wireless controllers and virtual reality gloves associated with drones and gaming. And a set of keys, and a White House ID badge on a lanyard.
On a table is some type of battery charging tray that’s plugged into the wall. Also, technical tomes and different drafts of a dissertation.
“How Robots Learn: A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe of AI,” I read the title aloud.
The twin bed is unmade, the covers pulled back. If Zain was wearing pajamas last night, I don’t see them. On a chair is a tidy stack of jeans, T-shirts, underwear, and I’m betting it was Georgine who laundered and folded them. A large suitcase against a wall feels empty when I lift it by the handle. I notice food crumbs on the floor.
“The bathroom he used is at the end of the hall next to the linen closet,” Benton says as I’m wondering about it.
“Give me two minutes.” I walk that way, my eyes on the floor every step.
I’m looking for blood but don’t see any, just a lot of dust, a few dead bugs. The oak floor doesn’t appear to have been mopped in recent memory. Wooden bookshelves built into the wall are empty and look very old.
The bathroom is similar to the one on the first floor, whitesubway tile, a pedestal sink with a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste on it. The tub and shower are combined, a plastic curtain attached to a rod.
A wicker hamper is full of dirty clothing. I dig through it with gloved hands, looking for anything bloody. Socks and more underwear. A sweatsuit. Towels. The wastepaper basket is filled with tissues, water bottles, a few beer cans.
I dig out a card that’s been torn in half. It depicts Santa in denim overalls, smoking a corncob pipe, a jug of moonshine next to him.
Zain, don’t forget to have some good ole Southern fun this Xmas! Sorry we won’t be together. But always thinking of you. Lots of love, Mom.
I drop the torn card back into the trash while wondering about Zain’s reaction to his mother’s note. It’s not exactly warm. By all indications, the two of them don’t have a close relationship, and I wonder if she sent a gift to him. But I’ve seen no presents in the house, not even under the pathetic tree downstairs.
I change my gloves again before opening the medicine cabinet. Nothing inside except a bottle of Tylenol, a Speed Stick deodorant, dental floss. In the cabinet under the sink are rolls of toilet paper, bars of soap and blister packs of antihistamines as if Zain might suffer from allergies.
I notice several boxes of double-edged razor blades that have no shaving handle to go with them. On a glass shelf is an electric razor on a charger, and it appears Zain was using it.
I return to the bedroom, and Benton is standing by the closet waiting for me. I tell him about the Christmas card from Zain’s mother that he or someone ripped in half and dropped in the trash.
“Yes, and no surprise,” Benton says.
“Then you saw it,” I reply.
“I didn’t think it needs preserving as evidence. But that will be up to the crime scene unit. You ready to meet Robbie?”
Benton opens the closet door, a lot of suits and other clothing hanging from the rod. On the floor is a four-legged robot the size of a standard poodle. Silvery gray with large dark glassy eyes and a gripper mouth, he has payload ports and mounting rails on his sleek back.
“When I’ve been around Zain and Robbie, I’ve watched the demos multiple times, which is a good thing,” Benton explains. “I have some idea how the thing works, which is a bit quirky. Turning him on, for example, requires a poke in the ass. Which I found a bit embarrassing when the audience was the president or some visiting dignitary.”
The power button on the tailless rump could be confused for an indelicate part of Robbie’s anatomy. I can see why Marino couldn’t find it. Benton pushes the round brown button, and a green light begins to flash on top of the head. The robotic dog suddenly animates, looking directly at him.
“Good morning, Benton.” The mouth moves, the head turning and tilting. “Merry Christmas.”
His voice could be male or female, with a Virginia accent. As I recall the video I watched of Zain on the sidewalk, I realize that Robbie sounds a lot like him.
“And to you, Robbie,” Benton says as if they’re old friends.
“I see you have company, Benton. Hello, Kay Scarpetta.” Robbie swivels his head around, looking at me. “It’s usually not a good thing when you show up. It means someone is dead.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met…?” I puzzle.
