Page 23 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

“What have you done so far?” I ask Marino over speakerphone as lightning illuminates the window shades.

“Took photos and videos. I grabbed temps with the I.R. thermometer, making sure not to touch anything,” he says. “The body was ninety-six-point-five degrees, the ambient air about seventy. And a lot of the blood was still wet.”

“Obviously, she hadn’t been dead long by the time you got there with Fruge,” I reply. “When did the Wi-Fi go down?”

“About three a.m. And we know that after the killer fled the scene, Zain Willard left the house to find a cell signal a couple acres away. He called nine-one-one at three-forty-five while he was bleeding on the sidewalk.”

“Suggesting Georgine Duvall was killed between three and three-thirty,” I decide. “And time of death isn’t going to be the question in this case. It’s everything else.”

“I didn’t realize she was someone you knew during Lucy’s college days.” Marino is probing. “That’s too bad. Is there anything you remember about her that might be helpful?”

“Only that Georgine was too trusting with her patients,” I reply. “She wasn’t much for boundaries. But as I’ve said, that was a long time ago.”

“If you’re not up to dealing with the case, I understand. I can call Doc Schlaefer,” Marino says, and he doesn’t mean it.

“You already know that isn’t going to happen,” I answer. “Obviously, Benton and I will postpone our trip.”

“That’s too bad, what a shame, Doc.” Marino doesn’t mean that either. “But it’s a good thing. Because on top of everything else, I’m pretty sure there are spooks roaming around out here. And I’m not talking about holograms now. I’m talking about the CIA.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A little while ago these two guys appeared out of nowhere in an old pickup truck. They got in my face demanding to see my creds, asking all kinds of questions, treating me like a suspect if you can believe it,” Marino protests.

I can believe it easily. His default is to be distrusting, aggressive and noncollaborative. I can imagine how he acted when confronted by undercover agents of any description.

“They wanted to search my backpack. So I said be my guest, knock yourself out,” he goes on. “Nothing much in it but crime scene shit, extra ammo, my protein bars, the roll of toilet paper I always carry.”

“What were they looking for? Do you have any idea?” I’ve rested my pen on the page, having learned long ago not to write down his every utterance.

“Computer equipment, remote-control devices or apps on my phone like maybe I’m the one carving up people while deploying fake ghosts,” he explains. “Then they wanted to know if I might be flying a drone out here.”

“Why were they asking? Did they say?”

“No, but one must have been detected in the area, which doesn’t make sense,” Marino replies.

The weather isn’t drone-friendly, the wind quite strong, he explains. And it was much too early for a TV crew to be flying a drone. The media doesn’t know what’s happened yet.

“And it couldn’t have been the local cops or the feds,” he goes on. “Not the CIA either, right? Or the two spies would have known whose drone it was. So that leaves the Slasher.”

“What made you think the two men are spies?” I continue glancing at the closed bathroom door, Benton’s voice a murmur as he talks on the phone.

“I didn’t buy their bullshit story about being sent by the FAA because of the scene’s close proximity to Washington National,” Marino explains, and I don’t buy it either.

I’ve never heard of the Federal Aviation Administration responding to a homicide scene because it happens to be near an airport.

But I’m familiar with the CIA and other clandestine organizations whose operatives dispense disinformation as easily as they breathe.

I don’t expect secret agents to tell the truth. Even if they’re family.

“When did you arrive at the scene?” I dig in the nightstand drawer again, finding the bottle of Advil.

“About four a.m., maybe a few minutes after,” Marino answers.

“That was quick.” I shake two gel capsules into my hand, reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand.

“Like I said, I was with Fruge. When she got the call, we were checking out the pier where Rowdy O’Leary was fishing when he ended up in the river. So we were only a few minutes away,” Marino explains. “I just texted you some pics so you can see what you’re about to confront.”

I click on images of Georgine Duvall tangled in the blood-soaked bedcovers, and I remember when we were together last. In her early thirties then, she was compelling with a bright smile, her hair auburn. An accomplished equestrian and tennis player, she was athletically built and extremely bright.

Her short hair is so bloody now I can’t tell the color, her nude body savaged by multiple sharp force injuries. The bowels protrude from the slashed-open abdomen, the cuts to the neck deep, the lower arms and hands gashed. Several fingers are almost severed.

“After the fact, the killer poured the bleach, leaving the empty bottle in plain view on the bedroom floor,” Marino says.

“The same high-concentrate brand?”

I envision the white gallon jug I’ve seen before, the potent chlorine solution destructive to DNA and other biological evidence.

“You got it,” Marino says. “And as you can see, he bit the shit out of her. He was more violent with her than the others. Again, making me wonder if he has some personal connection with her and the hospital.”

“Possibly,” I reply. “But Benton says the violence is escalating. That will only get worse.”

I zoom in on the breasts and buttocks, the multiple bite marks avulsing the skin and underlying tissue.

The gruesome wounds are more animal-like than human and would have been excruciatingly painful.

But based on the lack of a vital response, she no longer had a blood pressure by then.

Thankfully, she wasn’t feeling anything.

“Damn good thing you and Benton didn’t buy a place on Mercy Island. Can you imagine?” Marino then says. “You should be glad for a lot of reasons.”

“It was never a consideration.”

“Me and Dorothy refused to even look. No way we’d live on the grounds of a looney bin,” he says with his usual sensitivity. “Especially not that one. But I bet you could get a deal now.”

Like a lot of grand places from long ago, Mercy Psychiatric Hospital has sold off most of its land to afford staying open. Centuries-old cottages, treatment pavilions and other outbuildings have been converted into luxury properties with stunning views of the Potomac River.

There are hiking trails, a dog park. And of course, the fitness center where the ancient cemetery once was.

“Unfortunately, we know from past experience that the hospital won’t be cooperative,” I’m saying to Marino. “I understand from Maggie that Graden Crowley is still the director.”

“Unfortunately.”

“A damn shame. I keep hoping he’ll retire.” I envision his whisky-flushed face and shifty eyes.

“I’ve tried to call but he’s not answering, no big surprise.” Marino’s dislike of him sounds over the phone. “Bottom line, he’s not going to tell us shit just like he didn’t the last time we were there.”

That was a year ago when a patient allegedly hanged himself with a strand of Christmas lights lashed to a radiator.

I was given no satisfactory explanation for how he got hold of a ligature.

I don’t know why it took five hours for a staff member to discover the body.

Despite repeated requests I’ve yet to receive the most basic information.

“The latest status of the Wi-Fi outage?” I close my notebook, clipping the pen to the cover.

“No luck yet,” Marino says.

“And the weather?”

“It’s too foggy to see across the river,” he tells me.

“But at least the rain has completely stopped, and the wind’s dying down.

Now that we’ve talked, I’ll head back to the house and go over it with the crime lights.

I’ll have everything done by the time you show up. Meanwhile, Fabian’s mobilized.”

He’s loading equipment into one of our windowless transport vans, black with Office of the Chief Medical Examiner and the seal of Virginia in gray. It’s not something you’d want pulling up to your door.

“I need to get ready.” I climb out of bed. “And most of all to make coffee.”

I step around luggage outside the closets, lamplight shining on neatly folded clothes and pairs of shoes on the pumpkin pine flooring.

“Text me when you’re getting close to the Pitié Bridge.” Marino mispronounces it Pie-tie and I’ve given up correcting him. “I’ll need to alert the officers at the checkpoint and front gate.”

“Will do.” I’m trying not to think about the theater tickets, the restaurant reservations, the plans to explore the English countryside in a rented Aston Martin.

“The roads are mostly wet and slushy, and it’s above freezing but still cold as hell with the wind. The high this afternoon will be pushing fifty,” Marino makes sure I know.

“See you soon,” I reply.

“And before I forget? Merry Christmas, Doc. It sucks this had to happen now.”

“It sucks that it had to happen at all,” I tell him.

Benton emerges from the bathroom in his boxer briefs and sleeveless T-shirt that look very good on him. His lean strong body is younger than his years.

“Should we carpool?” he asks, walking toward me.

“Sounds like we’re headed to the same place.” I’m in my bathrobe placing tactical clothing on a chair.

“Merry Christmas, Kay.” He wraps his arms around me. “Not how I was hoping we would spend it.”

“You’re my best present.” I kiss his neck.

“And you’re mine,” he says into my hair.

“You must have cleaned up and shaved while on the phone.” I touch his smooth cheek, smelling his earthy cologne. “And I know it’s not because we’re climbing back in bed until we feel like getting up.”

“I’m sorry as hell for both of us.”

“At least we’re alive and well, unlike what we’re about to encounter,” I reply.

“That doesn’t make it any easier if we’re honest.” He follows me across the bedroom. “It doesn’t matter if we’re off the clock. In truth, we never are.”

“The price one pays for trying to live by the Golden Rule. Do unto others.” I step inside the bathroom to freshen up.

“Before they do it unto us.” His humor tends to cynical.

I give him the upshot of what Marino told me.

“Mercy Island,” Benton says as I turn on water in the sink. “Adding to my suspicion that the Slasher has been in and out of mental health facilities, harboring conflicted feelings about women who have cared for him. Most of all his mother. That’s who he’s targeting symbolically.”

“Or maybe his job brings him to health facilities,” I reply. “A lot of vehicles are in and out delivering food, medical supplies, you name it. Plus, the construction and landscaping and everything else going on. The last time I responded to Mercy Island, the security was pathetic.”

“That was Lucy on the phone, and based on what she was telling me, security’s no better now,” Benton says as I wash my face. “All that’s needed is a keycard to open the entrance gate. Or it can be accessed remotely by the residents, the hospital staff.”

“Has she said anything about Georgine Duvall?” I can’t imagine what Lucy must be feeling.

“Not a word. You wouldn’t know she’d ever heard of her.”

“Which is exactly how she acted way back when,” I recall.

“Georgine Duvall’s address on Mercy Island is Thirteen Shore Lane, as it turns out. How’s that for an eerie coincidence?” Benton adds.

“The property we looked at?” I dry my face with a towel, reaching for the jar of moisturizer.

“The very same.”

“Marino didn’t mention the actual street address and might not know it’s the place we toured after the Realtor twisted our arm,” I explain.

“Riverfront with huge trees and a big garden.” Benton leans against the doorframe looking at his phone, skimming through more messages. “On a point and probably the most isolated and private of the residences.”

I brush my teeth, remembering the lush rosebushes, the benches, the wooden birdhouses on poles, everything old.

I envision metal fencing around the property, and the high stone wall that encircles the hospital grounds.

When Benton and I were house-hunting five years ago, Mercy Island was recommended as ideal.

We were shown the former chapel repurposed into a three-story house with tall windows and high ceilings, the views spectacular.

When we toured rooms and the meditation garden, we couldn’t help but think of desperate patients.

The energy was depressing and oppressive. We couldn’t shake it or wait to leave.

“Unless you can access the entrance, you’d need assistance to climb over the wall, which is a good seven or eight feet high,” I remind Benton.

“Then you’d have to scale the fence around Thirteen Shore Lane.

You’d need a ladder, a rope. Or a boat possibly if you come in by water.

I seem to remember a dock behind the house. ”

“The wall, the fence, the river wouldn’t keep out someone determined,” he agrees.

“And normally an intruder would have been picked up by the home security cameras around the perimeter. Except they’re wireless.

So is the alarm system, and as we know, there was no cell signal at the time of the attack.

Lucy told me that like most places these days, everything at the scene is Wi-Fi-enabled. ”

“Smart homes for obtuse people.” I open the medicine cabinet, finding the hair gel. “They don’t realize how vulnerable that makes them if there’s an outage or the network is overwhelmed.”

“Or if a predator shows up with a signal jammer. Which is why we have backup landlines in hard-to-find places,” Benton says. “Lucy’s not about to allow someone to do that to us.”

“Has she figured out the problem yet?”

“She and Tron discovered a homemade signal jammer like the ones used in the other three cases,” he says. “It was hidden in shrubs on the riverbank at the back of the house. They’re dealing with the provider to get the Wi-Fi back up.”