Page 40 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

Changing our PPE, Benton and I begin climbing the uncarpeted oak stairs. I notice faint smudges almost indistinguishable from the dark wood. Possibly dirt. Or scuffs vaguely squarish. Maybe from the heel of a shoe and barely visible.

Pausing to open my scene case, I get out the bottle of Bluestar. The smudges glow sapphire blue as I spray the chemical reagent.

“Possibly blood,” I tell Benton. “Marino didn’t notice.”

“Understandably. I almost can’t see whatever it is. If it’s blood, is it recent?”

“I don’t know.”

He watches as I swab suspicious areas on the first three steps, the cotton tips turning a dirty deep red.

“The smudges get fainter as we go up.” I shine a flashlight on the steps as we follow them. “Now I’m not seeing anything at all.”

“The implication’s not good,” Benton says. “Did Zain kill her, then head back up to his room, tracking blood on the steps?”

“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, we were 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, white subway 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.

“We haven’t,” he says in a stilted friendly voice. “I have facial recognition capabilities. Now that the Wi-Fi connection has been restored, I can access information. But my battery charge is low.”

“Robbie? Would you like to come out of the closet?” Benton asks.

“That’s a very personal question, Benton,” he answers slyly with what might be a grin.

“Why don’t you come on out. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Okie doke, Benton.”

The robot steps out of the closet on spiderlike mechanical legs, his gait jerky and stiff, the feet thumping the wooden flooring. He stops in front of us.

“You and I have been around each other many times, haven’t we, Robbie?” Benton says.

“Yes, Benton. Most recently was the day before Thanksgiving when we were in the White House Oval Office. Zain was giving a demonstration to the director of Homeland Security.”

“Robbie’s one of the reasons robotic dogs are now utilized for security patrols at the White House and other strategic locations,” Benton explains to me. “And of course, the military is using them.”

“That’s correct.” Robbie nods.

He goes on to recite every date when he and Benton have been in the same place at the same time. The White House. The vice president’s mansion. Camp David. Also, Calvin Willard’s mansion on Embassy Row. And Mar-a-Lago.

“Robbie’s basically an AI chatbot on four legs,” Benton explains.

“That would be a chat-bark.” The robot’s gripper mouth opens into an almost grin again.

“Does Lucy know about this?” I ask Benton.

“She and Tron will be hauling Robbie out of here shortly.”

“I don’t need to be hauled,” Robbie protests. “I’m perfectly capable of walking. However, my battery is down to eight percent.”

“Lucy and Tron landed the helicopter at Quantico and are on their way back here,” Benton tells me.

“I’m unfamiliar with Lucy and Tron.” Robbie sounds perplexed and a touch worried. “I don’t go places without Zain.”

“Zain is in the hospital,” Benton says, and Robbie tilts his head.

“Why is he in the hospital?” he asks.

“He was hurt last night,” Benton explains. “And you were here when it happened.”

“You were offline when the Wi-Fi went down,” I say to the robot. “I assume you were in sleep mode?”

The robot turns his head back to me, his camera eyes staring.

“As long as I have a battery charge, I’m always awake, Doctor Scarpetta. Even when I don’t appear to be,” Robbie says. “I suffered a loss of signal at two-fifty a.m. It was restored three hours and forty-two minutes later at six-thirty-two a.m.”

“While the Wi-Fi was down, were you aware of anything happening inside the house?” I wonder.

“Yes, I was aware. My sensors had gone into autonomous mode.”

“Did you hear someone breaking in? Or maybe someone screaming?” Benton asks.

“I heard screaming at three-eleven a.m. The vocalization was consistent with the owner of the house, Georgine Duvall. She was screaming ‘STOP! STOP!’”

“You’ve been around her a lot,” Benton says.

“Yes,” Robbie answers, giving us the dates.

I’m baffled to learn that Zain has stayed here every summer and major holiday since Georgine bought the house five years ago.

“What happened when you heard the screaming earlier this morning?” Benton says to Robbie.

“I went into the closet.”

“Why?”

“It’s my doghouse, where Zain keeps me.”

“When you’re in your doghouse, are you plugged into a charger?” Benton is looking inside the closet for one. “Because I’m not seeing anything like that,” he adds.

“My batteries are charged on the table by the desk,” Robbie says, his green light flashing yellow.

“When the Wi-Fi was disabled, you went into autonomous mode,” Benton says. “At some point did you leave the closet and perhaps go downstairs…?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I heard Zain and a commotion.” Robbie’s speech is getting sluggish. “It’s time to change my battery.”

He sits.

“What kind of a commotion?” Benton keeps going.

“I’m very sorry, shutting down.” Robbie hangs his head, his eyes going dark.

“Dammit,” Benton says.

The robot doesn’t move, the light on his rump blinking red now. I crouch in front of him, interested in a small dark smear on one of his silvery back paws.

“If this is what I think it is…” I say to Benton. “Can we turn him on his side?”

The robot is heavy, and there are more dark stains on his paws’ gray rubbery treads. Opening my scene case, I find swabs, the bottle of distilled water. The cotton tips turn dark red again.

Taking samples from each foot, I then scan the robot with a UV light, and nothing fluoresces, none of the mysterious residue on him. I spray the bottoms of his paws with Bluestar, and they light up like St. Elmo’s fire, the presumptive blood test positive.

“It would appear Robbie was downstairs and stepped in blood,” I summarize. “He tracked it back up the steps.”

“Hopefully, whatever he did and witnessed was caught on his cameras,” Benton says.

“It might explain why the killer didn’t take the time to make sure Zain was dead.” I close the scene case, snapping down the heavy plastic latches.

“How do you figure?” Benton asks as we leave the bedroom.

“If the killer heard a robotic dog coming down the stairs or, worse, saw such a thing,” I explain, “he would have been startled if not frightened. I imagine he would have gotten out of here as fast as possible.”

“Suggesting the Slasher didn’t know a second person and a robot were in the house,” Benton concludes. “Either that or the Slasher is Zain Willard.”