Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(46)

“Good morning,” Benton says to a Secret Service uniform division officer in ballistic gear, an MP5 on a sling across his chest.

“I need to see some identification.” He says what we’ve heard before, and it doesn’t matter if the two of them are acquainted.

They could be drinking buddies or brothers, and you’d never know. In addition to being a forensic profiler, an expert in human factors for the Secret Service, Benton works closely with cyber and counterterrorism experts. He’s in thick with the intelligence community. But you’d never guess it based on the way we’re being treated.

His all-access White House pass doesn’t merit so much as a nod of recognition as we give our badge-wallets to an officer built like a Marvel comic book hero. He’s stone-faced as he looks at our credentials, swiping our IDs on a portable scanner, never losing track of everything going on around him.

A second officer runs a long-handled inspection mirror along our high-tech electric SUV’s undercarriage, making sure we’re not rigged up with explosives or hauling weapons and other contraband. Then a handler with her Belgian Malinois appears, and the falcon-wing doors open up, the trunk is popped. The sleek shepherd-looking K-9 snuffles industriously, alerting on nothing beyond the pistol Benton always carries.

“Have a good day.” An officer waves us through.

“You always know when something’s important,” Benton says. “It all comes down to parking.”

The narrow road we’re slowly following is lined with spaces, all of them taken.

“Usually, I’m stuck in employee parking near the Ellipse where protesters heckle you or worse if you’re spotted getting in and out of your car,” he says.

THE U.S. FLAG WAVES at half-mast from the White House rooftop, where Secret Service countersnipers stand sentry in the misty rain.

In tactical gear, they’re armed with submachine guns and high-powered rifles, four stories up without the benefit of safety tethers, and better them than me. I can see them walking around while surveillance cameras in space and on the ground constantly stream images to tablets and other electronic devices, according to Benton.

Monitoring real-time information, they’re watching every person, every vehicle in the area, and that includes the two of us inside his personal SUV on West Executive Avenue. I’ve not visited the White House or the Capitol since the January 6 attack almost a year ago, and it’s as if our country has been occupied by the military.

“I keep thinking how much worse it could have been,” I comment as we creep slowly past parked cars, and the lack of visitors isn’t because of the weather.

“I think about it every time I drive to work,” Benton replies, and the Secret Service’s headquarters is but a few blocks from here. “Worrying about domestic terrorism, about what some fringe extremist group will come up with next.”

Then Tron is stepping into the middle of the road, holding an open umbrella. She directs us to a reserved parking space between patent-leather-black Secret Service Cadillac Escalades. Removing a traffic cone, she steps out of the way. Benton backs into the space, turning off the engine, and collecting our belongings, we climb out.

“Welcome.” Tron cheerfully hands us the umbrella, and one wouldn’t guess she’s a Secret Service counterterrorism expert permanently on loan to the CIA, among other things.

She could pass for a CEO or television news correspondent. A pretty, wholesome-looking professional in her forties, she has a contagious smile, her dark hair tucked behind her ears.

“How was the drive in this thing?” She makes a big production of giving Benton’s Tesla the once-over, as if she’s never seen it before. “Did you have to stop and plug it in somewhere?”

“We just barely made it,” he deadpans.

“Can it do over fifty?”

“Almost.” He goes along with her teasing, and she seems harmless enough.

That’s until you look closely, noticing her powerful hands with their short nails, her muscularity beneath her simple black suit and open-collar white shirt. Her loafers would do fine in a foot pursuit, and I’ve never known her to wear jewelry or other accessories that might get in the way or be used against her.

Coatless, she likely was inside the White House until the moment we arrived, monitoring security live feeds from surveillance cameras, many of them disguised. Her gun is out of sight, only her lapel pin hinting who she is, assuming you know what you’re looking at.

“I’m glad to see you in one piece. That must have been unbelievably scary,” she says to me as Benton locks the doors. “And by the way”—she directs this to him—“I think your car is pretty safe here.”

“I would hope that’s true.” He pockets the key.

We walk away from his black SUV parked in a long row of government vehicles, the rain quietly pattering our umbrella.

“Well, thankfully things weren’t a whole lot worse.” Tron gets down to business, saying this to me, and I sense what’s coming. “I mean what kind of coward are we talking about? It could have been anybody who got killed.”

Clearly, she knows about the careless thing I did. It’s not my imagination. She’s aware of what I’ve been through.

“Yes, it could have been much worse,” I admit. “I was very lucky, everyone was lucky.” It sounds trite as I hear myself.