Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(62)
Then it was alone time inside the Oval Office, the president and vice president asking all sorts of questions about the poisoned wine from Interpol. Tampering like that could happen anywhere including the White House, royal palaces, law enforcement headquarters, and government residences around the world.
Guests are always arriving with gifts that one is unwise to accept, it would seem. But we have to get food and drink from somewhere. We can’t say no to absolutely everything. There’s just too darn much to worry about these days, the president said as we sat on formal furniture inside the oval-shaped room, everything gold and blue.
There were follow-up questions about the double homicide, the first violent deaths in space as best we know. Benton was asked point-blank if he believed that Jared Horton also was involved in Gwen Hainey’s vicious murder. In the private setting of the Oval Office, Benton countered what the FBI, Homeland Security and others had opined earlier.
He logically explained that he saw no useful purpose Gwen’s homicide might have served, especially as sensational as it was. It was the last thing Horton needed, and one can imagine his shock as he quickly calculated how to use her unexpected murder to his advantage.
One evil act deserves another, and he disabled the cameras and radios unbeknownst to his two defenseless crewmates. He did this before helping them suit up for an outing in the vacuum of space that wasn’t going to happen, and the thought is enraging.
“His overriding fear was that his secret life of spying was about to be uncovered during Gwen’s murder investigation,” Benton told the president, the vice president and those assembled behind closed doors. “He went into a controlled free fall, panicking while keeping his wits about him.”
In short order, Jared Horton eliminated his crewmates, and I’m all but certain he shot them. Believing he could pass it off as a bizarre accident or attack in low-Earth orbit, he cleaned out the lab while he was at it before fleeing to Kazakhstan. As Benton and I are talking about this now, I’m looking out at the distant lights on the shore.
The section of railroad tracks where Gwen was found is close to here, not far from the airport. I remember crouching by her crudely posed body in the rainy darkness, listening to the constant roar of jets taking off and landing. I could hear them but not see their lights in the thick clouds.
“I think Horton came prepared for the unexpected,” Benton explains. “And when he feared his spying gig was up, he murdered his crewmates in cold blood. Then he tried to pass off the story that they were hit with debris, somehow managing to return to the airlock. We now know that never happened.”
There was no spacewalk, explaining why Chip didn’t notice the odor that lingers after being outside on one. The fleeting scent of space clings to the suits for a while, and astronauts describe it differently. Some say it’s a burnt metallic odor. Others are reminded of ozone or something electrical.
CHAPTER 25
NOW WHAT?” I ASK in gridlock traffic halfway across the dark waters of the Potomac River, the slivered moon slipping in and out of clouds. “He just gets a free pass, is granted sanctuary by the Kremlin? I’m so sick and tired of bad guys winning.”
“We have a partnership in space with the Russians, and while everybody has to safeguard their proprietary technologies, we still have to get along,” Benton says. “My guess is that the Kremlin will deny having anything to do with what Horton’s involved in, and they’ll probably hand him over.”
“Good. Because he shouldn’t get away with it,” I reply, headlights, taillights blazing in the dark, and a text from Lucy lands on my phone.
What a coincidence (not), she writes.
When I click on the file she’s sent, I understand why traffic is at a standstill with news helicopters hovering. A group of anti–police brutality protesters are marching through the wealthy neighborhood of Aurora Highlands just south of Pentagon City.
“There’s maybe a couple hundred people so far,” I inform Benton. “And it would appear this is related to an attempted break-in at Dana Diletti’s house early this morning.” I continue scrolling through news feeds, and what’s flashing in my mind is the timing.
Lucy’s right, what a coincidence. How convenient that someone should try to break into the celebrity TV journalist’s home even as she’s working on a big story about the Railway Slayer. While covering Gwen Hainey’s brutal murder, the reporter herself is being hunted perhaps by the very same psycho killer.
“Or I assume that’s the implication,” I say to Benton.
“That’s what it’s sounding like,” he agrees, and thankfully the traffic is starting to move again. “But it doesn’t mean someone didn’t try to break into her home.”
“Apparently, Aurora Highlands is where she lives.” I’m reading on the Internet. “And her burglar alarm went off around two o’clock this morning.”
“The first I’ve heard of it, and that was more than fourteen hours ago,” Benton says. “Why all the hoopla now? What else has happened?”
“As we speak, she’s holding a press conference in her front yard, the protest obviously organized to coincide with it.” I continue passing on what I’m learning.
The police have responded to contain what’s sounding like a manufactured situation that’s creating havoc for area commuters. I have no doubt it’s intentional, I say to Benton as I continue glancing through the latest accounts while we creep across the bridge.