Page 112 of Unnatural Death

“Carrie’s companion in the video,” I say to Benton.

“Yana Popova.” He kicks the AR-9 assault rifle away from the body. “Carrie Grethen’s top lieutenant.”

Her eyes are partially open, two bullet holes in her forehead. Her lips are parted, her gold front teeth shining through redness.

“It appears she’s had extensive dental work since I saw her on the video yesterday,” I say to Benton as he grabs a pair of exam gloves from a box. “The woman with Carrie had damage to her front teeth, likely from a childhood exposure to medication.”

“You’re as baffled as I am,” he says. “We didn’t know she was here. Obviously.”

“And I’m going to venture a guess that Nan Romero was her dentist. Possibly also a lover based on what Fruge told me about spotting Nan in a bar with someone who sounded foreign,” I reply as Benton pulls on gloves. “I bet we’re going to find it was Yana Popova’s fingerprints and DNA on the painter’s tape.”

“She was preparing to return to Russia and was getting rid of people she’d had any association with,” Benton decides. “Anyone with potential information, including about dental work.”

He bends down to pick up the rifle, pulling back the bolt, rendering the weapon safe. Dropping out the magazine, he shows me that it’s loaded with the yellow-tipped copper bullets.

“I’m going to venture a guess that Carrie knitted together that Dark Web video,” Benton says. “The Yana we saw her with was an avatar. She wasn’t present when Carrie was making her recruitment spiel. After the fact, the avatar was added.”

“One created before Yana had her front teeth crowned,” I reply as I hear car engines over the camera microphones again. “She wasn’t with Carrie when that video was made in the Yaroslavl Oblast region of Russia. Yana was here, probably right down the road in Nokesville.” In the video display red and blue lights are flashing in my parking lot.

“I’ll be damned.” Benton is inspecting the exoskeleton, careful not to step in blood spreading over tile. “We knew about this sort of thing, but it’s not what I was expecting to see.”

Since the Russians invaded Ukraine, they’ve been developingIron Mancombat gear. Battery-powered and lightweight, it can protect against armor-piercing ammo. The robotically assisted exoskeletons look like something out of a sci-fi movie. Only they’re real and being used even as we speak, Benton explains.

“We’ve been worried what a problem it would be if technologies like this got into the wrong hands. And that’s what has happened,” he’s saying. “Imagine even half a dozen violent extremists outfitted like this. We couldn’t stop them from scaling the White House fence or anything else. The K-9s would be no match. Neither would the Capitol Police.”

The Russians have been subsidizing fringe terrorist factions in the U.S. for years. That’s one of their specialties. And then there’s the Chinese, who are implanting sensors into human brains so that they can interact with armor made of space-age composites and are battery-powered, my husband is telling me.

“We’re talking about transforming soldiers, police, astronauts into hybridized robots,” Benton says as footsteps hurry toward us along the corridor.

I can hear police radios and people talking, and Norm is with them, the outrageous phony leading the charge as they push through the autopsy suite’s doors. He’s acting like he’s vigilant and cares. He’s showing off, and I’m suddenly so damn furious.

“Norm, you’re done,” I tell him as officers stare in shock at the armor-clad body dead on the tile floor.

“What the hell?” one of them says incredulously.

“Star Wars?” another adds, stepping closer.

“Jesus. I’ve never seen anything like this before …”

“Turn over your gate opener and keys now. You’re fired,” I tell Norm. “Would one of you be so kind as to escort him out to his Suburban?” I ask the police. “He’s not to leave before turning over our property.”

“You can’t fire me because I quit, bitch.” Norm’s hands are clenched in fists, and Benton gets in his face.

“You’d be wise to shut your fucking mouth,” my husband tells him.

EIGHT DAYS LATER

INSIDE THE FIREARMS LAB, Faye Hanaday is waiting for me when I walk in at five p.m. It’s Friday, November 10, and she and Fabian are invited to a celebratory dinner at the house. But they won’t come. I’m hoping to change her mind. I doubt I can because Faye’s a caretaker. She’s not selfish and Fabian is getting less that way.

“It’s not just because we’re flying off to Baton Rouge at the crack of dawn. But we’re planning on an early night,” Faye explains while peering into the binocular eyepieces of her comparison microscope. “We’ll have to get up around fourA.M.,and I’m not looking forward to that, Doctor Scarpetta. Can you believe Fabian wants to introduce me to his parents?”

“Sounds serious.”

“I’m not ready for serious.”

“He’s pretty special.”

“I know.” She smiles.

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