***
Our lovemaking that night was passionate and angry. He dug his fingers into me and pounded me with hard, bruising thrusts. He cried out when he came, then pulled out and turned away. I lay awake afterward, spent and sore, listening to him fall into a restless sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
I woke up with the sheet knotted around my legs. Drowsy, snug, and warm in my own private Idaho, I wondered what had jarred me awake. When the doorbell rang again, I thought about the frigid winter air stinging my skin and decided Rachel could get it. Then I remembered she wasn’t home. Grumbling, I threw off the quilt, wrapped myself in a robe, and headed downstairs.
Georgia Davis was at the door. Her face and voice were as cold as the ice rimming the windowsill. “You want to tell me why you called Mike Dolan about working on one of your tapes?”
My stomach clutched. “You’d—you’d better come in.”
But she just stood there, arms folded across her chest. “What are you trying to pull here, lady?”
“I—I’m sorry…this is all a huge misunderstanding.”
“I’m listening.”
David called down from upstairs, his voice stuffy with sleep. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” I said. “Go back to bed.”
An irritated silence followed. Did he sense I’d gotten involved in a “situation” again—after I promised I wouldn’t? Or was it something else? Nothing like having the whole world ticked off at you. It was only nine in the morning, but I had a craving for chocolate.
I turned back to Davis. “I—I made a copy of the tape. Before I brought it to you.”
“Why?”
“I thought…I didn’t know you would be handling the case. I thought I’d better have my own copy in case you—I mean the police—decided not to pursue it, or it got lost or something.”
“Or something?”
“I was also thinking I should have a record of it—in case—well—in case—”
“In case something happened to you?”
“Right.”
“So you made your own copy.”
“I was—I was going to tell you.”
“When? After it showed up on the ten o’clock news?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
She eyed me suspiciously. But then, why should she believe me? I was a video producer, and I used to work in television.
“I’d never go to the media. And I tried to tell you about it the other night.” The door was still open, and I started to shiver. “Please come in.”
After a moment, she did. I closed the door and motioned her into the kitchen. She didn’t move.
“No more bullshit. You wanted the tape so you could start playing around with it yourself, didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
“I want it,” she said. “And any other copies that exist. And just so you hear me loud and clear, I’ve already talked to the states attorney. I can get a court order in about an hour.”
I nodded. As I went into the family room to pull it out of my bag, I heard David shuffling around upstairs. How much had he overheard? I backtracked to the hall and handed it over.
She slipped it inside an evidence bag. “You’re skirting right up to the edge, you know. You can’t be out there freelancing. You could be jeopardizing my investigation. The last thing I need are problems with chain of custody.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “O’Malley warned me about you.”
I felt like a kid who’s been sent to the principal’s office.
“Look. Just let me do my job. Believe me, I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you.” She bit her lip, as if she’d unwittingly revealed something she wanted to keep private.
I took that as an opening. “I’m making coffee. You want some?”
She didn’t answer, but she made no move to leave. Deciding that meant yes, I went into the kitchen and busied myself with the coffeepot. She followed me in and leaned against a counter. As coffee slowly dripped into the pot I caught her studying the pictures that were taped to the fridge. In one of the shots, Rachel’s arm was looped around her friend Katie. In another her face was in extreme close-up, and she wore a maniacal grin. A third showed the two of us parking our bikes at the Botanic Gardens. David took it last summer.
The coffee-maker beeped. I filled a mug and handed it to her. “Sugar’s on the table.” I poured a second mug for myself.
She set down the coffee, unzipped her jacket, then lifted the mug with both hands. “Listen. We realize there’s got to be a reason the tape was sent to you. And, down the road, once we know what we’re dealing with, I might need more information from you. But you can’t be interfering right now.”
I nodded. We sipped our coffee in silence.
After a moment, she sighed. “But I know you’re concerned.” She glanced at the pictures of Rachel. “So I’m willing to make a deal with you. For her sake.”
I looked at her sideways.
“You stay out of my investigation, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
I thought about it. “It’s a fair deal.”
“It’s the only one you’re gonna get.”
I smiled. I could have sworn she cracked one, too, but she covered it with sips of coffee. In between, she swirled the liquid in the mug. I got the sense she was mulling something over, debating with herself. Finally, she looked up. “You know anything about video forensics?”
“Not much. We use some of the same filters when we edit. To vary contrast and brightness or sharpen the image. But the equipment in forensic systems is much more powerful.” I shrugged. “At least, that’s what I hear. I’ve never seen one in action. I’d like to.”
She arched her eyebrows. “How’d you find Dolan?”
“The Internet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How about you?”
Her eyebrows arched higher, as if she was surprised I had the nerve to ask. “Dolan has a longtime relationship with law enforcement,” she said after a pause.
I thought about the article he’d authored on the Web. “He’s not a cop.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.” I tried for an offhand tone.
She shot me a look.
“I don’t physically operate any editing equipment, but I can tell whether a tape is first, second, maybe even fifth generation. I can also tell whether any effects have been laid on. Sometimes what they were. That could be helpful…in the event it turns out to be a hoax.”
“You’re in no position—”
I laced my fingers around my mug. “You know, it may be the tape was sent to me because of my knowledge of video.”
Davis canted her head.
“Maybe whoever sent it wondered if it was a hoax, too. Maybe they wanted me to figure out if it was.”
“It didn’t look like a hoax to me.”
“Me neither, but it could be the sender doesn’t know.”
She crossed her arms.
Hey, I’d try anything.
“Well…” I said. “One thing’s for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“The quality of the image is going to look much better on a monitor at Dolan’s studio than it did on the VHS at the station. You lose detail every time you make a dub. I’m sure Dolan will be able to figure it out.”
We finished our coffee, eyeing everything in the room except each other. The trill of the phone broke our silence. I reached for it, temporarily giving Davis my back. It was Katie, wondering when Rachel would be home from Galena. I told her she’d call tomorrow. As I hung up and turned around, Davis was slipping something into her pocket. She put her mug down and zipped up her jacket.
“Well, I’ll be going now. Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re leaving?” I was flustered. “But what about—I mean—”
“Ellie, I’ll do my job. You do yours, okay?”
My shoulders sagged.
&n
bsp; She made her way to the door. “I appreciate you handing over the tape.” She hunched her shoulders against the cold and started out toward her Saturn.
“You know where to find me,” I called out. “If you need me.”
She lifted her hand in a wave.
I closed the door and went back into the kitchen. As I was gathering up the mugs, there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, Davis silently handed me a business card, then headed back to her car. I scanned the card. Emblazoned on the left was a six-pointed star, the logo of our village police. On the right the card read: “Officer Georgia Davis.” I turned it over. Scrawled in pen were the words: “Dolan. Monday. Ten A.M.”
CHAPTER TEN
Park Ridge has always been a schizophrenic suburb. Fourteen miles northwest of downtown Chicago, it’s unsure whether it wants to be the home to Little House on the Prairie or the Mall of America. You’ll be driving past neat frame bungalows, garden plots, and tall, graceful trees, when the street abruptly turns into a commercial venue crowded with strip malls, car dealers, and gas stations. But what can you expect from a town that originally went by the name of Pennyville?
I turned off Northwest Highway and headed south. Davis’ Saturn was parked off Touhy in the driveway of a tiny brick Cape Cod. Two dormer windows jutted through a steep, gabled roof. Bushes flanked the porch—junipers, I guessed, their boughs bent with the weight of the snow. A crooked path the width of a snow shovel led to the front steps.
A round of fierce barking greeted me as I reached the porch. “Good dog,” I chirped carefully. “You’re a good doggie, aren’t you?”
The barks changed to snuffles and whines, and nails scratched the other side of the door. I felt braver and rang the bell. Unfortunately, that prompted a fresh round of woofs, which were promptly silenced by a deep shout. “Raus!”
The barks stopped instantly.
The door was opened by a man whose upper body was so buff he could have passed for Arnold Schwarzenegger before he became a politician. I couldn’t tell much about his lower body because he was in a wheelchair, but he had bristly gray hair, a matching mustache, and deep-set eyes that were so blue they reminded me of the chroma key screen we use for effects. Or would have, had they not been narrowed in a deep scowl. Meanwhile, the dog, a long, slim creature that looked like a cross between a setter and collie, sat on tensed haunches, as if waiting for the command to attack. This was not the picture of gracious suburban living.
“Yeah?”
I recognized the gravelly voice from the phone. “Mike Dolan?”
“Who wants him?”
“I—I…my name is Ellie Foreman.”
His eyes tracked me up and down. “So?”
I sucked in a breath. I’m not a timid person. I operate in bold colors and seek out similar types. But I try not to dispense with common courtesy—it was something my mother drilled into me. I cloaked myself in an icy formality. “By any chance is Georgia Davis here?”
He didn’t answer.
I hoisted my bag farther up on my shoulder. This guy was either one of those bitter types who assume they can flout convention because they’re disabled, or he was just a jerk. Either way, I didn’t want to waste any more time finding out. Though I knew I was kissing off my chance to witness video forensics in action, I gathered up what was left of my dignity and turned to leave. I’d just made it off the porch when Davis appeared at the door.
She placed a hand on Dolan’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Mike. I told her to come.”
“She’s a civilian.”
So are you, I wanted to say.
“She’s the one who brought us the tape. And she knows something about video.”
He sniffed, then rolled his wheelchair back from the door. The dog followed him. “Well, if you don’t give a shit.…”
She nodded at him, then at me. She was dressed in jeans and a beige fisherman’s knit sweater. Her hair was pulled up with a barrette, but several strands had come loose. It gave her a softer, feminine look.
“Thanks,” I said.
She gave me a brief nod. I followed them across a comfortable living room with a blue sofa, working fireplace, and glossy hardwood floors into what should have been the dining room. Apart from the same hardwood floors, though, you’d never think it was part of the same house.
The two windows were covered with thick, dark material. In front of them a bank of equipment stretched from one wall to another. Monitors, speakers, A/V boards, and at least eight different video playback decks were stacked in a tower from floor to ceiling. I spotted a one-inch deck, a Beta SP, several half-inch VCRs, even an old three-quarter-inch pneumatic player. Nearby was a DVD player. A color video printer sat on a monitor stand.
A series of bays filled with what looked like purple mail slots lay at floor level. Green lights glowed above them. That had to be the Avid. Bisecting the stacks of equipment at chair level was a wide shelf with a phone, keyboard, and mouse. A small audio mixer was there, too. A warren of cables hung over everything.
The dog followed us in and, after sniffing my pants legs, laid his head on Dolan’s lap. Dolan scratched his ears. The dog retreated to a braided rug in the corner, circled it a couple of times, and flopped down, head on his paws. When Dolan smiled at the animal, his entire expression mellowed, and he looked almost human. Dolan, that is.
“What kind of dog is he?”
“A red-and-white setter.”
“Never heard of them.”
“About a hundred years ago they bred the white out to make Irish setters. But Jericho’s the real thing.”
At the sound of his name the dog pricked up his ears, but Dolan turned away and wheeled himself up to the shelf. Sighing mournfully, Jericho lowered his head.
I could relate.
“So, Davis,” he said, “let’s see what you got.”
Davis dug out both the original VHS and the digital cassette I’d made, and handed them over. He took the VHS, examined it, and laid it on the counter. Then he looked at the digital cassette. “Where’d you get this?”
Davis yanked her thumb in my direction.
He threw me a skeptical look. “You?”
I nodded.
“You’re that producer, aren’t you? The one who called the other day.”
“Nine hundred just to walk in the door.”
He looked from me to Davis, then back. I shoved my hands into my pockets, expecting to be told to get the hell off his property. Instead, he said, “Well, you get points for persistence.”
I relaxed.
“Since you’re here, Foreman, make yourself useful. Hit the power switches on the monitors.”
I did.
He picked up the VHS tape. “You do a field analysis on this, Davis?”
“We couldn’t. We have no idea where it was shot.”
“Which means you don’t know when it was recorded?”
“No.”
“Or how?”
“What do you mean how?”
“I mean how often the tape was recorded over.”
“How could I, Dolan?” Her voice spiked. “You know how we got it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” He examined the tape, then leaned over and slid it into a deck. Seconds later, the image of the woman in the room appeared on a monitor above our heads. Compared to normal TVs, the monitors in an editing suite have more lines and pixels, and render a sharper image. Though he hadn’t done anything to the tape, the image looked better already.
We watched the scene play out. I’d seen it several times, but I was drawn in again. The woman’s fatigue, the way she cased the room, the eagerness with which she greeted her killers—at least initially—was so familiar I could predict what she would do and when. It was discomforting, as if I knew her in some visceral, fundamental way. I stole a look at Davis, but her face was impassive. Dolan was quiet, too, making occasional notes on a yellow pad, until we got to the scene where the gun went off.
“Who screened this tape?” he barked.
“I did,” I said.
“So did I,” Davis added. “And Deputy Chief Olson.”
“How many times?”
Davis and I exchanged glances. “Twice, maybe three times.”
“Who put it on pause?”
She frowned. “We all did. Why?”
He glared at me. “You, too?”
I nodded.
“You should have known better.”
“What are you talking about?”
“See where it gets blurry?”
I squinted. Just as the gun was visible in the shot, the image did become slightly blurred. But you could only see it if you were looking for it. Dolan looked at me expectantly, shades of challenge on his face.
I stared at the screen, wondering what the hell he was talking about. Then I got it. “Shit.…You’re right.”
Davis looked worried. “About what?”
I ran a hand through my hair. “When you put a tape on pause, the tape stops running, but the heads of the machine don’t. They keep revolving. That causes friction on the tape where it’s paused and can make the tape degrade. I should have remembered that when we were screening it.”
Dolan dipped his head in acknowledgment.
Davis jumped in. “But we had to pause it. We were trying to identify the weapon.”
Dolan pointed to the image on the monitor. “You should have waited until you brought it to me. Avoid any risk of damage.”
Davis’ mouth tightened. “I didn’t know.”
“Next time you will,” Dolan said imperiously. He rewound the VHS and clicked on a few icons.
Davis and I exchanged another glance. I shrugged. “When do you start the enhancement?”
“After it’s digitized.” Two buttons on the monitor glowed red. “But we don’t use that word, enhance. We say clarify. Goes down better in court.”
Ten minutes later, the digitizing was done. Dolan double-clicked on an icon, and the image, now in a digital format that could be manipulated more easily, popped up in a new window on the right. A second window popped up beside it. Underneath both windows was a bar with an icon that looked like a hamburger in the center. When he clicked on it, a new set of menus appeared on the left.
“What now?” I pushed my chair closer.
An Image of Death Page 7
