“It’s worth a shot—we can always back up.”
Okay. Ten minutes it was. Ten minutes of hell, she had no doubt.
Ronnie tensed, unable to control the tiniest hint of unease. If watching the final hours of a death row inmate had been difficult, how would it be with a murder victim, a nice, pretty young woman whose biggest crime might have been having a secret boyfriend? Not just that, they’d be watching them life-size, in all their three-dimensional evil.
Sight was such a personal, intimate thing. Part of the brilliance of Dr. Tate’s chip was that it almost seemed able to convey the emotional response of the implantee, to make his or her feelings come alive for whoever saw the pictures later. The panicked shifting of attention back-and-forth between objects heightened tension and built fear. A long, covetous stare so easily displayed want or desire. A tender gaze on a beloved face was soft and unmistakable. Tears not only blurred the vision but evoked such regret, such sadness, it was enough to make her eyes sting.
There was no way to remain impersonal in this job. No way to view these as crime scene photos, taken hours later after the heat of the crime had cooled and the victim’s soul, if there was such a thing, had long since departed. There would be no CSI crew, no rookies putting up yellow tape, no witnesses clamoring to tell the tale, no jaded cops cracking jokes while secretly feeling queasy. This was just victim and predator.
And Ronnie and Sykes. They would be in this—in Leanne’s head, in Leanne’s murder—the moment they started to watch, whether they stepped onto that mat or not. It was the ultimate voyeurism, the mind rape of a dead woman.
It’s also your job and it’s the best chance for justice that woman’s got. So stop the mental hand-wringing and get to it.
She set up the projector, remembering Dr. Cavanaugh’s instructions.
“We’re not going inside this first time, right?” Sykes confirmed.
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah. I think it would take a lot of mental preparation for that.”
“Or a lot of alcohol.”
She scrolled to the last ten minutes of Leanne Carr’s life, highlighted the entire list of images—six-hundred of them—drew them into a slideshow and set the speed on its slowest setting. For now, she wanted to see each picture individually, to note and interpret each impression. Later, she’d speed things up and watch the events closer to real-time. Obviously, people didn’t go through their lives capturing visual images only every second. The human brain processed what the eye saw much faster than that. The average movie, for instance, displayed roughly twenty-four frames per second. So seeing the quickest possible progression of a series of still images recorded from someone’s eyes made the experience seem more lifelike—and less like a series of drawings in one of those old-fashioned cartoon flip-books.
For right now, though, the one-by-one approach would be best for noting specific clues. It would also be easier on her, would allow her to build one small wall of separation between herself and the victim, to remind her brain that these were pictures of something that had happened in the past, not something she was truly experiencing right now.
She needed to dip her toe into this icy cold pool of death, not dive into the deep end.
Ronnie grabbed the remote control, then swiveled her chair, too filled with tension to even regret having moved fast enough to jiggle her aching head. Sykes did the same thing, scooting his chair closer to hers until they sat side by side. Ronnie looked at him, silently asking a question, and he nodded that he was ready.
She clicked the Start button and the lights in the room immediately went down, the better to see the projected images before them. A pause as tense expectation filled the air, and her heart began to beat in time with each screen change.
The movie of Leanne’s mind began.
Dark. So dark. Eyes closed? No. Open. Just dark. Cave-like. Claustrophobic. Terrifying.
Lids half closed.
Blink.
Open.
Images take shape. Glint of green. Exit sign nearby. The only light.
It’s enough.
Shadows. Stillness. Nothing moves. Alone. Abandoned.
On the ground. On her back. Looking up. Rough ceiling. Bare bulb. Unlit. Wires. Pipes. Sprinkler head. Entrance to stairs. Escape? Impossible. Empty. No help coming.
Picture’s blurry. Tear-filled. Red. Blood?
Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Eyes closed. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
Eyes open. New image. Head turned. Concrete block. The wall. Pale. Chalky surface. Eerie. Ghostlike. Rough.
Spots on it. Blood. Her blood. Leanne’s blood. So much blood. Turn away. Look away. Don’t look. Blink. Don’t look. Blink. Can’t stop. Must look. Must understand?
Eyes close.
Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
Open. Light. Exit sign. Focus on it. Light in the dark. A glimmer of hope.
No. No hope. No exit. No escape. No rescue. No chance.
Eye movement slow. Lethargic. Death is near.
Head turns. Slow motion. Inch by inch. Hurts to move. So much pain.
Back to ceiling. Spot on ceiling. Water stain on ceiling. Why water stain on ceiling? Her blood on ceiling?
Eyes close. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
Eyes open. Hand lifted off floor. Staring at hand. Twitching finger. One twitching finger. Others gone. Bloody stumps. Just…gone.
Finger pointing. Pointing. Hand raised. Pointing. At what? Staring. What is it?
Tools. Left behind. Construction tools. Workers tools. Heavy equipment. Circular saw. Jackhammer. Lathe. Use them? Did he use them? Cut her with them? Tools of torture? No. They’re not bloody. So why the pointing? Takes effort to point. Such effort. Such pain. Still pointing. Why? Why? Blood dripping. Bloody stumps. Why?
Gaze jerks. Frantic looks. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Stairs. Ceiling. Is he coming back? Where was he? Is this the end? Will he finish it now?
Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Hide in the darkness. Squeeze eyes shut. Don’t look. Don’t see. Don’t let it be true. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
Eyes open. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Have to look. Have to see. Have to study. Have to leave a clue.
Stairs. Ceiling. Light. Light. Bright. Oh, God, bright light. Blinding.
On his head. Why does his head glow? A helmet. Miner’s helmet. Bright flashlight. Whiting out the world..
Eyes narrow. Close. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
Sliver of light. Trying to see. Trying to peek. Must see. Capture his image. Capture his face. Name her killer.
Squinting. Down low. The floor. Away from the light. Protect eyes from the light. Study the feet. Look at the shoes. Dark shoes. Black shoes. Old shoes. Scuffed shoes. Maybe boots? Can't tell. Covered by pants. Dark pants. Black pants. Blood-spattered pants. Long. Hang over shoes.
Eyes shift. Up the legs. Thick legs. Long. Man’s legs. Powerful legs. Blood-spattered legs.
Higher. Black shirt. Long. Hangs over pants. Loose. Nondescript. Blends in. Dark in the darkness. Black in the blackness.
Hands. Such powerful hands. Black gloves. Leather. Soft. Wet. Dripping wet. Dripping red. Blood droplets falling.
Her blood. Life falling away. Drop by drop.
Higher. Look higher. The face. The face. The face.
The light! Oh, God the light. Hurts..
Eyes close. Light still stabs. Flashing. Flashbulbs? Camera? Pain. Pain. Terror. Pain.
Open again. He’s kneeling. Face invisible. That damn light!
But hands. Hands are visible. Hands are holding something.
A saw. God help me, a saw. He’s going to use a saw.
Going to cut and saw and split and tear and gash and rupture and gouge and rip and rend and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt.
Tears. Blood. Head moving. Back. And forth. And back. And forth.
No. No. No. Please, no. No. Please. Please.
Go
d. Help me. Let me die. Let it end. Please.
Eyes close.
Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
Nothing but darkness.
The eyes never reopen.
-#-
The system knowing the show was over, the room lights came back up as soon as the last 3-D image disappeared from the projection pad.
For a long time after the slideshow ended, Ronnie just sat in the chair, inhaling—slowly. Exhaling—slowly. Reminding her heart to beat. Telling her lungs to send oxygen out to all the cells of her body. Ordering her tear ducts to hold tight. Trying to remind herself that she was alive, that the terror wasn’t hers, that the thoughts hadn’t been hers, the fear, the pain, the anguish, the sadness, the nightmare hadn’t been hers.
But oh, God, had it felt like she’d owned it. She had lost herself in those images, had imagined thoughts and feelings and pleas, not sure if she was making them up in her head, empathizing or somehow channeling things Leanne had really thought and felt and said.
Those fingers. That bloody hand. The agony, the effort it must have taken to hold it up.
She couldn’t conceive of it. Couldn’t even imagine what other parts of Leanne Carr had already been brutally cut off before that point. Had her feet been gone yet? Her ears? Her breasts?
How could any human being do that to another person—hurt them so much—yet not finish it and bring on the blessed relief of death? As she’d suspected when she’d first heard the forensics report, this sick monster had made a banquet off Leanne’s death. He’d savored every last bite of it. He had to have, otherwise there was absolutely no reason to keep her alive for so long.
Sykes was also silent, sitting rigidly in his chair, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he did the same thing she was trying to do: deal with what they’d seen. When she cast a quick peek at him, she noted his lips moving, as if he were mumbling something under his breath. Leaning a bit closer, she heard him reciting numbers. Counting backward, from twenty-nine, to twenty-eight, and on down.
He continued until he reached zero. Then, and only then, did he speak.
“Looks like he was working alone. At least at the end.”
Realizing he’d counted back from one hundred in order to bring his emotions under control, she reminded herself to try that trick sometime. He seemed calm, reasonable, even if that tone did contrast sharply with the luminous glint in his blue eyes that made her suspect they’d grown wet during the slideshow.
“He’s also big,” Sykes added. “Without much background to gauge against, I’d still guess his shoes were at least a size twelve.”
She’d caught that, too. “There was one screen where you could see his shoe in relation to the circle of green light cast by the Exit sign. I’m sure we can get Dr. Cavanaugh or one of her people to give us a size on that and we can come up with a pretty close estimate.”
“Excellent.”
Silence again. Considering, absorbing, thinking.
Packaging. She, at least, was packaging her emotions, parceling out the anger and the grief and putting them into separate compartments in her mind, keeping only the analytical skill and the cop intuition at the forefront.
“The miner’s helmet,” he said, “was unexpected.”
“Very.”
Disguising himself all in black had been a good start in obscuring his identity for the camera, but blinding his victim—and the O.E.P. device—with painfully bright light had been a master stroke. He’d been practically invisible behind that light once he’d appeared on the screen.
“That’s not the type of thing you’d have lying around in your car. He planned carefully and brought that with him.”
“Our job just got a lot harder, didn’t it?” she asked. “There’s no way he didn’t know about the device. I mean, it seemed pretty likely before, but that pretty well confirms it.”
“I’m afraid so.” Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re going to have to go back.”
“I know.”
She didn’t swivel her chair and reach for the keyboard, needing just one minute more.
Sykes didn’t ask her if she was okay, and she appreciated that. Because only someone without an ounce of humanity would be able to describe themselves as okay after what they’d just seen. She wouldn’t be okay for quite a while. But she didn’t have to be okay to do her job. She just needed to be vigilant. And observant. And strong.
Finally, when she’d prepared herself as much as she could, she turned her chair and began to build a new slideshow. “I guess we should go all the way back to the beginning.”
“Of the day? Or from her arrival at the White House.”
“Let’s take it from her arrival at work that morning. Something drove her out to Patriot Square. Maybe we’ll get lucky and see what made her do it.”
And if not, maybe they’d at least be able to see who she’d bumped into when she got there, perhaps catch a glimpse of whoever it was who’d hit her with that stun gun. Ronnie didn’t imagine the suspect hadn’t caught her by surprise, in an attempt to conceal his identity—he’d certainly taken pains to do so later. But everybody made mistakes. It would just take one slip-up, one reflection in a window, one glimpse of a profile, or a sleeve of a suit or a uniform. Anything.
They began again. This time, Ronnie set the speed a little faster, but clutched the remote controller tightly in her hand so she could pause the sequence if they noted anything important. With several hours worth of images to get through, they didn’t need to focus on every individual one, especially those from first thing in the morning.
The room darkened.
Leanne’s work day rose out of the floor like a misty memory. Ghosts and wisps of the past gained shape and took form.
And they were right there with her.
Things went fine initially, but at about 9:48 a.m., when Leanne was at her desk, working at the Phoenix Group office, the images blacked out.
Jeremy muttered a curse. “Dr. Cavanaugh said there were spots she was unable to recover.”
God, did she hope they didn’t lose the conversation, message or phone call that had driven Leanne to her death. No, she didn’t expect that they’d be lucky enough to see the name or phone number in a caller I.D. box from a pivotal call, or see her directed to go out to the site by her boss or someone else she worked with, but it was at least possible.
She fast-forwarded. The scene picked up again about six minutes later. A bathroom shot. Awkward, embarrassing. So intrusive. She sped up. Sykes didn’t say a word.
Back in the office. Ten minutes later. Leanne at her desk.
Their victim spends the next half-hour working. They see her hands on her keyboard, typing like a madwoman, jotting notes, answering phones, having conversations with smiling co-workers who pop their heads in her doorway. Busy day, busy woman. Energetic, happy woman from the vibe of these shots.
“They were all excited about the celebration,” Ronnie mused.
“I’m sure they were. They’d been working on it a long time.”
Eleven a.m. Leanne’s boss enters, just as he’d said during the interview. They speak briefly, he smiles broadly. Williams reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder, his expression earnest. He looks like he is congratulating her. Thanking her. Giving her all the strokes and kudos a good boss would give an excellent employee. There is certainly nothing intimate about the exchange.
“Damn,” she muttered. “I’d kind of liked him for this.”
“That’s Williams? Head of the Phoenix Group?”
“Yes. You haven’t met him yet?”
“No, but I read the FBI file on him when I first flew down the other day.”
“The FBI has a file on him?”
He raised a brow. “You really think somebody who got the contract to rebuild the White House isn’t going to draw some attention?”
“Oh. And he seems on the up and up?”
“Looked that way. Rich, spoiled
ex-Senator’s son from Florida. His granddaddy founded a multi-national corporation that makes super-exclusive yachts.”
That explained a lot.
“He used family money to start his own global construction business. Married more money. Became a big success and then landed this job, supposedly because of his retired daddy’s connections in Washington.”
“Not exactly the type to slaughter his secretary in the basement of the White House.”
“Not on paper, anyway.”
She sighed and turned her attention back to the screen.
More chatting. More writing. Printing something out. Leanne ate a yogurt and a banana, eating with one hand while busy continuing to work with the other. A woman Ronnie recognized as a receptionist from her visit to the office the other day popped in. Smiled. Spoke. Waved goodbye.
It was after one now. Time was growing short. Something had to happen soon.
Another black-out. This one lasted about six minutes.
When the pictures resume, they show Leanne primping in a hand-mirror, staring at herself as she fixes her makeup, plucking a stray hair, pursing her lips.
“Wonder who she’s expecting,” Sykes said.
“Or where she’s off to.”
The smiling victim rubbed lipstick off her teeth. Fluffed her hair.
“Did we miss it?” Ronnie asked, wondering if during that blackout there had been a call from Leanne’s mystery-man. Had he asked her to come meet him for some kind of assignation at the White House? Of course, that would mean he had a high security clearance since nobody should have been there at that point.
Unless he’d been using those phantom tunnels.
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s just getting ready to go to the celebration.”
Ronnie checked the time stamp. 12:55. “Maybe. But it’s still a little early. Her boss told Daniels he expected her around 1:45.”
Not too early for her to have left for the big event, but Leanne seemed like the type who would have stayed in the office until the last possible moment, holding down the fort, ready to douse any potential fires. But why else would she be primping if not to leave for the celebration? Could someone be coming up to visit her? Maybe bring her lunch?
Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) Page 16