"Can you get that? Can you make it out?"
"I can try," she said.
The zooms began. She punched in, saw the image decompose. She sharpened it, heightened contrast. The image streaked, and went dull, flat. She coaxed it back, reconstituted it. She moved closer, enlarging it. It was tantalizing. We could almost make an identification.
Almost, but not quite.
"Frame advance," she said.
Now, one by one, the frames clicked ahead. The image of the man was alternately sharper, blurred, sharp.
And then at last, we saw the waiting man clearly.
"No shit," I said.
"You know who he is?"
"Yes," I said. "It's Eddie Sakamura."
☼
After that, we made swift progress. We knew, without a doubt, that the tapes had been altered and the identity of the killer had been changed. We watched as the killer came out of the room, and moved toward the exit, with a regretful look back at the dead girl.
I said, "How could they change the killer's face in just a few hours?"
"They have very sophisticated mapping software," she said. "It's by far the most advanced in the world. The Japanese are becoming much better in software. Soon they will surpass the Americans in that, as they already have in computers."
"So they did it with better software?"
"Even with the best software it would be daring to try it. And the Japanese are not daring. So I suspect this particular job was not so hard. Because the killer spends most of his time kissing the girl, or in shadow, so you can't see his face. I am guessing they had the idea very late, as an afterthought, to make a change of identity. Because they saw that they only had to change this part coming up . . . . There, where he passes the mirror."
In the mirror, I saw the face of Eddie Sakamura, clearly. His hand brushing the wall, showing the scar.
"You see," she said, "if they changed that, the rest of the tape could pass. In all the cameras. It was a golden opportunity, and they took it. That is what I think."
On the monitors, Eddie Sakamura went past the mirror, into shadow. She ran it back. "Let's look."
She put up the reflection in the mirror, and step-zoomed in to the face until it broke into blocks. "Ah," she said. "You see the pixels. You see the regularity. Someone has done some retouching here. Here, on the cheekbone, where there is a shadow beneath his eye. Normally you get some irregularity at the edge between two gray scales. Here, the line is cleaned up. It has been repaired. And let me see— "
The image spun laterally.
"Yes. Here, too."
More blocks. I couldn't tell what she was looking at. "What is it?"
"His right hand. Where the scar is. You see, the scar has been added, you can tell from the way the pixels configure."
I couldn't see it, but I took her word for it. "Then who was the actual killer?"
She shook her head. "It will be difficult to determine. We have searched the reflections and we have not found it. There is a final procedure which I did not try, because it is the easiest of all, but it is also the easiest to change. That is to search the shadow detail."
"Shadow detail?"
"Yes, We can try to do image intensification in the black areas of the picture, in the shadows and the silhouettes. There may be a place where there is enough ambient light to enable us to derive a recognizable face. We can try."
She didn't sound enthusiastic about the prospects.
"You don't think it will work?"
She shrugged. "No. But we might as well try. It is all that is left."
"Okay," I said. "Let's do it."
She started to run the tape in reverse, walking Eddie Sakamura backward from the mirror toward the conference room, "Wait a minute," I said. "What happens after the mirror? We haven't looked at that part."
"I looked earlier. He goes under an overhang, and moves away, toward the staircase."
"Let's see it anyway."
"All right."
The tape ran forward. Quickly, Eddie Sakamura went toward the exit. His face flashed in the mirror as he went past it. The more often I saw it, the more fake that moment looked. It even seemed as if a small delay, a tiny pause, had been added to his movement. To help us make the identification.
Now the killer walked on, into a dark passage leading toward the staircase, which was somewhere around the corner, out of view. The far wall was light, so he was silhouetted. But there was no detail visible in the silhouette. He was entirely dark.
"No," she said. "I remember this part. Nothing here. Too dark. Kuronbō. What they used to call me. Black person."
"I thought you said you could do shadow detail."
"I can, but not here. Anyway, I am sure this part has been retouched. They know we will examine the section of tape on either side of the mirror. They know we will go in with pixel microscopes and scan every frame. So they will have fixed that area carefully. And they will blacken the shadows on this person."
"Okay, but even so— "
"Hey!" she said suddenly. "What was that?"
The image froze.
I saw the outline of the killer, walking away toward the white wall in the background, the exit sign above his head.
"Looks like a silhouette."
"Yes, but something is wrong."
She ran the tape backward, slowly.
As I watched, I said, "Machigai no umi oshete kudasaii." It was a phrase I had learned from one of my early classes.
She smiled in the darkness. "I must help you with your Japanese, Lieutenant. Are you asking me if there has been a mistake?"
"Yes."
"The word is umu, not umi. Umi is ocean. Umu means you are asking yes or no about something. And yes, I believe there may have been a mistake."
The tape continued backward, the silhouette of the killer coming back toward us. She sucked in her breath, in surprise.
"There is a mistake. I cannot believe it. Do you see it now?"
"No," I said.
She ran the tape forward for me. I watched as the man walked away in silhouette.
"There, do you see it now?"
"No, I'm sorry."
She was becoming irritable. "Pay attention. Look at the shoulder. Watch the shoulder of the man. See how it rises and falls with each step, in a rhythmic way, and then suddenly . . . There! You see it?"
I did. Finally. "The outline seemed to jump. To get bigger."
"Yes. Exactly. To jump bigger." She adjusted the controls. "Quite a lot bigger, Lieutenant. They tried to blend the jump into the up-step, to make it less conspicuous. But they did not try very hard. It is clear anyway."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means they are arrogant," she said. She sounded angry. I couldn't tell why.
So I asked her.
"Yes. Now it pisses me off," she said. She was zooming in on the image, her one hand moving quickly. "It is because they have made an obvious mistake. They expect we will be sloppy. We will not be thorough. We will not be intelligent. We will not be Japanese."
"But— "
"Oh, I hate them." The image moved, shifted. She was concentrating on the outline of the head, now. "You know Takeshita Noboru?"
I said, "Is that a manufacturer?"
"No. Takeshita was prime minister. A few years ago, he made a joke about visiting American sailors on a Navy ship. He said America is now so poor, the Navy boys cannot afford to come ashore to enjoy Japan. Everything is too expensive for them. He said they could only remain on their ship and give each other AIDS. Big joke in Japan."
"He said that?"
She nodded. "If I was American, and someone said that to me, I would take this ship away, and tell Japan to go fuck itself, pay for its own defense. You didn't know Takeshita said this?"
"No . . ."
"American news." She shook her head. "Such nothing."
She was furious, working quickly. Her fingers slipped on the controls, the image jumped back, lost definition. "Shit fuck."<
br />
"Take it easy, Theresa."
"Fuck, take it easy. We're going to score now!"
She moved in on the silhouetted head, isolating it, then following it, frame by frame. I saw the image jump larger, distinctly.
"You see, that is the join," she said. "That is where the changed image goes back to the original. Here on, it's original material on the tape. This is the original man walking away from us, now."
The silhouette moved toward the far wall. She proceeded frame by frame. Then the outline began to change shape.
"Ah. Okay. Good, what I hoped for . . ."
"What is it?"
"He is taking a last look. A look back at the room. See? The head is turning. There is his nose, and now, the nose is gone again, because he has turned completely. Now he is looking back at us."
The silhouette was dense black.
"Lot of good it does us."
"Watch."
More controls.
"The detail is there," she said. "It is like dark exposure on film. The detail has been recorded, but we cannot see it yet. So. . . . Now I have enhancement. And now I will get the shadow detail. . . . Now!"
And in a sudden, shocking moment, the dark silhouette blossomed, the wall behind flaring white, making a kind of halo around the head. The dark face became lighter, and we could see the face for the first time, distinctly and clearly.
"Huh, white man." She sounded disappointed.
"My God," I said.
"You know who he is?"
"Yes," I said.
The features were twisted with tension, the lip turned up in a kind of snarl. But the identity was unmistakable.
I was looking at the face of Senator John Morton.
☼
I sat back, staring at the frozen image. I heard the hum of the machinery. I heard water dripping into buckets, somewhere in the darkness of the laboratory. I heard Theresa breathing alongside me, panting like a runner who has finished a race.
I sat there and just stared at the screen. Everything fell into place, like a jigsaw puzzle that assembled itself before my eyes.
Julia Young: She has a boyfriend who travels a lot. She's always traveling. New York, Washington, Seattle . . . she meets him. She's madly in love with him.
Jenny, in the TV studio: Morton has a young girlfriend that's driving him crazy. Makes him jealous. Some young girl.
Eddie: She likes to cause trouble, this girl. She likes to make turmoil.
Jenny: I've seen this girl hanging around at parties with some of the Washington types for about six months now.
Eddie: She was a sick girl. She liked pain.
Jenny: Morton heads the Senate Finance Committee. The one that's been having hearings about this MicroCon sale.
Cole, the security guard, in the bar: They have the big guys in their pocket. They own 'em. We can't beat 'em now.
And Connor: Somebody wants this investigation to be over. They want us to give it up.
And Morton: So your investigation is formally concluded?
"Hell," I said.
She said, "Who is he?"
"He's a senator."
"Oh." She looked at the screen. "And why do they care about him?"
"He has a powerful position in Washington. And I think he has something to do with the sale of a company. Maybe other reasons, too."
She nodded.
I said, "Can we print a picture of this?"
"No. We don't have equipment for hard copies. The lab can't afford it."
"Then what can we do? I need something to take with me."
"I can take a Polaroid for you," she said. "Not great, but okay for now." She started poking around the lab, stumbling in the dark. Finally she came back with a camera. She moved close to the screen and shot several copies.
We waited for them to come out, standing in the blue light from the monitors.
"Thanks," I said. "For all your help."
"You are welcome. And I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"I know you expected it would be a Japanese man."
I realized she was speaking for herself. I didn't answer her. The pictures darkened. They were good quality, the image clear. As I slipped them in my pocket, I felt something hard there. I brought it out.
"You have a Japanese passport?" she said.
"No. It's not mine. It's Eddie's." I put it back in my pocket. "I have to go," I said. "I have to find Captain Connor."
"All right." She turned back to the monitors.
"What are you going to do?" I said.
"I will stay, and work more."
I left her, went out the back door, and made my way down the dark passageway to the outside.
Blinking in the harsh daylight, I went to a pay phone and called Connor. He was in the car.
"Where are you?" I said.
"Back at the hotel."
"What hotel?"
"The Four Seasons," Connor said. "It's Senator Morton's hotel."
"What are you doing there?" I said. "Do you know that —"
"Kōhai," he said. "Open line, remember? Call yourself a taxi and meet me at 1430 Westwood Boulevard. We will meet there in twenty minutes."
"But how— "
"No more questions." And he hung up.
I looked at the building at 1430 Westwood Boulevard. It had a plain brown facade, just a door with a painted number. On one side was a French bookstore. On the other side was a watch repair place.
I went up and knocked on the door. I noticed a small sign in Japanese characters beneath the numbers.
Nothing happened, so I opened the door. I found myself in an elegant, tiny sushi bar. It had only four seats for customers. Connor was alone there, sitting at the far end. He waved to me. "Say hello to Imae. The best sushi chef in Los Angeles. Imae-san, Sumisu-san."
The chef nodded and smiled. He put something on the shelf before my seat. "Kore o dōzo, Sumisu-san."
I sat down. "Dōmo, Imae-san."
"Hai."
I looked at the sushi. It was some kind of pink fish eggs, with a raw yellow egg yolk sitting on top. I thought it looked revolting.
I turned to Connor.
He said "Kore o tabetakoto arukai?"
I shook my head. "Sorry. You lost me."
"You'll have to work on your Japanese, for your new girlfriend."
"What new girlfriend?"
Connor said, "I thought you would thank me. I gave you all that time with her."
"You mean Theresa?"
He smiled. "You can do much worse, kōhai. And I gather you have, in the past. Anyway, I asked you if you knew what that was." He pointed to the sushi.
"No, I don't."
"Quail egg and salmon roe," he said. "Good protein. Energy. You need it."
I said, "Do I have to?"
Imae said, "Make you strong for girlfriend." And he laughed. He said something quickly in Japanese to Connor.
Connor replied, and the two had a good laugh.
"What's funny?" I said. But I wanted to change the subject, so I ate the first of the sushi. If you got past the slimy texture, it was actually very good.
Imae said, "Good?"
"Very good," I said. I ate the second one, and turned to Connor. "You know what we found on those tapes? It's unbelievable."
Connor held up his hand. "Please. You must learn the Japanese way to have relaxation. Everything in its place. Oaisō onegai shimasu."
"Hai, Connor-san."
The sushi chef produced the bill, and Connor peeled off money. He bowed and there was a rapid exchange in Japanese.
"We're leaving now?"
"Yes," Connor said. "I've already eaten, and you, my friend, can't afford to be late."
"For what?"
"For your ex-wife, remember? We'd better go to your apartment now, and meet her."
I was driving again. Connor was staring out the window. "How did you know it was Morton?"
"I didn't," Connor said. "At least, not until this morning. But it was clear to me
last night that the tape had been altered."
I thought of all the effort that Theresa and I had gone to, all the zooming and inspection and image manipulation. "You're telling me you just looked at the tape, and you could tell?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"There was one glaring error. Remember when you met Eddie at the party? He had a scar on his hand."
"Yes. It looked like an old burn scar."
"Which hand was it on?"
"Which hand?" I frowned. I thought back to the meeting. Eddie in the cactus garden at night, smoking cigarettes, flicking them away. Eddie turning, moving nervously. Holding the cigarettes. The scar had been on . . . "His left hand," I said.
"That's right," Connor said.
"But the scar appears on the tape, too," I said. "You see it clearly when he walks past the mirror. His hand touches the wall for a moment— "
I stopped.
On the tape, his right hand had touched the wall.
"Jesus," I said.
"Yes," Connor said. "They made a mistake. Maybe they got confused about what was a reflection and what wasn't. But I imagine they were working hastily, and they couldn't remember which hand it was, and they just added the scar anyway. Mistakes like that happen."
"So last night, you saw the scar on the wrong hand . . ."
"Yes. And I knew at once that the tape was changed," Connor said. "I had to prepare you to analyze the tape in the morning. So I sent you to SID, to get names of places that would work on the tape. And then I went home to bed."
"But you allowed us to arrest Eddie. Why? You must have known that Eddie wasn't the killer."
"Sometimes, you have to let things play out," Connor said. "It was clear we were meant to think that Eddie killed the girl. So: play it out."
"But an innocent man died," I said.
"I wouldn't call Eddie innocent," Connor said. "Eddie was in this up to his neck."
"And Senator Morton? How did you know it was Morton?"
"I didn't, until he called us in for that little meeting today. Then he gave himself away."
"How?"
"He was smooth. You have to think about what he actually said," Connor said. "Wedged in between all the bullshit, he asked us three times if our investigation was finished. And he asked us if the murder had anything to do with MicroCon. When you think about it, that's a very peculiar question."
Michael Crichton - Rising Sun Page 28