I try to take in the details with the unaffected eye of a cop, but I can feel the pound of outrage in my ears. The burn of embarrassment on my cheeks. A depth of sadness in my heart that surprises me.
“Is it her?” T.J.’s words snap me from my momentary fugue.
“Hard to tell.”
“They kept their faces angled away from the camera the duration of the video.”
“I can see why they don’t want people recognizing them. This is pretty raw stuff.” I glance at the folder in my hand. I don’t want to look at the other photos, but I don’t have a choice. “Get the domains and IP addresses to Tomasetti. Get BCI to run down the owners of the sites.”
“Sure.”
“In the interim, why don’t you cruise out to whoisit.com and see if you can come up with contact information or names.”
“Probably a long shot.”
“We might get lucky.”
I take the folder to my office so I can look at them in privacy. I’m midway there when the bell on the door jangles. I look over my shoulder to see Tomasetti enter, a cardboard tray filled with six biggie coffees in his hands. Glock brings up the rear holding a white paper bag. Despite my resolve to maintain an even keel, a small thrill that has absolutely nothing to do with coffee or doughnuts runs the length of me.
“Brain food,” Glock comments.
Skid enters behind Glock. “Gotta have a brain for that, dude.”
“Can’t you guys ever bring anything even remotely healthy?” Mona usurps the bag from Glock and carries it to the coffee station. “Does an apple fritter count as a fruit serving?”
“We’re cops,” Skid says. “We eat doughnuts.”
I feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me as I head toward my office. I know dodging him is a stupid reaction. We’re working together; more than likely, I’ll be dealing with him every day until the case is closed. But just the sight of him shakes me up a little.
Sliding behind my desk, I open the folder and start flipping through the photos. All depict young women in various stages of undress and engaging in some form of sex. Oral. Anal. Threesomes. All wear Amish clothing. Kapps. Plain dresses. Practical shoes. But all semblance of plain or practical ends there. The photos are triple X and difficult as hell to look at.
I arrange the photos into two piles. T.J. did a good job, but none of the women’s faces is fully visible. Of the twelve images, ten of them could be Mary Plank. All I can do at this point is give them to John and see if the BCI lab can magnify them and find some identifiable mark. A birthmark or scar I can connect to Mary Plank. There’s a chance his technology people will be able to identify the owners of the Web sites. From there, they may be able to locate the person who submitted the image.
My brain is still working that over when I look up to see Tomasetti standing in the doorway to my office. “T.J. said you had some photos.”
My eyes skitter away from his, but I force them back. “He got them off the Internet. Amish fetish stuff. A few could pass for Mary Plank.” I shrug. “Can you have someone at BCI take a look at the domains and IP addresses? Maybe we can find the owner of the site or at the very least find out who posted the pics.”
“We can try. The problem is that a lot of porn sites are based overseas where we have little or no control. Might take a while.”
Sighing, I look down at the two piles of photos. “These are the most promising.”
Taking the visitor chair across from me, Tomasetti reaches for the photos and begins flipping through them. I see his face darken. His brows knit. Frown lines appear on either side of his mouth. “Shit. Girls look young.”
“They do.” I reach for the case file, pull out one of the autopsy photos of Mary Plank and set it on the desktop between us for reference. “Can your lab enhance the photos? Maybe do some kind of comparison with the autopsy pic? If there’s a birthmark or something, we might be able to make a positive ID.”
“I’ll get it couriered this morning.” He focuses his attention on me. “You check out Long’s alibi?”
“Warner panned out. Seems pretty solid. But get this: he sold some folk art to Evelyn Steinkruger at the Carriage Stop.”
“So you can tie him to the shop.” He thinks about that a moment. “Does he know the Plank girl?”
“Says no.”
“What about the other truck owner?”
“Robert Allen Kiser.” I glance down at my notes. “Glock talked to him. Kiser was at the Lion’s Club meeting and reception that lasted until one A.M.”
“Substantiated?”
“By about a dozen witnesses.” I sigh. “After the reception, Kiser went home with his wife.”
“What’s Glock’s take on him?”
“Said he seemed like a pretty solid guy.”
“Everyone’s a solid fuckin’ guy.”
I don’t like the cynicism in his voice, but I feel that same sentiment growing inside me. I reach for the Speaker button and dial the switchboard.
“Mona, get me contact info and addresses for Glenda Patterson, will you?” Patterson is Scott Barbereaux’s girlfriend. “Work and home.”