I set the box on my desk. Reviewing them is the last thing I want to do. I know the images that wait for me—rape and depravity—will negate whatever optimism Tomasetti left with me. But even though Long is dead and the case will soon be closed, all the evidence must still be examined.
Rising, I close my office door and slide the first disk into my computer. The drive whirs. I open Windows and click Play. The video opens to a sparsely furnished, windowless room. Stark white walls. A single bulb hangs down from the ceiling. A twin-size bed with an iron headboard and smaller footboard stands in the center of the room. Mary Plank is on the bed, lying on her side. She wears no makeup, but someone painted her mouth red. Her eyes are glazed. She wears a light blue dress, a white apron, gauzy kapp and ankle boots. I try to take in these details with the unaffected eye of a cop. But my chest tightens at the sight of her.
A man clad in blue jeans and wearing the jester mask enters stage right. Bastard, I think and I find myself glad Long stuck that gun in his mouth. He crosses to the mattress and kneels beside Mary. Leaning close, he whispers something in her ear. She smiles at him, then looks at the camera. “We’re going to be playing a sexy game today,” she says.
It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice, and it shocks me. It’s girlish and innocent with the slow inflection of the Amish. Smiling, she reaches for Long. He brushes his knuckles across her check, and I see a connection between them I hadn’t noticed before. The music begins. An old Van Halen song, “Running with the Devil.” As he undresses her, I focus on camera work, realize it’s steady, probably being shot from a tripod.
I fast-forward through the disk, pausing only when something catches my attention. In terms of an accomplice, my efforts net zero. By the time the disk plays out, I’m shaking with outrage and disgust. I feel dirty and upset and unbearably guilty.
Popping out the disk, I mark it as Read, and place it with the other disks that have been viewed. I don’t let myself think or feel as I slide the second disk into the drive. I steel myself against the black dread rising inside me. The voice inside my head telling me I can’t do this. But I don’t stop. I close the drive and click Play.
My pulse jumps when I recognize the Plank farmhouse. The living room. I see the two tall windows, the same lacy curtains. The lighting is bad, probably from some type of battery-powered light. The camera work is jerky, similar in style to The Blair Witch Project, telling me someone is manning the camera. I wonder if this video was shot the night of the murders. Or had Long been at the farmhouse before? And where are the Planks?
The screen goes black for an instant, blinks white, and then the kitchen looms into view. The camera work smoothes out, and I realize he must have set up a tripod. I can see the edge of the table from this angle. The back door. The cabinets and sink. It looks like unedited video. Long appears, adjusting the camera or maybe testing the lighting. He looks into the lens as if he doesn’t realize the camera’s turned on. He’s got a serious look on his face. Is he angry? I wonder. Scared? Intent on killing? Is he about to fly into a rage?
The screen fades to black. The words Death in an Amish Farmhouse appear in red, Gothic-style lettering that reminds me of some high school horror film project. The screen goes scratchy. An instant later the image of Amos Plank lying on the floor flashes in stark black and white. I see a pool of shiny black blood. An open mouth and staring eyes . . . The image lasts for only an instant, but it’s enough to make me queasy.
The camera pans back to the Plank kitchen. No movement. No people. That’s when I realize I’m probably looking at unedited clips that were cut or not used. I think of the title and wonder if I’m seeing snippets of a snuff film. . . .
Staving off a rolling wave of revulsion, I stare at the screen, looking for clues. Doc Coblentz estimated the Planks had died between ten P.M. and midnight. It would have been dark. My eyes go to the back door, but the lighting inside reflects off the darkened window. I hit a couple of keys and zoom in. One hundred and ten percent. One hundred and twenty-five. I squint at the screen. The window is dark. It’s nighttime.
That’s when I notice the pale oval on the other side of the glass. At first I think it’s a reflection. The person behind the camera. I hit the zoom again, taking it up to one hundred and fifty percent. The resolution goes grainy. But I’m almost certain someone is standing outside the back door, looking in. I can see the dark shadows of eyes. The line of a mouth.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
I hit Speaker and speed dial Tomasetti’s cell. He answers on the first ring with his usual growl.
“Do you know someone at BCI who can magnify and improve video?” I ask without preamble.
“I’m still on the road. What’s up?”
I tell him about the face in the window. “When I zoom, I lose resolution, so I’m not getting a clear image.”