I know it’s possible Long cut footage or otherwise edited the disk, and it only appears that while he’s standing on the far side of Mary, that hand is on her knee. I start clicking the mouse, trying to figure out how to enlarge the image. I can stumble through most computer programs, but by no means am I a whiz. The alcohol isn’t helping. But I need a closer look at the hand to see if there are any identifying marks.
The computer isn’t cooperating. I try a dozen ways to enlarge the image, but each time I lose too much resolution. I save the image to the hard drive and open it using different software. Finally, I succeed and almost immediately find what I’m looking for. Between the thumb and index finger, a scar the size of a dime stands out against tanned skin. I try to recall if Long had such a scar, but I don’t remember seeing one.
Before I even realize why I’m reaching for the phone, I’m dialing Doc Coblentz’s number. A sleepy-sounding woman answers on the sixth ring. A quick glance at my computer monitor tells me it’s almost midnight.
Hoping I sound sober, I ask for the doctor.
“Please tell me you don’t have another body,” Doc Coblentz says without preamble.
“Just a question,” I say quickly.
He grunts and I imagine him pushing himself to a sitting position. “By all means ask away,” he snaps.
“I’m reviewing some of the disks we found at the Todd Long suicide.”
The doc cuts in, perturbed. “And you’re doing that this time of night because . . .”
Quickly, I tell him about the hand and the scar. “I was wondering if you recall a scar like that on Todd Long’s right hand.”
“I’ll have to look at my report.” He sighs, resigned to getting up. “Give me a minute to grab the file.”
I hear shuffling on the other end of the line. The crackle of paper sounds and then the doc is back on the phone. “I’ve got a post mortem photo with a pretty good view of the right hand. There is no scar, Kate.”
“Thanks, Doc. I owe you one.”
“I’ll settle for a good night’s sleep.” He hangs up.
I dial Tomasetti’s number without setting down the phone. He answers on the fourth ring with a groggy snap of his name. It surprises me because he’s usually awake at this hour.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” I begin.
“I like it when you call me in the middle of the night.” His voice is deep and low. “What’s up?”
I tell him about the hand and scar.
“Are you sure Long didn’t have a scar?”
“I just verified it with the coroner.”
“I guess now all you have to do is find the man who belongs to the hand,” he says.
“I could circulate the photo and ask for the public’s help.”
“If he catches wind of it, he might run. The guy’s facing life in prison. Maybe the death penalty.”
“Pretty strong motivation.” I think about my options. “I could circulate the photo to area physicians.”
“Hit or miss at best. Guys that age don’t go to the doctor.”
Silence fills the line between us. I can practically hear our thought processes, like static voices zinging between us. But it’s the overtones of our more private thoughts that dominate.
“You go through all the disks?” he asks.
“Twice.”
“How much vodka did that take?”
I glance at the bottle. “A lot.”
“If I can get away, do you want me to come back down?”
“You have a meeting with the deputy superintendent, remember?”
“Won’t be the first meeting I’ve missed.”
“Tomasetti, I don’t want you jeopardizing your career for this.”
He sighs, a long, drawn out sound that makes me wish he was here. “Or your case.”
“I want you to come down.” My voice quiets. “But for all the wrong reasons.”
“You mean not necessarily for my cop skills?”
“That, too.”
We fall silent, then Tomasetti asks. “Have you had any luck identifying the location where these videos were taped?”
“There’s nothing distinguishable. I could probably send out a couple of guys to canvass some of the area motels, try to match up the décor. See if we can get a name that way.”
“Probably didn’t use a real name,” he says. “One of the clerks might recognize Mary Plank from a photo. If they have security cameras, you’ll have even more to go on. Might be worth a shot, Kate.”
I like the way he says my name. I want to say more, but the words aren’t there. I want to ask about the panic attacks. His job. I want to tell him I miss him. I want him to tell me he’s going to be all right. Instead, I tell him about Billy Zook’s inability to help us with the sketch.
“I talked to Deborah Kim when she got back.” He sighs. “Composite would have been a nice break.”
“Billy was the one I chased that night in the rain.” Across from me, my computer screen blinks into screensaver mode.
“If he’s a peeper, his being there makes sense.”
“Had the killers seen him that night, they probably would have killed him, too.”
“Right along with the others.”
I think about Billy Zook and all the ways his involvement might have played out. All the ways a composite sketch would have helped. I feel like I’m on the verge of some discovery—some breakthrough—but my mind hasn’t quite figured it out yet.
“What if Billy had identified the accomplice?” I ask.
“He didn’t.”