The whole time, Byrne just stood back, listening, observing. This was his style. On the other hand, he'd been on the job more than twenty years, Jessica thought. He had a lot more experience distrusting feds.
Sensing a territorial skirmish, good-natured or otherwise, Buchanan inserted the tape into one of the VCRs and hit PLAY.
After a few seconds, a black-and-white image rolled to life on one of the monitors. It was a feature film. Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho, the 1960 film starring Anthony Perkins and Janet Leigh. The picture was a little grainy, the video signal blurry around the edges. The scene that was cued up on the tape was well into the film, beginning where Janet Leigh, having checked into the Bates Motel, and having shared a sandwich with Norman Bates in his office, was preparing to take a shower.
As the film unspooled, Byrne and Jessica glanced at each other. It was clear that Ike Buchanan wouldn't have called them in for a horror classic morning matinee but, at the moment, neither detective had the slightest clue what this was all about.
They continued to watch as the movie rolled on. Norman removing the oil painting from the wall. Norman peeking through the crudely cut hole in the plaster. Janet Leigh's character-Marion Crane-undressing, slipping on her robe. Norman walking up to the Bates house. Marion stepping into the bathtub and shutting the curtain.
Everything seemed normal until there was a glitch in the tape, the type of slow, vertical roll produced by a crash edit. For a second the screen went black; then a new image appeared. It was immediately clear that the movie had been recorded over.
The new shot was static, a high-angle view of what looked like a motel bathroom. The wide-angle lens showed a sink, toilet, bathtub, a tile floor. The light level was low, but there was enough brightness thrown by the fixture above the mirror to illuminate the room. The black-and- white image had a coarse look to it, like the image produced by a webcam or an inexpensive camcorder.
As the tape continued, it appeared that someone was in the shower with the curtain pulled closed. The ambient sound on the tape yielded the faint noise of water running, and every so often the shower curtain billowed out with the movement of whoever was standing in the tub. A shadow danced on the translucent plastic. Beneath the sound of the water was a young woman's voice. She was singing a song by Norah Jones.
Jessica and Byrne looked at each other again, this time with the knowledge that this was one of those situations when you know you are watching something you shouldn't be seeing, and by the very fact that you were watching it, something bad was imminent. Jessica glanced at Cahill. He seemed riveted. A vein pulsed in his temple.
On the screen, the camera remained stationary. Steam emerged from above the shower curtain, slightly blurring the top quarter of the picture with condensation.
Then, suddenly, the bathroom door opened and a figure entered. The slender person appeared to be an elderly woman with gray hair pulled back into a bun. She wore a flower-print calf-length housedress and a dark cardigan sweater. She held a large butcher knife. The woman's face was not visible. The woman had a man's shoulders, a man's deportment and bearing.
After a few seconds' hesitation the figure drew back the curtain, and it became clear that there was a naked young woman in the shower, but the angle was too steep, and the picture quality too poor, to even begin to ascertain what she looked like. From this vantage, all that could be determined was that the young woman was white and probably in her twenties.
Instantly the reality of what they were watching settled upon Jessica like a pall. Before she could react, the knife held by the shadowy figure descended upon the woman in the shower over and over, ripping at her flesh, slicing her chest, arms, stomach. The woman screamed. Blood spouted, splashing the tile. Gobbets of torn tissue and muscle slapped the walls. The figure continued to viciously stab the young woman, over and over and over, until she slumped to the floor of the tub, her body a horrible crosshatch of deep, gaping wounds.
Then, as quickly as it began, it was over.
The old woman ran from the room. The showerhead washed the blood down the drain. The young woman didn't move. A few seconds later there was a second crash edit, and the original movie resumed. The new image was the extreme close-up of Janet Leigh's right eye as the camera began to turn and move backward. The film's original soundtrack soon returned to Anthony Perkins's chilling scream from the Bates house:
Mother! Oh God Mother! Blood! Blood!
When Ike Buchanan shut off the tape, silence embraced the small room for nearly a full minute.
They had just witnessed a murder.
Someone had videotaped a brutal, savage killing and inserted it into the precise place in Psycho where the shower scene murder occurred. They had all seen enough true carnage to know that this was not some special- effects footage. Jessica said it out loud.
'This is real.'
Buchanan nodded. 'It sure looks like it. What we just watched is a dubbed copy. AV is going over the original tape now. It's of a little better quality, but not much.'
'Is there any more of this on the tape?' Cahill asked.
'Nothing,' Buchanan said. 'Just the original movie.'
'Where is this tape from?'
'It was rented at a small video store on Aramingo,' Buchanan said.
'Who brought it in?' Byrne asked.
'He's in A.'
The young man sitting in Interview Room A was the color of sour milk. He was in his early twenties, had close-cropped dark hair, pale amber eyes, fine features. He wore a lime-green Polo shirt and black jeans. His 229-a brief report detailing his name, address, place of employment- revealed that he was a student at Drexel University and worked two part-time jobs. He lived in the Fairmount section of North Philadelphia. His name was Adam Kaslov. The only prints on the videotape were his.
Jessica entered the room, introduced herself. Kevin Byrne and Terry Cahill observed through the two-way mirror.
'Can I get you anything?' Jessica asked.
Adam Kaslov offered a thin, bleak smile. 'I'm okay,' he said. There was a pair of empty Sprite cans on the scarred table in front of him. He had a piece of red cardboard in his hands, twisting it and untwisting it.
Jessica placed the Psycho videocassette box on the table. It was still in a clear plastic evidence bag. 'When did you rent this?'
'Yesterday afternoon,' Adam said, his voice a little shaky. He had no police record and this was, perhaps, the first time he had ever been in a police station. A Homicide Unit interrogation room no less. Jessica had made sure to leave the door open. 'Maybe three o'clock or so.'
Jessica glanced at the label on the tape housing. 'And you got this at The Reel Deal on Aramingo?'
'Yes.'
'How did you pay for this?' Excuse me?
'Did you put this on a credit card? Pay cash? Have a coupon?'
'Oh,' he said. 'I paid cash.'
'Did you keep the receipt?'
'No. Sorry.'
'Are you a regular there?'
'Kind of.'
'How often do you rent movies at that location?'
'I don't know. Maybe twice a week.'
Jessica glanced at the 229 report. One of Adam's part-time jobs was at a Rite Aid on Market Street. The other was at the Cinemagic 3 at Penn, the movie theater near the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. 'Can I ask why you go to that store?'
'What do you mean?'
'You live only half a block from a Blockbuster.'
Adam shrugged. 'I guess it's because they have more foreign and independent films than the big chains.'
'You like foreign films, Adam?' Jessica's tone was friendly, conversational. Adam brightened slightly.
