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
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
“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.”
He sighs. “I’m about twenty minutes from the lab.” He rattles off an e-mail address. “One of the technicians is a friend of mine. Send the file as an attachment. I’ll swing by and we’ll take a look at it.”
An awkward pause ensues and I realize both of us are thinking about last night. We didn’t get much sleep. Tomasetti breaks the moment and we fall back onto common ground. “You still think there was an accomplice?”
“I don’t know.”
“That would change a lot of things.”
“It would mean there’s a killer running loose in my town.”
The line between us hisses. “I’ll get back to you as soon as we have something.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
They are two of the longest hours of my life. I’m nearly finished reviewing the disks when my phone jangles. I look at the display, but it’s Lois, not Tomasetti. Snarling beneath my breath, I hit Speaker.
“Chief, Aaron Plank is here to see you.”
Shock ripples through me. He’s the last person I expected to see. “Send him in.”
A moment later, Aaron walks into my office. He wears a corduroy blazer over khaki slacks and a nice pair of shoes. When he looks at me, his expression is sage and sad. “I heard about Todd Long,” he says.
Curious as to why he’s here, I motion toward the visitor chair adjacent to my desk. “Have a seat.”
He takes the chair, wipes his palms on his slacks. “I’m heading back to Philly today. I wanted to talk to you before I left. To apologize, I guess.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about that.” But I give him a small smile.
“This has been tough.”
“It was a tough case for all of us.”
He fidgets, looking everywhere but at me, and wipes his hands again. Finally, he meets my gaze. “I just wanted you to know . . . I loved them. Despite what they thought of me, I loved my family. All of them. But Mary . . . she was special.”
A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow, force it down. I don’t know what to say. I barely know how to feel.
Aaron rises. Despite his youth, he looks like an old man this morning. Something in his eyes, in the way he moves. I realize this trip to Painters Mill has aged him in ways that have nothing to do with the passage of years.
He walks to the door, sets his hand on the knob, then turns to face me. “I’d like her journal when the police are finished with it.”
I manage to give him a nod.
At that, he turns and walks out of my office.
I stare after him, trying not to acknowledge the ache burgeoning in my chest. I find myself wishing I’d thanked him for coming in. Wishing I’d said something to let him know I understood. Some things are just too damn hard.
My phone rings. I look down and see the BCI number on the display. Mentally, I shift gears, slam the door on all those old emotions, and snatch up the phone. “What do you have?”
“The technician magnified the still.” Tomasetti’s voice is terse, tense. “He filled in the loss of resolution as best he could. I just e-mailed you the results.”
Without setting down the phone, I open my e-mail software, hit Send-Receive. An e-mail from BCI with an attachment appears in my inbox. I open it and click on the attachment.
The tech did a good job of maintaining the integrity of the photo. While something with this level of touch-up would probably not be admissible in court, it’s enough for me to recognize the face in the window.
“Oh my God,” I hear myself say.
Shock sends me to my feet. I hang up without saying thank you. And then I’m running toward the door.
CHAPTER 23
I grab Glock on my way out. “We may have a witness,” I say as I slide behind the wheel of the Explorer.
“You’re kidding?” Incredulity laces his voice as he gets in beside me. “Why the hell didn’t they come forward?”
“Because it’s a kid.”
“A kid? Damn. Who?”
“Billy Zook.”
I see him running the name through his brain. “The Amish kid from the pig farm?”
“The Amish kid with a speech impediment and mental problems.”
Glock chews on that a moment. “What was he doing at the Plank farm that time of night?”
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out.”
A few minutes later, I turn into the gravel lane of the Zook farm. A cloud of white dust chases me all the way to the house. I park next to a black buggy and swing open my door. Behind me, Glock mutters beneath his breath about the stench of pig shit. I’m so intent on my goal of speaking to Billy, I barely notice.
I knock hard on the front door and wait. The door opens halfway and Alma Zook appears. She’s wearing a blue dress and black apron. I see food stains on the apron, bubbles of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. The smell of cooking tomatoes tells me she’s canning.
Because I want her cooperation, I greet her in Pennsylvania Dutch. Her eyes flick from me to Glock and back to me. She knows I’m not here for chitchat and doesn’t invite us in. The wariness in her gaze makes me wonder if she knows why I’m here.
“I need to talk to you about your son,” I begin.
William Zook appears beside his wife. He’s wearing muck boots, tracking shit on the floor, and I realize he must have rushed into the house through the back door when he saw us pull up. All I can think is:
“We have already told you everything,” William says.
