Pray for Silence

and the lingering memory of Tomasetti greet me. Flipping on the light, I make my way to the bedroom and change into sweatpants and a T-shirt. I think about calling him as I make my way to the kitchen. But the thought makes me feel like a needy female, so I opt for my bottle of Absolut instead.

Like many cops I’ve known, I do some of my best thinking after I’ve had a few drinks. At least that’s what I tell myself. Tonight, my mind is on the Plank family. On Mary. On the accomplice I now know exists. I can practically feel the son of a bitch slinking around town, smug in the knowledge that he got away with murder. The reality of that is like salt on a wound. I can’t get past it. I won’t because as surely as I’m standing here contemplating drinking myself into a stupor, I know someday he’ll kill again.

Snagging a tumbler from the cupboard, I pull the bottle from the cabinet above the refrigerator and pour three fingers into the glass. I take the first heady drink as I walk back into the living room. The evidence box marked T. Long Suicide waits for me next to the door. The last thing I want to do is look at the remaining four disks. I don’t have a choice.

I carry the box to my office. While my computer boots, I go back to the kitchen and retrieve the bottle of Absolut. I can’t watch the disks without the crutch of alcohol. The warm swirl of it melts around my brain as I drop the first disk into the drive. Settling into the chair behind my desk, I click Play.

The images I’ve grown to hate fill the screen. I see humanity at its worst. Evil in its most vile form. A young woman’s innocence shattered, her life stolen, her memory trampled upon. A culture raped for the sake of blood money. Still, I watch. I feel more than I should. And I hurt.

The first disk plays out. I slide the second into the drive and hit Play. Mary tries to cover her nudeness, but she’s too uncoordinated from whatever drug was pumped into her. The man in the mask enters the screen. I see her revulsion, I feel that same terrible revulsion in my own heart. I watch as Long overpowers her. Then she’s facedown with her hands and feet tied to the head and footboards.

I don’t want to see what happens next. I don’t want to know what he did to this young girl. I don’t want to imagine the shame and self-hate she must have experienced afterward. I can only hope she was so drugged she didn’t remember all of it.

Closing my eyes, I put my face in my hands. The gunshot snap of a strap against flesh jolts me. I look at my monitor over the tops of my fingers. Long whips her buttocks with some type of leather-covered bat. A riding crop, I realize. I flinch at the sound of the blows. They are not the fake strikes of some second-rate porn actor wannabe. Long hits her hard, putting some muscle into it. He’s hurting her. Leaving welts that bloom quickly into bruises.

“Dear God,” I whisper.

Briefly, I wonder why she didn’t write about this in her diary. Then I realize if she’d been drugged, there’s a possibility she didn’t remember. I can only guess about the rest of it, but I suspect when she noticed the bruises on her body, she went into denial. Or maybe she was simply too ashamed and depressed to acknowledge just how awful and hopeless her life had become.

The next video is every bit as disturbing and offensive. It takes place in a nondescript room. A red-and-white comforter is spread out on a concrete floor. Once again Long wears the mask. His jeans are pushed down to his knees, and Mary Plank’s plain dress is hiked up to her waist. They engage in intercourse, changing positions several times. When Long is finished, he rises, tugs up his jeans. Mary lies on the comforter, struggling to pull down her dress. Her heavy-lidded eyes stay on Long.

The mask toward the camera, he crosses to Mary. The camera pans in on her for a close-up. I see a hand on her upraised knee, pulling her legs apart. Something pings in my brain. I click Stop and freeze the frame. Long is standing on the far side of Mary. His hands are on his penis. Where did the other hand come from? Using the mouse, I back up a frame. Three more clicks and the hand comes back into view.

I set down my glass hard. I move the frames forward. Click. Click. Click. Long is standing on the other side of Mary. I click backward. The hand on Mary’s knee looms into view. It’s on the near side of Mary. The overall size of the hand, the wrinkling and size of the knuckles, and the blunt-cut nails tell me it’s a male hand.

And it doesn’t belong to Todd Long.

It’s my first undisputable proof that there’s an accomplice.

“I see you, you son of a bitch,” I whisper.

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.”