Byrne.”
“Good to meet you.”
“My pleasure, Agent Cahill,” Byrne said.
Cahill and Byrne shook hands. Cool, mechanical, professional. You could slice the interagency rivalry with a rusty butter knife. Cahill then turned his attention back to Jessica. “You’re the boxer?” he asked.
She knew what he meant, but still it sounded funny. Like she was a dog. You’re the schnauzer? “Yes.”
He nodded, apparently impressed.
“Why do you ask?” Jessica asked. “Plan on getting out of line, Agent Cahill?”
Cahill laughed. He had straight teeth, a single dimple on the left. “No, no. I’ve just done a little boxing myself.”
“Professional?”
“Nothing like that. Golden Gloves mostly. Some in the service.”
Now it was Jessica’s turn to be impressed. She knew what it took to square off in the ring.
“Terry is here to observe and make recommendations to the task force,” Buchanan said. “The bad news is that we need the help.”
It was true. Violent crime, across the board, was up in Philadelphia. Still, there wasn’t an officer in the department who wanted any outside agencies butting in. Observe, Jessica thought. Right.
“How long have you been with the bureau?” Jessica asked.
“Seven years.”
“Are you from Philadelphia?”
“Born and raised,” Cahill said. “Tenth and Washington.”
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
“Good to meet you.”
“My pleasure, Agent Cahill,” Byrne said.
Cahill and Byrne shook hands. Cool, mechanical, professional. You could slice the interagency rivalry with a rusty butter knife. Cahill then turned his attention back to Jessica. “You’re the boxer?” he asked.
She knew what he meant, but still it sounded funny. Like she was a dog. You’re the schnauzer? “Yes.”
He nodded, apparently impressed.
“Why do you ask?” Jessica asked. “Plan on getting out of line, Agent Cahill?”
Cahill laughed. He had straight teeth, a single dimple on the left. “No, no. I’ve just done a little boxing myself.”
“Professional?”
“Nothing like that. Golden Gloves mostly. Some in the service.”
Now it was Jessica’s turn to be impressed. She knew what it took to square off in the ring.
“Terry is here to observe and make recommendations to the task force,” Buchanan said. “The bad news is that we need the help.”
It was true. Violent crime, across the board, was up in Philadelphia. Still, there wasn’t an officer in the department who wanted any outside agencies butting in. Observe, Jessica thought. Right.
“How long have you been with the bureau?” Jessica asked.
“Seven years.”
“Are you from Philadelphia?”
“Born and raised,” Cahill said. “Tenth and Washington.”
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
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