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
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
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