"Yeah," Byrne said.
Jessica snapped on a glove. The blood was still tacky. "This is recent."
"CSU already has a sample on the way to the lab."
"What are these numbers?" Byrne asked.
"It looks like an IP address," Jessica answered.
"An IP address?" Byrne asked. "As in-"
"A website," Jessica said. "He wants us to go to a website."
80
In any film of merit, any film made with pride, there is a moment, always in the third act, when the hero must act. In this moment, not long before the climax of the film, the story takes a turn.
I open the door, light the set. All but one of my actors is in place. I position the camera. Light floods Angelika's face. She looks just like she used to. Young. Untouched by time.
Beautiful.
81
The screen was black, blank, chillingly void of content.
"Are you sure we're on the right website?" Byrne asked.
Mateo retyped the IP address into the address line of the web browser. The screen refreshed. Still black. "Nothing yet."
Byrne and Jessica walked from the editing bay into the studio room at the AV Unit. In the 1980s, the large, high-ceilinged room in the basement of the Roundhouse was home to the taping of a local-access show called Police Perspectives. The ceiling still held a number of large spotlights.
The lab had rushed preliminary tests on the blood found at the train station. They had typed it A negative. A call to Ian Whitestone's physician confirmed that A negative was Whitestone's type. Although it was unlikely that Whitestone had suffered the same fate as the victim in Witness- had his jugular been cut, there would have been pools of blood-that he was injured was almost a certainty.
"Detectives," Mateo said.
Byrne and Jessica ran back into the editing bay. The screen now had three words on it. A title. White letters centered on black. Somehow, the image was even more unsettling than the blank screen. The screen read:
THE SKIN GODS
"What does it mean?" Jessica asked.
"I don't know," Mateo said. He turned to his laptop. He typed the words into the Google text box. Only a few hits. Nothing promising or revealing. Again, at imdb.com. Nothing.
"Do we know where it's coming from?" Byrne asked.
"Working on it."
Mateo got on the phone, trying to track down the ISP, the Internet service provider to which the website was registered.
Suddenly the image changed. Now they were looking at a blank wall. White plaster. Brightly lit. The floor was dusty, made of hardwood planks. There was no clue within the frame as to where this might be. There was no sound.
The camera then panned slightly to the right to reveal a young girl in a yellow teddy. She wore a hood. She was slight, pale, delicate. She stood close to the wall, not moving. Her posture spoke of fear. It was impossible to tell her age, but she appeared to be a young teenager.
"What is this?" Byrne asked.
"It looks like a live webcam shot," Mateo said. "Not a high-resolution camera, though."
A man walked onto the set, approaching the girl. He wore the costume of one of the extras of The Palace-a red monk's robe and a full-face mask. He handed the girl something. It looked shiny, metallic. The girl held it for a few moments. The light was harsh, saturating the figures, bathing them in an eerie silver glow, so it was hard to see exactly what she was doing. She handed the item back to the man.
Within a few seconds, Kevin Byrne's cell phone beeped. Everyone looked at him. It was the sound his phone made when he received a text message, not a phone call. His heart began to slam in his chest. Hands trembling, he took out his phone, navigated to the text message screen. Before he read it, he looked up, at the laptop. The man on the screen pulled the hood off the young girl.
"Oh my God," Jessica said.
Byrne looked at his phone. Everything he had ever feared in life was contained in those five letters:
CBOAO.
82
She had known silence all her life. The notion, the very concept of sound, was an abstract to her, but one she imagined fully. Sound was color.
To a lot of deaf people, silence was black.
To her, silence was white. An endless sheet of cloud white, rippling toward infinity. Sound, as she imagined it, was a beautiful rainbow against a pure white background.
When she first saw him, at the bus stop near Rittenhouse Square, she had thought he was pleasant looking, a little goofy, perhaps. He was reading from the Handshape Dictionary, trying to form the alphabet. She had wondered why he was trying to learn ASL-he either had a deaf relative or was trying to romance a deaf girl-but she hadn't asked.
When she had seen him again at Logan Circle, he had been helpful, carrying her packages toward the SEPTA station.
And then he had pushed her into the trunk of his car.
What this man had not counted on was her discipline. Without discipline, those who work with fewer than five senses would go mad. She knew that. All her deaf friends knew that. It was discipline that helped her overcome her fear of rejection from the hearing world. It was discipline that helped her live up to the high expectations her parents had for her. It was discipline that would get her through this. If this man thought she had never experienced anything as frightening as his strange and ugly game, he clearly didn't know any deaf girls.
Her father would be coming for her. He had never let her down. Ever.
So she waited. In discipline. In hope.
In silence.
83
The broadcast was coming from, a cell phone data transfer. Mateo brought a laptop up to the duty room, jacked into the Internet. He believed the setup was a web camera linked to a laptop, then routed out through a cell phone. It made it much harder to trace, because-unlike a landline, which was tied to a permanent address-the cell phone signal needed to be triangulated between cell phone towers.
Within minutes a request for a court order to trace the cell phone was faxed to the district attorney's office. Ordinarily, something like this would take hours. Not today. Paul DiCarlo personally ran it from his office at 1421 Arch Street to the top floor of the Criminal Justice Center, where Judge Liam McManus signed it. Ten minutes after that the Homicide Unit was on the phone with the cell phone company's security division.
Detective Tony Park was the go-to man in the unit when it came to things digital, things cellular. One of the few Korean American detectives on the force, a family man in his late forties, Tony Park was a calming influence on all those around him. Today that aspect of his personality, as much as his electronic expertise, was crucial. The unit was about to blow.
Park spoke on a landline and conveyed the progress of the trace to the roomful of anxious detectives. "They're running it through a tracing matrix now," Park said.
"Have they got a lock yet?" Jessica asked.
"Not yet."
Byrne paced the room like a caged animal. A dozen detectives lingered in or near the duty room, waiting for the word, waiting for a direction. There was no comforting or appeasing Byrne. All these men and women had families. It could just as easily be them.
"We have movement," Mateo said, pointing to the laptop screen. The detectives crowded around him.
On screen, the man in the monk's robe dragged another person into the frame. It was Ian Whitestone. He was wearing the blue jacket. He looked drugged. His head lolled on his shoulders. There was no visible blood on his face or hands.
Whitestone fell against the wall next to Colleen. The tableau was sickening in the harsh white light. Jessica wondered who else might be watching this, if this madman had disseminated the web address to the media, to the Internet at large.