Page 41 of 4th Silence
I push out of my chair, move to the murder board, and grab a marker. At the bottom of my myriad of notes, I draw a line, put a hash mark in the middle, and label it nine-thirty.
“The estimated time of death,” I say, “is nine-thirty, and we’re looking at video shot at nine-fifteen. We have no idea where Tiffany was at this time, and I’m wondering why she’s not with these kids who are close to her age. If time of death is accurate, I don’t think it’s a stretch to think the murder could be happening while these kids are playing in the snow.”
Matt clucks his tongue. “Time of death could easily be off by fifteen minutes. Hell, she could already be dead at this point.”
I twirl my marker at Charlie. “Get to nine-thirty. See if there’s anything suspicious?”
Charlie does her thing, dragging the icon a bit to the right and … nothing.
The screen goes black.
“Whoa,” I say, turning to Charlie. “What happened?”
She holds her hands palms up and lets out a huff. “No idea.”
Matt swivels to face her. “Did you accidentally exit or something?”
“I didn’t touch it.”
“Dirty bastards,” Mom says. “Someone erased the footage.”
Mom. Always the conspiracy theorist.
“For once,” Charlie hammers away at the keyboard. “I don’t think you’re nuts. I’m sending this to Teeg.”
Teeg. What he can do with a computer never fails to amaze.
Matt nods. “He might be able to tell if it’s been tampered with.” He spins back to the television. “Once you’re done sending it, let’s watch that last few minutes again.”
Two minutes later, Charlie resets the video, hits play, and we watch a bunch of kids loitering around the back door of the mansion. No Gerry or other adults, though.
“Wait!” Mom stabs her finger at the screen. “Zoom out, Charlie! There. On the right. See that?”
My mother makes me insane. She really does. But when I see her like this? All lit up and excited?
I get where Charlie and I come from. Where our obsessive desire for justice was born.
Charlie does as instructed, and a person—well, part of a person—comes into view. The camera angle isn’t wide enough, only allowing for a profile.
I study the image, capturing details. Oversized coat, ugly hat, collar turned up.
No hair is visible, so if it’s a woman, her hair is either very short or tucked into the hat.
The person is taller than the teens, but from this angle, it’s impossible to determine gender.
“Damn,” I say, “Can you zoom out more? Give me a better look?”
“No. That’s it. The camera must have been fixed, so we can’t see all of whoever that is.”
She rewinds to right before the person comes into view, stepping out the back door, and staying to the periphery of where the kids are.
On purpose?
If they’d just committed a murder, maybe.
“Look how he’s hunched over,” Mom says. “As if trying to hide something under that giant coat.”
Okay. Now she’s getting crazy. “You’re assuming,” I say, “it’s a man. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves on the hiding something. There’s no way to tell that. It was cold. They could be trying to stay warm.”
