Cemetery Dance

Chapter 56

The Multimedia ServicesUnit at One Police Plaza reminded D'Agosta of a submarine's control room: hot, overstuffed with electronics, ripe with the smell of humanity. At least twenty people were packed into the low — ceilinged space, hunched over terminals and workstations. Somebody was eating an early lunch, and the pungent smell of curry hung in the air.

He paused and looked around. The biggest group was concentrated in the rear, where John Loader, chief forensic tech, had his cubicle. D'Agosta began making his way toward it, his feeling of frustration mounting when he saw that Chislett was already here. The deputy chief turned, saw D'Agosta, turned back.

Loader was sitting at his digital workstation, a hulking CPU beneath the desk and dual thirty — inch flat — screen monitors atop it. Despite D'Agosta's pressuring, the forensic technician had insisted he'd need at least two hours to process and prep the video. So far he'd had ninety minutes.

"Give me an update," D'Agosta said as he drew near.

Loader pushed away from the workstation. "It's an MPEG — four file that was e — mailed to the network's news department."

"And the trace?"

Loader shook his head. "Whoever did it used a remailing service out of Kazakhstan."

"Okay, what about the video, then?"

The technician pointed at the matching screens. "It's in the forensic video analyzer."

"This is what took ninety minutes?"

Loader frowned. "I've striped in a time code, field — aligned and frame — averaged the entire clip, removed noise and brightened each frame, and applied digital image stabilization."

"Did you remember to put a cherry on top?"

"Lieutenant, cleaning up the file not only smooths and sharpens the image, but it also reduces distractions and can highlight evidence that would otherwise go unnoticed."

D'Agosta felt like pointing out that there was a human life at stake here and every minute counted, but decided against it. "Fair enough. Let's see it."

Loader pulled the jog shuttle closer — a round black device the size of a hockey puck — and the video flickered into life on the left — hand monitor. It was less grainy and muddy than when he'd seen it on the news. There was a rattle, then a feeble light stabbed into the darkness: and there was Nora. She stared at the camera; her face, illuminated by the light source, looked like a white ghost floating in darkness. Behind her, D'Agosta could just barely make out patches of straw on a cement floor, rough mortared stones forming the walls.

"Help me," Nora said.

The camera shook; lost focus; gained focus again.

"What do you want?" Nora asked.

No answer, no sound. And then something like a muffled scratch or creak. The light swiveled away, the darkness returned, and the clip ended.

"So you can't trace it," D'Agosta said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Is there anything else about the file that you can tell me? Anything at all?"

"It wasn't multiplexed."

"Which means?"

"It wasn't from a CCTV. The source was most likely a standard consumer digital camcorder, probably an older handheld model given the degree of image shake."

"And there was no communication in the e — mail? No ransom demand, no message of any kind?"

Loader shook his head.

"Play it again, please."

As it played, D'Agosta looked around at what little was visible of the room, searching for something, anything, that might help identify it.

"Can you zoom in on that wall?" he asked.

With the jog shuttle, Loader scrubbed back a second or two into the clip; highlighted a section of the wall close to Nora; then magnified it.

"It's too grainy," D'Agosta said.

"Let me apply the unsharp mask tool. That should clear it up." A few clicks of a mouse and the wall sharpened significantly — flat stones stacked and cemented into place.

"Basement," said D'Agosta. "An old one."

"Unfortunately," said Chislett, speaking for the first time, "there's nothing identifiable about it."

"What about the geology of the rocks?"

"Impossible to identify their specific mineral composition," said Loader. "Could be shale, could be basalt…"

"Run it again."

Silently, they watched the playback. D'Agosta could feel his anger filling the room. He wondered why he was even bothering to control it anymore: the bastards had kidnapped Nora.

"That sound in the background," he said. "What is it?"

Loader pushed the jog shuttle to one side. "We've been working on that. I'll bring up the audio enhancement software."

Now a window popped up on the second screen, a thin, wide window containing an audio waveform: a rough, squiggly band that looked like a sine curve on steroids.

"A little silence, please!" Loader called out. The room quieted, and Loader clicked a play button at the bottom of the window.

The squiggly curve began striping across the window like a spool of tape running through a recorder. D'Agosta could hear the muffled movements of the person apparently carrying the camera through the darkness, the little click as the camera light went on, a grating sound, as if the camera was resting on something — or the lens was being slid through bars or a hole. Nora spoke once, then again. And then there was the sound. A creak? A scratch? It was too low, there was too much background hiss, to make it out.

"Can you enhance it?" he asked. "Isolate it?"

"Let me add some parametric EQ to the signal path." More windows popped open, complex — looking graphs were dragged onto the audio waveform. Loader played the sound file again. It was clearer but still muddy.

"I'll apply a brick wall filter. High — pass, to block out that lowend hum." More clicks, more adjustments of the mouse, then Loader played the waveform once more.

"That's an animal sound," said D'Agosta. "The sound of an animal getting its throat cut."

"I'm afraid I don't hear it," said Chislett.

"Oh no?" D'Agosta turned to Loader. "What about you?"

The forensic tech scratched his cheek a little nervously. "Hard to say." He opened another window. "According to this spectrum analyzer, there's a mix of very high frequencies, some higher than the human ear can hear. I'd guess it's the creaking of a rusty door hinge."

"Bullshit!"

"With all due respect—" Loader began.

"With all due respect, that's the scream of an animal. The basement is old, crude. Let me tell you something: this tape came from the Ville. We need to raid the place. Now." He turned and stared aggressively at Chislett. "Right, Chief?"

"Lieutenant," Chislett intoned, his voice the very embodiment of calm and reason, "you're obfuscating the situation rather than clarifying it. There's no evidence — none — on that tape indicating its source. That sound could be any of myriad things."

Obfuscating rather than clarifying. Myriad things. How like the pretentious Chislett to turn a simple meeting into a spelling bee. D'Agosta tried to keep himself under control. "Chief, you're aware there's going to be a demonstration tonight against the Ville."

"They've got a parade permit, it's all quite legit. We'll have plenty of men this time, we'll keep things orderly."

"Yeah? There's no way to be sure of that. If the demonstration gets unruly, it might freak out the Ville — and cause them to kill Nora. We've got to raid them now, today,before the demonstration. Use the element of surprise, go in fast and hard and grab her."

"Lieutenant, haven't you been listening? Where's the evidence? No judge will authorize a raid based on that one sound — even if it is an animal. You know that. Especially," he sniffed, "after your heavy — handed search of Kline's offices."

D'Agosta straightened up. He finally felt the dam breaking, his anger and frustration pouring out. He didn't care. "Look at all of you," he said loudly, "sitting around here, fiddling with your equipment."

Everyone paused in their work to turn and look.

"While you're playing with your toys, a woman's been kidnapped, two journalists and a housing official murdered. What we need is a massive, multiple SWAT team raid on those scumbags up there."

"Lieutenant," said Chislett, "it would behoove you to get your emotions under control. We're well aware of the stakes and we're doing all we can."

"No, I won't, and no, you aren't." D'Agosta turned and stalked out of the room.