First to Die

Chapter 60

THE NEXT MORNING, Detective McBride left a message for us to meet him in Sharp's office at the Hall of Fame. Something had come back on the film. In a sparsely decorated conference room, the museum's security chief, McBride, and several members of the CPD Homicide staff sat facing a wide-screen video monitor on a walnut cabinet. "At first," Sharp began self-importantly, "we were just randomly going through the tape with members of the families, stopping on anyone who didn't look familiar. Your sketch," he turned to me, "helped narrow it down." He flicked a handheld controller toward the screen. "The first clips you're gonna see are the main entrance." The screen lit up, standard black-and-white surveillance footage. It was so weird and strange. Several gaudily dressed guests seemed to be arriving at once, many of them outfitted as famous rockers. One was Elton John. His date had teased hair dyed in various light and dark shades, Cyndi Lauper style. I recognized a Chuck Berry, a Michael Jackson, a couple of Madonnas, Elvis, Elvis Costellos. Sharp fast-forwarded, the film advancing like individual, edited stills. An older couple arrived dressed in traditional evening wear. Behind them, almost tucked into their backs, came a man who was clearly shying from the camera, averting his face. "There!" Sharp said. I saw him! My heart pumped madly in my chest. Goddamn Red Beard! It was a horrible, grainy likeness. The man, sensing the direction of the camera, quickly hurried by. Maybe he had come there earlier, scouting for security cameras. Maybe he was just smart enough to avoid a direct shot. Whatever it was, he sneaked into the crowd and disappeared. A ball of anger knotted in my chest. "Can you back up, home in?" I said to Sharp. "I need to see his face." He leveled his remote, and the image channeled in to a higher magnification. I stood up. I was staring at a partially obscured shot of the killer's face. No eyes, no clear feature. Only a shadowy profile. A jutting chin. And the outline of a goatee. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the killer. I didn't know his name. I could barely see his face. But the fuzzy image I had first sketched together in my mind with Claire was now in front of me. "Is that the best you can do?" Raleigh pressed. A member of the museum tech staff replied, "Might be able to get it technologically enhanced. On this rough footage, this is what we have." "We pick him up again later on," Sharp said. He quickly fast-forwarded and stopped at a wide-angle view of the Main Hall, the wedding reception. They were able to zoom in on the same tuxedoed man standing at the edge of the crowd, observing. When the image was magnified, though, it became grainy and lost its resolution. "He's purposely avoiding looking at the camera," I whispered to Raleigh. "He knows where they are." "We ran these shots by both families," Sharp said. "No one places him. No one can identify who he is. I mean, there's a chance it's not him. But considering your sketch…" "It's him," I said firmly. My eyes burned on the grainy screen. I was also sure we were looking at Kathy Voskuhl's mysterious lover.