A minute later, he put a fresh CD-ROM in the drive, dragged and dropped an icon.
"Done," he said. "We've got the file on the phone, on the hard drive, and on disc. No matter what happens, we're backed up."
"Okay," Jessica said. She was a little surprised to find that her pulse was racing. She had no idea why. Maybe the file was nothing at all. She wanted to believe that with all her heart.
"You want to watch it now?" Mateo asked.
"Yes and no," Jessica said. It was a video file, sent to the phone of a woman who had been dead for more than a week-a phone they had recently gotten courtesy of a sadistic serial killer who had just burned himself to death.
Or maybe that was all an illusion.
"I hear you," Mateo said. "Here we go." He clicked the PLAY arrow on the small button bar at the bottom of his video software screen. A few seconds later, the video rolled. The first few seconds of footage were a blur, as if the person holding the camera was whipping it right to left, then down, attempting to point it at the ground. When the image stabilized, and was brought into focus, they saw the subject of the video.
It was a baby.
A baby in a small pine coffin.
"Madre de Dios,"Mateo said. He made the sign of a cross.
As Byrne and Jessica stared in horror at the image, two things were clear. One was that the baby was very much alive. Two, that the video had a time code in the lower right-hand corner.
"This tape wasn't made with a camera phone, was it?" Byrne asked.
"No," Mateo said. "It looks like it was made with a basic camcorder. Probably an eight-millimeter tape camcorder, not a digital video model."
"How can you tell?" Byrne asked.
"Quality of image, for one thing."
On screen, a hand entered the frame, placing a lid on the wood coffin.
"Jesus Christ, no," Byrne said.
And that was when the first shovel full of dirt landed on the box. Within seconds the box was completely covered.
"Oh my God." Jessica felt nauseous. She turned away at the moment the screen went black.
"That's the whole file," Mateo said.
Byrne remained silent. He walked out of the room, immediately back in. "Run it again," he said.
Mateo clicked PLAY again. The image went from a blurry moving image to clarity as it came to focus on the baby. Jessica forced herself to watch. She noticed that the time code on the tape was from ten o'clock that morning. It was already past eight o'clock. She took out her cell phone. Within in a few seconds she had Dr. Tom Weyrich on the phone. She explained her reason for calling. She didn't know if her question fell within the area of expertise of a medical examiner, but she didn't know who else to call.
"How big is the box?" Weyrich asked.
Jessica looked at the screen. The video was running for a third time. "Not sure," she said. "Maybe twenty-four by thirty inches."
"How deep?"
"I don't know. It looks to be about sixteen inches or so."
"Are there any holes in the top or sides?"
"Not in the top. Can't see the sides."
"How old is the baby?"
This part was easy. The baby looked to be about six months old. "Six months."
Weyrich was silent for a few moments. "Well, I'm no expert at this. I'll track someone down who is, though."
"How much air does he have, Tom?"
"Hard to say," Weyrich replied. "It's just over five cubic feet inside the box. Even with that small of a lung capacity, I'd say no more than ten to twelve hours."
Jessica looked at her watch again, even though she knew exactly what time it was. "Thanks, Tom. Call me if you talk to someone who can give this kid more time."
Tom Weyrich knew what she meant. "I'm on it."
Jessica hung up. She looked back at the screen. The video was at the beginning again. The baby smiled and moved his arms. At the outside, they had less than two hours to save his life. And he could be anywhere in the city. Mateo made a second digital copy of the tape. The tape ran for a total of twenty-five seconds. When it was over, it cut to black. They watched it again and again, looking for something, anything, to give them a clue to where the baby might be. There were no other images on the recording. Mateo started it up again. The camera whipped downward. Mateo stopped it.
"The camera is on a tripod, and a fairly good one at that. At least for the home enthusiast. It's a smooth tilt, which tells me that the neck on the tripod is a ball head.
"But look here," Mateo continued. He started the recording again. As soon as he hit PLAY, he stopped it. On screen was an unrecognizable image. A thick vertical smudge of white against a reddish brown background.
"What is that?" Byrne asked.
"Not sure yet," Mateo said. "Let me run it through the dTective unit. I'll get a much clearer image. It will take a little time, though."
"How long?
"Give me ten minutes."
In an ordinary investigation, ten minutes would pass in a snap. To the baby in the coffin, it might be a lifetime.
Byrne and Jessica stood outside the AV Unit. Ike Buchanan walked into the room. "What's up, Sarge?" Byrne asked.
"Ian Whitestone is here."
Finally, Jessica thought. "Is he here to make a formal statement?"
"No," Buchanan said. "Someone kidnapped his son this morning."
Whitestone looked at the movie of the baby. They had transferred the clip to a VHS cassette. They watched it in the small snack room in the unit.
Whitestone was smaller than Jessica had expected. He had delicate hands. He wore two watches. He had come with a personal physician and someone who was probably a bodyguard. Whitestone identified the baby in the video as his son, Declan. He looked gut-shot.
"Why… why would someone do such a thing?" Whitestone asked.
"We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that," Byrne said.
According to Whitestone's nanny, Aileen Scott, she had been taking Declan for a walk in his stroller at about nine thirty that morning. She had been struck from behind. When she awoke, hours later, she was in the back of an EMS rescue, on her way to Jefferson Hospital, and the baby was gone. The time frame told the detectives that, if the time code on the tape had not been manipulated, Declan Whitestone was buried within a thirty-minute drive of Center City. Probably closer.
"The FBI has been contacted," Jessica said. A patched and back-on- the-job Terry Cahill was at that moment assembling a team. "We're doing everything possible to find your son."
They walked back into the common room, over to a desk. They put the crime scene photographs of Erin Halliwell, Seth Goldman, and Stephanie Chandler on the table. When Whitestone looked down, his knees buckled. He held on to the edge of the desk.
"What… what is this?" he asked.
"Both of these women were murdered. As was Mr. Goldman. We believe the man who kidnapped your son is responsible." There was no need to tell Whitestone about Nigel Butler's apparent suicide at this time.
"What are you saying? Are you saying that all of them are dead?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. Yes."
Whitestone weaved. His face turned the color of dried bones. Jessica had seen it many times. He sat down hard.
"What was your relationship to Stephanie Chandler?" Byrne asked.
Whitestone hesitated. His hands were shaking. He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged, just a parched, clicking noise. He looked like a man at risk of a coronary.
"Mr. Whitestone?" Byrne asked.
Ian Whitestone took a deep breath. Through trembling lips he said, "I think I should talk to my lawyer."