Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) (16 page)

Ronnie hated to admit it, but that idea made a lot of sense. Tate had been vilified by a lot of people because of the chip implantation law. He had enemies all over the place.

So their suspect pool might be a whole lot bigger than the populations of Washington and Philadelphia combined. In fact, the killer—or killers—could be just about anyone in the entire country.

-#-

When they were introduced to Dr. Eileen Cavanaugh, Ronnie immediately began forming impressions of the other woman, who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Her handshake was firm, and she seemed friendly enough, insisting that they call her Eileen since they were going to be working in close proximity for a while.

That should make Sykes happy, because the woman was drop-dead gorgeous. Wearing glasses that gave her a brainy-sexy-teacher look, and a lab coat that did nothing to hide her ample curves, the blonde looked more like a stripper dressed up in costume than an actual scientist. If Daniels were here, he’d probably be tripping over his own drooling tongue right now. Sykes was always a little more circumspect and even he took a second look.

The other thing she noticed—the woman appeared insanely devoted to her boss. In fact, from the moment Dr. Tate led Ronnie and Sykes into the secure area, Dr. Cavanaugh had hovered over the old man, fussing over him like she was his daughter or his nurse. She’d smoothed his jacket, straightened his tie, asked if he’d eaten a good, healthy lunch. Noting Dr. Tate’s long-suffering expression, Ronnie had the feeling he was well used to his protégé’s overprotectiveness.

“Well, I assume you’ve heard that the Carr device was damaged?” the woman asked once she’d gotten Dr. Tate comfortably situated in a chair.

“We’ve heard,” Ronnie said. “Have you had any luck recovering anything?”

“Just about. There are a few patches of data I couldn’t reconstruct, though they were from earlier in the day, not the attack itself.” The woman made a face. “Which was terribly gruesome.”

“No kidding.”

“Obviously the attack occurred in an area that was quite dark, so the images aren’t the best. I’ve done what I could to brighten them. I think you’ll be pleased.” She turned toward Sykes, and her voice might have warmed up the tiniest bit. Her gaze definitely took a quick trip over his tall, broad form. “I hear you have something for me?”

Yeah, and she looked as though she’d like to get something from Sykes all right. Ronnie’s jaw tightened the tiniest bit. To give him credit, he didn’t respond to or even acknowledge the flirtatious gambit.

“I do.” He lifted his briefcase, setting it on a high metal table. Opening it, he retrieved a small plastic sample case, in a sealed evidence bag. “The M.E. in Philadelphia didn’t like having to just sign this over to me. He was territorial, and, I suspect, more than a little fascinated.”

“I’m sure he was,” she replied.

But probably not fascinated enough to risk prison by tampering with the device, or making any illegal backups of its content. The moment the murder victim’s I.D. chip was scanned, an urgent notice would have come up to contact Dr. Tate’s office and not proceed with any further examination. The M.E. would have been told exactly how to retrieve the device, and who to give it to. Beyond that, he’d be left wondering what the hell he’d just been a part of, even as he was warned under threat of prosecution against ever speaking about it to anyone.

Cloak and dagger stuff, these scientific experiments.

Sykes showed Ronnie a micro-drive. “Here are Ms. Carr’s backups, everything until early on the morning of her death. Your lieutenant says he hopes I’m showing you this at the hospital because if you really went through with your threat to check-out early, he’s going to be very unhappy.”

Ronnie eyed the drive, noting that he wasn’t handing it over, and grunted. “He’s never happy.”

Sykes held up another small drive. “I also have Underwood’s. Now we just need somewhere to look at them.”

“I’ve set up a workspace for you both back here. All the files from the Carr chip are already loaded on your system, Detective Sloan,” Eileen said, turning to lead them into a small room nearby. Inside were two work-stations, set up back-to-back. Both had what looked like state-of-the-art computer systems. She recognized the on-screen logo that would launch the O.E.P.I.S. program, her mind already clicking as she recalled all she’d learned during training.

Remembering something else they’d learned about in training, Ronnie immediately looked up at the ceiling, intensely curious. Spying two small, camera-like devices, she sucked in a surprised breath. Directly beneath them, on the floor, were two flat, three-by-three white squares, that looked almost like floor mats. Each one had a line of tiny, blue lights around its entire edge.

And each probably cost the lifetime salary of an average cop to create.

“You did it,” she whispered, a little stunned, not believing they’d have taken the technology quite so far, quite so soon. It had sounded so science fiction’y when they’d been told about it in Texas, and she’d figured the final product would be years away from completion.

“Yes, we’ve finished it,” Dr. Cavanaugh said, obviously proud.

Tate clarified. “It’s still in the testing phase. We thought we’d see how well it works for our top two O.E.P. investigators.” 

“Cool,” said Jeremy, sounding like an excited kid.

She didn’t echo the word, but she definitely shared the sentiment.

When they’d been in Texas, and had discussed how to best experience the O.E.P. memories of a subject, they’d been told that Dr. Tate’s labs were working on a new projection system for use exclusively with this project. Images that appeared one way on a small computer screen could be interpreted quite differently when life-size. They’d learned in training that when trying to walk through someone else’s visual memories, it was best to do it as literally as possible—almost to the point of really
walking
through.

This new system would allow them to do exactly that.

Rather than flashing the images on a standard monitor, or even on a large wall screen, a state-of-the-art projector suspended from the ceiling would cast down a chip’s images to a receiving pad on the floor. Together, the projector and the pad were designed to build a three dimensional pictorial experience.

It could be viewed from outside.

Or experienced from inside.

If she stepped on that pad, she would be inside the picture. The outside world would disappear, the projection would surround her, a 360 degree panorama with the computer system using the data from all the O.E.P. chip images to fill in entire vistas.

She would be completely inside the chip implantees visual memories.

Inside murder victim Leanne Carr’s death.

She swallowed hard, thinking about that. She wasn’t sure she would be up to walking in the woman’s footsteps for those final minutes of her life. It had sounded brilliant in theory, but in practice—having pieced together what that horrific experience had been like for the young woman—it seemed a whole lot more awful.

“You don’t have to utilize all aspects of the program,” Dr. Tate said. He eyed her kindly, as if realizing exactly what she was thinking. “Beholding the deeply fleshed-out images from a few feet away should still be every bit as effective.”

Dr. Cavanaugh scrunched her brow in confusion. “But what’s the point of that? We have the capability, why not dive in and experience it all the way it’s meant to be experienced.”

Sykes stepped closer to Ronnie, dropping a hand onto her shoulder as he answered. “Stepping on that thing to pretend you’re on the slopes at Aspen or that you’re hang-gliding above the Grand Canyon is one thing. Given what happened to our victims, I’m sure you can understand our reluctance.”

Whether he truly was reluctant, or just backing her play, she didn’t know. Either way, she appreciated it. And Sykes was right. This new invention would probably be a huge financial success when they went public with it and offered it as a video gaming option. But there were some things that would be incredibly hard to experience in such a lifelike fashion. Death, among them.

“Oh, of course,” said Dr. Cavanaugh, her face reddening.

“Use it as much or as little as you like,” said Tate. “If it’s too intense, you can always go back to the traditional monitors.”

She doubted she’d have to go that far, and figured she had the stamina to stand a few feet away from that high-tech floor mat and watch the rapid progression of images before her, in 3-D, seeing them just the way Leanne Carr had, though not exactly being inside them.

Or, okay, maybe she’d be sitting. She wouldn’t forget her deal with Sykes.

Dr. Cavanaugh quickly ran over some operating instructions, which seemed simple enough. Everything was controlled by each work station and they could segue back and forth between the projection system and the screen at the flick of a button.

“Thank you,” said Sykes once the scientist had finished explaining. “I think we’re probably ready.”

“Excellent,” said Tate. “Dr. Cavanaugh will get to work on the Philadelphia chip while you two get started. If there’s anything you need, one of her staff members will be happy to assist you.”

His young protégé holding Dr. Tate’s arm, as if he were the one who’d recently been whacked in the head with a club, the two scientists left the room, leaving her alone with Jeremy Sykes. And with the pictures of Leanne Carr’s final moments on this earth.

She just needed to decide: Was she going to view them?

Or live them?

As soon as they were alone, Sykes turned around, went back out into the hallway, to a water cooler right outside the door. He yanked a paper cup from it, filled it up and returned with it. Pressing it into her hands, he then pulled a chair into place behind her and gently pushed her into it.

“Better?”

She sipped the icy water and relaxed into the chair. “Better,” she said. “I don’t feel quite as much like throwing up or falling over anymore.”

“I’d like to think I make you weak in the knees, Sloan, but I doubt it’s
all
due to me.”

“Gee, how modest of you.”

“That’s me, I’m a humble guy.”

She snorted.

“Well, I’m at least a guy who knows the difference between a woman with a concussion and one who’s attracted to me.”

Hmm. Was there a difference? It bore considering.

“Because, while your mad crush on me could explain the weak legs, no way do I make you want to throw up

“Mad crush? What, are we in high school?” she said with a definite eye-roll. The man was too damned cocky to be believed.  “That’s some ego you’ve got. Get me that trash can, I think I
am
gonna be sick now.”

“Be sick later,” he said, pushing her chair toward her work station so she could see the files already listed on the screen. “Now we have work to do.”

He was right. They did have work to do. And while she’d let the potential of Tate’s new imaging system distract her for a moment, just seeing the long list of time-stamped images from Leanne Carr’s O.E.P. chip made her want to dive right in.

So she dove. Her fingers flying on the keyboard, she began pulling up files, unable to resist the urge to do what she was not supposed to do—go right for the time of death. Yes, she’d been trained to be methodical and precise, to establish a baseline of a subject’s interactions, to start at the beginning of every day. But this was a murder. If Leanne had gotten a clear look at her attacker’s face, this whole thing could be solved within the next couple of minutes.

She doubted she’d be that lucky. Were they dealing with a terrorist or crazy psycho killer who did not know Leanne was an O.E.P. test subject, he wouldn’t have thought to conceal his face from his own victim. But with the second killing, it looked very likely that he did know.

Likely, but not absolutely certain. Hell, perhaps Sykes was right and it was somebody who’d hacked into some of Tate’s files. Maybe he had no idea what the O.E.P. really was and wouldn’t even realize he was being recorded. It was worth a shot, anyway.

She cast a quick peek over her shoulder at Jeremy and realized Mr. Perfect was scrolling down his own screen at a rapid fire pace. He didn’t have the final day’s images from his victim—he’d just given that tiny chip to Dr. Cavanaugh—but he had the man’s downloads from probably a couple of weeks preceding his murder. Sykes was scanning through them, obviously ruling out entire days’ worth of memories, his frustration probably mounting as he waited for Dr. Cavanaugh to give him the files from the victim’s last day.

In just a brief glance, Ronnie saw the same faces of two adorable children—one just an infant—and her heart clenched. Brian Underwood was a man who had loved his children; that was evident in every tender stroke of his gaze upon their sweet little faces.

Who had Leanne Carr loved?

Ronnie’s suspicions still raised by the woman’s boss, she couldn’t help being curious about Leanne’s earlier downloads, which would reveal so much about her life in the days leading up to her death. Even if she found the face of the killer in Leanne’s final visual memories, Ronnie would still likely have to go back to the days, weeks, possibly months preceding it in order to try to find a motive, or discover how the victim’s path had first crossed her killer’s.

There was much to do. But starting at the end was a lure that proved utterly irresistible.

“You’re skipping most of the day and going straight to her last minutes, right?” Jeremy asked, not even looking back at her. As if he had eyes in the back of his head. 

“You read my mind.”

He spun around in his chair. “Hey, you’re an open book.”

God, she hoped not. “You think it’s a bad idea?”

“Hell, no, I’d be doing the same thing. Getting inside the victim’s head and figuring out who they were and why they might have been targeted is all well and good but nothing would beat a high-res jpeg of the face of the sick bastard who killed them.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, glad Sykes was willing to skirt the rules this time.

“So, do you want to share?” he asked. “Let me take a peek too?”

“I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.” Before he could make some flirtatious remark in response, she put a hand up, palm out. “I mean, I show you mine now, you show me yours later.”

Shit. From the frying pan into the fire.
Why
did Jeremy Sykes turn her into an idiot? The men she regularly chewed up for lunch and spat out for dinner would be laughing their heads off to see her almost subconsciously playing sexy word games, with which she was completely unfamiliar. Ronnie had always been the blunt, get-to-the-point type. If she wanted sex with someone, she simply told them, made sure there were no pesky diseases involved, and let the chips—and pants—fall where they may. But with Sykes, she found herself dancing around this sky-high
thing
between them, as nervous as a virgin at a frat party. It was stupid. And it pissed her off.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sykes said with a chuckle. That dimple in his cheek flashed, but to give him credit, he didn’t go any further. Thank goodness. “Yours first. Later, we’ll do mine, then run them on a split screen and see if we notice any similarities.”

“Good plan. Do you think the last ten minutes will be enough?” she asked.

“I read the autopsy report. You really think she still had her eyes open eighty minutes in?”

“She could have died with them open. A picture of the bastard’s face might have been captured as she drew her last breath.”

“It’s worth a shot—we can always back up.”

Okay. Ten minutes it was. Ten minutes of hell, she had no doubt.

Ronnie tensed, unable to control the tiniest hint of unease. If watching the final hours of a death row inmate had been difficult, how would it be with a murder victim, a nice, pretty young woman whose biggest crime might have been having a secret boyfriend? Not just that, they’d be watching them life-size, in all their three-dimensional evil.

Sight was such a personal, intimate thing. Part of the brilliance of Dr. Tate’s chip was that it almost seemed able to convey the emotional response of the implantee, to make his or her feelings come alive for whoever saw the pictures later. The panicked shifting of attention back-and-forth between objects heightened tension and built fear. A long, covetous stare so easily displayed want or desire. A tender gaze on a beloved face was soft and unmistakable. Tears not only blurred the vision but evoked such regret, such sadness, it was enough to make her eyes sting.

There was no way to remain impersonal in this job. No way to view these as crime scene photos, taken hours later after the heat of the crime had cooled and the victim’s soul, if there was such a thing, had long since departed. There would be no CSI crew, no rookies putting up yellow tape, no witnesses clamoring to tell the tale, no jaded cops cracking jokes while secretly feeling queasy. This was just victim and predator.

And Ronnie and Sykes. They would be
in
this—in Leanne’s head, in Leanne’s murder—the moment they started to watch, whether they stepped onto that mat or not. It was the ultimate voyeurism, the mind rape of a dead woman.

It’s also your job and it’s the best chance for justice that woman’s got. So stop the mental hand-wringing and get to it.

She set up the projector, remembering Dr. Cavanaugh’s instructions.

“We’re not going inside this first time, right?” Sykes confirmed.

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah. I think it would take a lot of mental preparation for that.”

“Or a lot of alcohol.”

She scrolled to the last ten minutes of Leanne Carr’s life, highlighted the entire list of images—six-hundred of them—drew them into a slideshow and set the speed on its slowest setting. For now, she wanted to see each picture individually, to note and interpret each impression. Later, she’d speed things up and watch the events closer to real-time. Obviously, people didn’t go through their lives capturing visual images only every second. The human brain processed what the  eye saw much faster than that. The average movie, for instance, displayed roughly twenty-four frames per second. So seeing the quickest possible progression of a series of still images recorded from someone’s eyes made the experience seem more lifelike—and less like a series of drawings in one of those old-fashioned cartoon flip-books.

For right now, though, the one-by-one approach would be best for noting specific clues. It would also be easier on her, would allow her to build one small wall of separation between herself and the victim, to remind her brain that these were pictures of something that had happened in the past, not something she was truly experiencing right now.

She needed to dip her toe into this icy cold pool of death, not dive into the deep end.

Ronnie grabbed the remote control, then swiveled her chair, too filled with tension to even regret having moved fast enough to jiggle her aching head. Sykes did the same thing, scooting his chair closer to hers until they sat side by side. Ronnie looked at him, silently asking a question, and he nodded that he was ready.

She clicked the
Start
button and the lights in the room immediately went down, the better to see the projected images before them. A pause as tense expectation filled the air, and her heart began to beat in time with each screen change.

The movie of Leanne’s mind began.
 

Dark. So dark. Eyes closed? No. Open. Just dark. Cave-like. Claustrophobic. Terrifying.
 

Lids half closed.

Blink. 

Open.
 

Images take shape. Glint of green. Exit sign nearby. The only light.
 

It’s enough.
 

Shadows. Stillness. Nothing moves. Alone. Abandoned.
 

On the ground. On her back. Looking up. Rough ceiling. Bare bulb. Unlit. Wires. Pipes. Sprinkler head. Entrance to stairs. Escape? Impossible. Empty. No help coming.
 

Picture’s blurry. Tear-filled. Red. Blood?

Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Eyes closed. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. 

Eyes open. New image. Head turned. Concrete block. The wall. Pale. Chalky surface. Eerie. Ghostlike. Rough.
 

Spots on it. Blood. Her blood. Leanne’s blood. So much blood. Turn away. Look away. Don’t look. Blink. Don’t look. Blink. Can’t stop. Must look. Must understand?

Eyes close. 

Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
 

Open. Light. Exit sign. Focus on it. Light in the dark. A glimmer of hope.
 

No. No hope. No exit. No escape. No rescue. No chance.
 

Eye movement slow. Lethargic. Death is near.
 

Head turns. Slow motion. Inch by inch. Hurts to move. So much pain.
 

Back to ceiling. Spot on ceiling. Water stain on ceiling. Why water stain on ceiling? Her blood on ceiling?
 

Eyes close. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness.
 

Eyes open. Hand lifted off floor. Staring at hand. Twitching finger. One twitching finger. Others gone. Bloody stumps. Just…gone.

Finger pointing. Pointing. Hand raised. Pointing. At what? Staring. What is it? 

Tools. Left behind. Construction tools. Workers tools. Heavy equipment. Circular saw. Jackhammer. Lathe. Use them? Did he use them? Cut her with them? Tools of torture? No. They’re not bloody. So why the pointing? Takes effort to point. Such effort. Such pain. Still pointing. Why? Why? Blood dripping. Bloody stumps. Why?
 

Gaze jerks. Frantic looks. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Stairs. Ceiling. Is he coming back? Where was he? Is this the end? Will he finish it now?

Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Hide in the darkness. Squeeze eyes shut. Don’t look. Don’t see. Don’t let it be true. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. 

Eyes open. Slowly. Reluctantly.
 

Have to look. Have to see. Have to study. Have to leave a clue.
 

Stairs. Ceiling. Light. Light. Bright. Oh, God, bright light. Blinding.
 

On his head. Why does his head glow? A helmet. Miner’s helmet. Bright flashlight. Whiting out the world..

Eyes narrow. Close. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. 

Sliver of light. Trying to see. Trying to peek. Must see. Capture his image. Capture his face. Name her killer.