Shock Treatment (15 page)

She tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. He took off the headphones and turned around to greet her. A slim young Asian man in a Hawaiian shirt, he was better-looking and less nerdy than most of his fellow lab rats. His athletic prowess and trim physique had recently earned him a cover shot on a professional surfing magazine. “Hi, boss. Didn't hear you come in.”

“Sorry to interrupt.” She nodded at the pulsating
images on the screen. “That Jill Wooten's scary phone call?”

“In all its spectrographic glory,” he confirmed. “Somebody sure didn't like her.”

“And somebody else may have gotten shot because of it,” Catherine said. “You think you can get anything out of that?”

“Maybe,” he hedged. “The fact that the caller is using a creepy whisper is going to make a concrete identification tricky, but we might be able to establish a strong probability as to the identity of the caller, especially after I clean the recording up some more. And, of course, I'm still going to need an audio exemplar to compare it against.”

“We're working on that,” she promised him. “What about the source of the call? Any luck there?”

“Not really.” Archie put away his headphones. “Phone records indicate that it came from a disposable cell phone.”

Catherine was afraid of that. Disposable phones were now the medium of choice for obscene phone callers, career criminals, and the occasional terrorist. Finding the phone was going to be a real long shot. Chances were, the mystery caller had already trashed it.

Especially now that Novak was history.

S
ARA HAD NOT
given up on finding Heather Gilroy yet. As she and Detective Vartann drove away from the apartment building, she called The Nile on her cell phone. At first nobody picked up and she feared that maybe the staff at the spa had called it a day, but, after several rings, she finally got a response.

“The Nile Spa and Salon,” a male voice answered. “How may I assist you?”

“Mr. Yun?” Sara had met Brian Yun, the spa's assistant manager the other day, when she had provided him with a receipt for the snakes she had confiscated. “This is Sara Sidle from the crime lab. I'm glad I caught you.”

A weary sigh was audible even over the phone. “Madame has me working late redoing our calendar. I'm afraid we've had several cancellations, after what happened to Ms. Segura.” He sounded tired and under stress.

Sara wouldn't also be surprised to hear that The
Nile was receding and business wouldn't be coming back. Although the ill-fated snake massage had not yet attracted the sort of media frenzy that Catherine's
Shock Treatment
case was getting, Sara imagined the story was already spreading rapidly through Rita Segura's gossipy social circle. It was the kind of bizarre occurrence people couldn't resist talking about.

“I'm sorry to interrupt you,” she said, “but I was hoping you could help us out. I don't suppose Heather Gilroy showed up for work today? We're still trying to track her down.”

“I'm afraid not,” Yun said. “In fact, Madame has already instructed me to mail Heather's final paycheck to her home address, along with a notice of termination, to discourage her from ever showing her face here again. Alas, poor Heather has been banished from The Nile.”

“But you still have her personnel file, right?” Sara had another idea. “Can you tell me who is listed as her emergency contact?”

Yun hesitated. “I'm not sure. Isn't that information supposed to be confidential? It's only meant to be used in the event of a genuine emergency.”

“Heather is missing,” Sara pointed out, “and a key witness in what might be an attempted homicide. That sounds like an emergency to me.”

“Homicide?” He reacted with shock. “But I thought this was just an accident.”

Sara saw no need to update him on their investigation. “Homicide. Manslaughter. Negligence. Right now we can't rule anything out. And Heather Gilroy might be the only person who can help us clear things up.”

“Oh,” Yun relented. “I guess when you put it that way . . . hang on.” He tapped away at his keyboard. “All right. I have that information for you now.”

Sara gave Vartann a thumbs-up. She took out a notebook. “Thanks a lot. I really appreciate this.” She copied down the address Yun read to her. “Trust me,” she assured him, “you're doing the right thing.”

“I hope so,” he said glumly, sounding unconvinced. “For everyone's sake.”

“Again?”

Greg groaned at the prospect of watching Matt Novak die one more time. He and Nick had already viewed the
Shock Treatment
footage at least a dozen times, twice for each angle. By now they knew every beat and nuance of the doomed actor's final moments.

Or did they?

Nick thought that maybe they were missing something. All of this footage, fortuitously dropped into their laps . . . there had to be a clue there that would shed some light on the proceedings. Maybe right in front of them.

“Yep,” he drawled. “Only now we get to watch it on the big screen.”

The two men had relocated to the A/V lab in order to view the footage on Archie's king-sized plasma screen. Archie himself was taking a break; he had said something about going out for a bite to eat before turning the lab over to the CSIs. Nick hoped that seeing the shooting video blown up on
the largest screen in the lab would reveal something that had been too small to notice before. This was the next best thing to watching the incident in person.

“Yippee,” Greg said unenthusiastically. He sat down at the keyboard next to Nick. “I can hardly wait.”

Nick smirked. “I thought you were a fan.”

“Not anymore.” Greg rubbed his weary eyes. “From now on, I'm sticking to
America's Funniest Autopsy Videos.
” He looked dubiously at Nick. “You expecting an alternate ending this time?”

“Not exactly,” Nick said. “There's just something nagging me. Like it's right under my nose.”

“A hunch?” Greg asked.

“Nah, more like a feeling. Like my subconscious has already noticed something, but the rest of my brain hasn't caught up yet.”

“Ah,” Greg said, understanding. “Cognitive jet lag. I hate that.” He flexed his fingers and took hold of the mouse. “All right. Let's fire this puppy up and see if we can figure out what's bothering your itchy subconscious.”

The footage was already loaded into the A/V lab network. Greg clicked on the file and selected the big screen. They started with a bird's-eye view of the shooting, taken by the camera hidden in the smoke alarm. They looked down as Novak and Jill, not quite larger than life, confronted each other once more in the back office of WaxWorkZ. Bill Hamilton, stuck in the iron maiden, was out of the shot. All that could be seen was the rusty dome of the maiden's forged metal cranium. Jill jumped as
Novak slammed the door behind him, trapping her in the office with his terrifying chainsaw.

The fateful encounter played out exactly as before. The chainsaw roared, its spinning rubber teeth a blur. Jill screamed. The muzzle flared. Matt Novak began his final death scene.

“Same thing,” Greg said. “She shot him again.” Working the keyboard and mouse, he attempted to restart the footage from the beginning. “One more time?”

“Hold on.” Nick held up his hand. “Let it keep playing.”

“You sure?” Greg asked. “The rest is just everybody milling around in panic, not sure what to do, until somebody remembers to turn off the cameras.”

Nick remembered. They had played through the entire sequence at least once, watching the show's overwhelmed medic try in vain to stop Novak from expiring. “Maybe that's what's bothering me. Not during the shooting itself, but the aftermath. Go back to right after he was shot.”

Greg rewound the clip to the moment in question. Novak was driven back by the impact of the bullet. He toppled backward onto the carpet. The chainsaw slipped from his fingers. He writhed upon the floor. Only moments from death, he clawed feebly at the air with one hand. His elevated arm trembled, as though he could barely hold it up. His masked face turned slightly to the left.

“Wait a sec.” Nick squinted at the screen. He felt a surge of adrenalin, like a dog that had just caught a scent. “Freeze that.”

Greg complied. “You got something?”

“Maybe.” Nick leaned forward, peering at the screen, where Matt Novak was suspended in his death throes. He looked closely at the actor's masked countenance. It was hard to make out, but . . . “Can you zoom in on the hockey mask?”

Greg's fingers danced atop the keyboard. A grid pattern appeared on the frozen image and he selected the designated segment, which expanded to fill up the entire screen. The enlarged image was blurry and indistinct at first, but then the image-enhancement software kicked in. The panelized picture gradually resolved as contrasting colors and shadows sharpened their edges. Within minutes, a relatively clear image of the chainsaw slasher's mask took over the screen. Nick stared at the image, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“Hmm,” he murmured.

“What is it?” Greg inquired. “C'mon, dude. Give.”

Nick didn't keep him in suspense. “Look at his eyes, and the turn of his head. Is it just me or is he glaring at that phony TV screen? Not at the woman who just shot him, but at the camera crew hiding behind the concealed one-way mirror.”

“Maybe. It's hard to tell from this angle,” Greg said uncertainly. “Hang on. Let me try something.”

He quickly called up a view from another camera, the one on the other side of the mirror. Fast-forwarding to the same moment, he froze the image just as Novak turned his face toward the camera. Then he enlarged the picture again.

This time there could be no mistake. From behind the featureless white hockey mask, Novak's eyes glared furiously into the camera. “Bloodshot” contact
lenses masked the actor's actual brown irises, but failed to conceal the murderous intensity of his narrowed eyes. If looks could kill, Novak's dying gaze would have filled up the coroner's wagon.

“Wow,” Greg murmured. “He is seriously pissed.”

“But not at Jill,” Nick pointed out again. “Not at the woman who just shot him. But at somebody— or somebodies—on the other side of that mirror.”

Greg scratched his chin. “You think maybe he blamed the show for the accident?”

“Possibly.” Nick was doubtful. “But he had been with the show for years. He was part of the gag. Why would he look angry when it backfired? I mean, I can see him being shocked, or scared, or even despairing, but angry enough that he ignores his killer to give the camera crew the stink-eye instead?”

Inspiration lit up Greg's own eyes. “Maybe that's not all he was doing.” Manipulating the image via the keyboard, he pulled back on the image until most of Novak's body was revealed. “Look at his hand. The one in the air.”

Nick could tell that Greg was on to something. He stared at the gloved hand, which appeared to be grasping at the air, just like before. His brow furrowed. “What about it?”

“You'll see.” Greg zoomed in on the hand and enlarged it. They waited for the enhanced image to fully resolve. “Wait for it.”

A large hand, stuffed inside a blood-smeared work glove, filled the screen.

“Check out the finger,” Greg chortled. “And I do mean
the
finger.”

Nick couldn't believe his eyes. “What the hell?”

On the screen, Novak's middle finger was extended slightly above the others.

“You see that?” Greg pointed at the screen. “He's actually trying to give them the bird.”

“Maybe,” Nick allowed. He was going to want to check it out from a few more angles to be sure, but, yeah, it sure looked like Novak was making a feeble attempt at flipping someone off—with his dying breath, no less. “Talk about having an attitude problem. He sure wasn't going into the light quietly, that's for sure.” He pondered the actor's last moments. “It's almost like he realized that he had been set up.”

“But by whom?” Greg asked.

“Not by Jill Wooten, it looks like.” Novak's anger had been directed elsewhere. “Or at least Novak sure didn't seem to think so.”

Greg considered the possibilities. “So who was on the other side of that mirror?”

“Good question.” Nick flipped through the file. “At least a half dozen people. Roger Park, the camera crew, the medic, the sound guy, Debra Lusky.” He leafed through the statements of the various witnesses. “Novak could have been glaring at any or all of them.”

The indignant finger hung upon the screen. One last defiant gesture, caught forever by the hidden cameras. Nick felt like they owed it to Matt Novak to find out why he had left this world so angry.

Who had the dying actor blamed for his death?

Frank and Mimi Gilroy lived in a suburban ranch home at the end of a well-lit cul-de-sac in a nice,
middle-class neighborhood that Sara didn't recall ever visiting before. A fading brown lawn was already dreading winter. Shrubs and a small rose garden defied the arid desert climate, and rugged hills rose in the distance. Wicker furniture occupied the front porch. G
ILROY
was printed in block letters on the mailbox at the curb.

“This looks like the place,” she said.

Heather's employment records listed her parents as her emergency contacts. Sara hoped that, if nothing else, the elder Gilroys might know where their daughter could be located.

It was worth a shot.

Vartann parked at the curb. At ten-thirty on a weeknight, the neighborhood was already quiet. The phosphor glow of a TV set radiated through the front window. It looked like the Gilroys were still up. They got out of the car and headed for the door. Sara wore a plain black jacket instead of her gear to avoid alarming the neighbors. As far as she knew, this wasn't a crime scene.