Michael Prescott - Last Breath

“Detective, it’s Noah Rawls in Baltimore. I see your men have found the house.”

Walsh almost asked how Rawls could know this, but the answer was obvious. He was still monitoring the video feed.

“We’re here, all right,” Walsh said, “trying to figure out our next move.”

“Maybe I can be of help.”

“I hope so.”

“Have you tried looking for the Webcam accessories he installed?”

“What accessories?” Walsh covered one ear to muffle the noise of conversation and police radios crackling everywhere. “And remember, you’re talking to a computer illiterate.”

“Then I’ll keep it simple. We already know he’s been shooting real-time video of this woman in her bedroom. But it’s not enough just to record the images. He has to get them onto the Web.”

“Right,” Walsh said, following so far.

“Ordinarily a Webcam is wired directly to a PC. But I gather that’s not so in this case.”

“There’s no computer in the bedroom. She has one, but she keeps it in the den.”

“Then he must have installed a small hidden camera with wireless capability. In other words, the camera is equipped with a transmitter that sends the video signal to a larger receiver, which would be more difficult to conceal. Since the transmitter’s range is probably quite limited, the receiver must be hidden either inside the house or near it.”

“So we look for a receiver? Like a TV set?”

“No, Detective, a computer. Not the victim’s, but one that the killer himself could set up and control. Most likely a portable computer, one with the necessary hardware and software to pick up a TV signal and convert it to digital form.”

“How is this computer connected to the Web?”

“Via a landline, probably-although he could be using a cell phone as a wireless modem. Either way, he’s sending the video feed from the computer to the proxy server on the Web, which then sends it to the Web server here in Maryland.”

“Okay, we look for a computer, right? A laptop model?”

“That’s correct.”

“And it could be in the house or nearby?”

“Yes.”

“I’m betting it’s someplace on the grounds. It would be easier for him to obtain access to the yard than to the house.”

“But he had to be inside the house to plant the Webcam.”

“I’m going on the assumption that he obtained access to the place on some pretext. Repairman, say. He planted the camera while the victim wasn’t looking. Installing this other gear would have required a separate visit.”

“Possibly,” Rawls conceded. “If that’s so, where would he hide it?”

“Could be the garden. Or along the fence. Or in the garage.”

“Is there a light in the garage?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“Then that’s your best bet.”

“Mind telling me why?”

“Because a light means electrical wiring-and he would want to wire the computer into the main current. Laptop batteries don’t last very long.”

“Good point. We’ll check the garage first. Can you stay on the line?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Great. Hold on.”

Walsh pulled Cellini away from a conversation with Boyle and said he required her assistance in a search.

Together they crossed the yard. Beyond the picket fence, clusters of neighbors and other spectators stood watching, their faces garish in the flickering glare of the patrol cars’ light bars. What they didn’t know was that Detective Lopez, inside the house, was taking their photos with a long-lens camera. There was an outside chance the killer was among the gawkers at the scene.

“Should’ve thought of that myself,” Cellini said when Walsh summarized Rawls’s suggestion. “Thing is, I can’t figure out why he would leave any of his equipment in place.”

“Maybe he planned to return later and retrieve it.”

“Too big a risk of the evidence collectors coming across the stuff.”

“Well, in this case he might’ve left in a hurry. Let’s say he’s still in the house when the deputies arrive. He hears them banging on the door, and he gets spooked. Flees out the back way before the deputies can reach it. While they’re searching the interior, he’s making his getaway.”

They reached the garage, where C.J. Osborn’s Dodge was parked. Shelves lined three walls. Walsh took the right side, Cellini the left. They both pulled on rubber gloves to avoid contaminating the scene. The SID forensics experts hadn’t checked out the garage yet.

As he searched through racks of hardware supplies, Walsh crooked his cell phone under his chin and asked Rawls if he was still there.

“Sure am,” Rawls said, sounding much nearer than three thousand miles away.

“We’re looking through the garage now. Is there any progress on your end in tracking this guy down?”

“We’re pursuing a couple of angles. For one thing, he corresponded via e-mail with the subject here in Baltimore. We’re reviewing the e-mails now. They were scrubbed-sent anonymously-but there may be some clue in the actual content of the messages.”

“Don’t you have document analysis experts for that?”

“Yeah, we’ve sent copies of the e-mails to one of our documents guys. His initial reaction was that there wasn’t much to work with, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“Okay, what’s the other angle?”

“Do you recall how I told you that he’s been routing the video feed through a proxy?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ve obtained a subpoena to see the information in that client’s account.”

“So soon? Fast work.”

“The Bureau never sleeps, Detective,” Rawls intoned sententiously, then laughed. “Unfortunately it may take time for the proxy to comply with the order. You ought to see the delaying tactics these outfits will use.”

“Why would they delay in a case like this? They’re protecting a serial killer.”

“It’s a privacy issue,” Rawls said mildly.

“Tell them about C.J. Osborn’s privacy. Tell them-hey, wait a minute. I found something.” Walsh motioned to Cellini, who joined him at the rear of the garage.

Behind a row of paint cans rested a small black computer, its green LED dimly glowing, and duct-taped to it, a cell phone. Neither detective touched the equipment. There was a small chance the killer had left prints, fibers, or other evidence on the gear.

“Jackpot,” Cellini said. “We can track him down through his cell-phone account. If that fails, we’ll get the serial number of the computer. He might have registered it with the manufacturer. If so, he’s in their database.”

Walsh told Rawls what they’d found. “In the garage, just like you thought.”

“He must have wired the phone into the main current also,” Rawls said. “Otherwise it would have gone dead weeks ago.”

“So,” Walsh said slowly, “if I wanted to shut down the video feed, all I’d have to do is unplug the phone?”

“Or shut down the computer. If that’s what you want to do.”

“It isn’t.”

“I didn’t think so. I’ve been watching from here, remember. I’ve seen the police going in and out of her bedroom. None of you has even glanced at the camera, though you must know it’s there.”

“We can guess its approximate location… Probably hidden inside the curtain rod of the window facing the bed. But everybody’s under orders to play dumb. And we’re going to continue the moron act for a while.”

“You don’t want him to know you’ve figured out the Internet angle.”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s one step ahead of us in every other way. This is the one area where we may- may -have an edge on him. And right now, we need any edge we can get if we want to save C.J. Osborn’s life.”