The Devils Teardrop

nearby and C. P. Ardell, in his size 44 jeans, was wedged into one of the booths against the wall. The psychologist from Georgetown University hadn’t yet arrived.
    “The video from the Mason Theater shooting,” Geller said, not looking away from the screen.
    “Anything helpful?” Lukas asked.
    “Nuthin’ much,” the young agent muttered. “Not yet anyway. Here’s what it looks like full screen, real time.”
    He hit some buttons and the image shrank, became discernible. It was a dim view of the interior of the theater, very jumbled and blurry. People were running and diving for cover.
    “When the Digger started shooting,” C. P. explained, “some tourist in the audience turned on his camcorder.”
    Geller typed more and the image grew slightly clearer. Then he froze the tape.
    “There?” Cage asked, touching the screen. “That’s him?”
    “Yep,” Geller said. He started the tape again, running it in slow motion.
    Parker could see virtually nothing distinct. The scene was dark to begin with and the camera had bobbed around when the videotaper had huddled for cover. As the frames flipped past, in slow motion, faint light from the gun blossomed in the middle of the smudge that Geller had identified as the Digger.
    Hardy said, “It’s almost scarier, not exactly seeing what’s going on.”
    Parker silently agreed with him. Lukas, leaning forward, stared intently at the screen.
    Geller continued. “Now, this one’s about the clearest.” The frame froze. The image zoomed in but as the pixelsquares grew larger they lost all definition. Soon the scene was just a hodgepodge of light and dark squares. “I’ve been trying to enhance it to see his face. I’m ninety percent sure he’s white. But that’s about all we can say.”
    Parker had seen something. “Back out again,” he said. “Slowly.”
    As Geller pushed buttons the squares grew smaller, began to coalesce.
    “Stop,” Parker ordered.
    The image was of the Digger from the chest up.
    “Look at that.”
    “At what?” Lukas asked.
    “I don’t see anything,” Hardy said, squinting.
    Parker tapped the screen. In the center of what was probably the Digger’s chest were some bright pixels, surrounded by slightly darker ones in a V-shape, which were in turn surrounded by very dark ones.
    “It’s just a reflection,” Lukas muttered, distracted and impatient. She looked at her watch.
    Parker persisted. “But what’s the light reflecting off of?”
    They stared for a moment. Then: “Ha,” Geller said, his handsome face breaking into a grin. “Think I’ve got it.”
    “What, Tobe?” Parker asked.
    “Aren’t you a good Catholic, Parker?”
    “Not me.” He was a lapsed Presbyterian who found the theology of Star Wars more palatable than most religions.
    “I went to a Jesuit school,” Hardy said. “If that helps.”
    But Geller wasn’t interested in anyone’s spiritual history. He pushed himself across the tiny space in his wheeled office chair. “Let’s try this.” He opened a drawer and took out a small digital camera, handed it to Parker. He plugged it into a computer. He then bent a paper clip into the shape of an X, unhooked two buttons of his shirtand held the clip against his chest. “Shoot me,” he said. “Just push that button.”
    Parker did and handed the camera back. Geller turned to the computer, typed and a dark image of the young agent came up on the screen. “Handsome fella,” said Geller. He hit more buttons, keeping the bright silver of the paperclip in the center of the screen as he zoomed in. The image disappeared into exactly the same arrangement of bright squares as in the picture of the Digger.
    “Only difference,” Geller pointed out, “is that his has a yellowish tint. So our boy’s wearing a gold crucifix.”
    “Add that to our description of the shooter, send it out,” Lukas ordered. “And tell them we’ve confirmed he’s white.” Cage radioed Jerry Baker with the information and told him to pass the word to the canvassers.
    The Digger’s only identifying characteristic—that he wore a cross.
    Was he religious?
    Was it a good-luck charm?
    Or had he ripped it from the body of one of his victims as a trophy?
    Cage’s phone rang. He listened. Hung up. Shrugged, discouraged. “My contact at the FAA. They’ve called all the fixed-base operators in the area about chopper rentals. Man fitting the description of the unsub contracted to charter a helicopter from a company in Clinton,