Zockinski, who had invested more of himself in this battle, waited for Rachel to buy her daily cookie and walked back to First District Station with them. Near them. Anyone driving by would have assumed, correctly, they just happened to be traveling in the same direction.
They ended up in a small conference room with a video setup. Hill was waiting with arms crossed, leaning against the painted cinderblock in the far corner.
“This gets a little…” Zockinski paused as he searched for the right word. “Dark.”
Santino pulled a chair in front of the monitor. “We assumed. You guys work homicide.”
“Yeah,” Hill said. “It’s almost always boyfriend, husband, ex-husband, or junkie, but this one is bad.”
Zockinski went through his pockets and came out with a mechanical pencil. “We weren’t kidding when we said we couldn’t find someone who should have been on this tape. Okay, so…
He roughed out a diagram on the tabletop. His scratchy gray lines barely stood out against the utilitarian metal. “The bank should have gotten this on three different cameras. There’s the usual one inside of the ATM,” he said, circling the reference point. “There’s one inside the vestibule hallway.” Another circle. “And the last one is outside of the building and is pointed at the door.” One final circle, off to the side and up.
“It’s an old bank, so the vestibule used to be a storage area or something,” Hill said. He still kept himself as far away from Rachel as possible but as he spoke, Zockinski drew lines with his finger across the diagram. “It’s at the end of a little hallway. There’s a window to the street in the hall, but there’re none in the room itself. The camera in the vestibule points at the hall, so anyone coming or going? They’re caught.
“This is the ATM footage,” Hill continued, pointing at the television in the conference room. “It’s the angle with the cleanest version of the attack. You can see a glove and part of his mask before he drops back off-screen, but that’s all we ever see of him.”
Hill picked up the remote and the monitor woke up. A small room with pale walls, pens and deposit slips on a tall slab desk off to the side, a heavily-patterned area rug in the hall to soak up rainy-day liquids. The film quality was excellent. Digital storage was so cheap that security footage had transitioned from still images taken every three seconds to a continuous stream filmed in high resolution.
“Black and white?” Rachel asked. Security systems had evolved ages ago, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a monochrome version. This setup was designed for low light scenarios and whoever had purchased it was either cheap or careless, since almost all bank robberies took place during the day.
“Some banks still use it,” Hill said, and shrugged. He didn’t know why, either. Cops worked with what they were given.
The camera was pointed towards the door. A woman in her late twenties entered the vestibule. She was smiling.
“She looks happy,” Santino said.
“She was about to finish paying off ninety grand in loans. She was checking her balance to make sure the payment would go through.”
“Oh man. Breaks the heart.”
Maria Griffin came towards the camera. Great skin, longish curling hair, some freckles. Certainly not a beauty but still pretty by way of youth and attitude. Nothing about her posture communicated she was aware of another person in the room. Rachel wished she could have read Griffin’s mood (if, for no other reason, to see what color was associated with conquering a mountain of debt), but even if it hadn’t been in black and white, emotions weren’t captured on film.
Then the arm went around her throat, with a fast glimpse of the killer’s gloves and his lower jaw under a ski mask. The edge of a knife appeared and Griffin fell towards the camera, holding her throat. Griffin vanished, followed by a cascade of hair and,
They ended up in a small conference room with a video setup. Hill was waiting with arms crossed, leaning against the painted cinderblock in the far corner.
“This gets a little…” Zockinski paused as he searched for the right word. “Dark.”
Santino pulled a chair in front of the monitor. “We assumed. You guys work homicide.”
“Yeah,” Hill said. “It’s almost always boyfriend, husband, ex-husband, or junkie, but this one is bad.”
Zockinski went through his pockets and came out with a mechanical pencil. “We weren’t kidding when we said we couldn’t find someone who should have been on this tape. Okay, so…
He roughed out a diagram on the tabletop. His scratchy gray lines barely stood out against the utilitarian metal. “The bank should have gotten this on three different cameras. There’s the usual one inside of the ATM,” he said, circling the reference point. “There’s one inside the vestibule hallway.” Another circle. “And the last one is outside of the building and is pointed at the door.” One final circle, off to the side and up.
“It’s an old bank, so the vestibule used to be a storage area or something,” Hill said. He still kept himself as far away from Rachel as possible but as he spoke, Zockinski drew lines with his finger across the diagram. “It’s at the end of a little hallway. There’s a window to the street in the hall, but there’re none in the room itself. The camera in the vestibule points at the hall, so anyone coming or going? They’re caught.
“This is the ATM footage,” Hill continued, pointing at the television in the conference room. “It’s the angle with the cleanest version of the attack. You can see a glove and part of his mask before he drops back off-screen, but that’s all we ever see of him.”
Hill picked up the remote and the monitor woke up. A small room with pale walls, pens and deposit slips on a tall slab desk off to the side, a heavily-patterned area rug in the hall to soak up rainy-day liquids. The film quality was excellent. Digital storage was so cheap that security footage had transitioned from still images taken every three seconds to a continuous stream filmed in high resolution.
“Black and white?” Rachel asked. Security systems had evolved ages ago, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a monochrome version. This setup was designed for low light scenarios and whoever had purchased it was either cheap or careless, since almost all bank robberies took place during the day.
“Some banks still use it,” Hill said, and shrugged. He didn’t know why, either. Cops worked with what they were given.
The camera was pointed towards the door. A woman in her late twenties entered the vestibule. She was smiling.
“She looks happy,” Santino said.
“She was about to finish paying off ninety grand in loans. She was checking her balance to make sure the payment would go through.”
“Oh man. Breaks the heart.”
Maria Griffin came towards the camera. Great skin, longish curling hair, some freckles. Certainly not a beauty but still pretty by way of youth and attitude. Nothing about her posture communicated she was aware of another person in the room. Rachel wished she could have read Griffin’s mood (if, for no other reason, to see what color was associated with conquering a mountain of debt), but even if it hadn’t been in black and white, emotions weren’t captured on film.
Then the arm went around her throat, with a fast glimpse of the killer’s gloves and his lower jaw under a ski mask. The edge of a knife appeared and Griffin fell towards the camera, holding her throat. Griffin vanished, followed by a cascade of hair and,
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