“What about doing some kind of voiceprint analysis? Trying to get an electronic match.”

“From what I know, you need actual words for a match. And the department doesn't do voiceprints anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Probably not enough call. What they're useful for, mostly, is kidnapping ransom calls, and that's usually the FBI's game. Also phone scams, bunco stuff, which is low priority with all the buckets of blood. I think one guy at the sheriff's is still doing them. I'll find out.”

The dog finally put his head in the bowl and began slurping water. Milo lifted his bottle, said, “Cheers,” and emptied it.

“Why don't you and I try a little bit of low-tech teamwork right now?” I said. “You take audio, I'll take video—”

“And I'll be in Screamland afore ye.”

He took the portable tapedeck into the library and loaded the video. We sat across from one another, listening to screams, trying to shut out the context. Even with two people it was difficult—hard to divide the howls into discrete segments.

We played and rewound, doing it over and over, trying to locate the sixteen seconds of the bad love tape amid the pain and noise of the longer video segment. The dog tolerated only a minute or so before scooting out of the room.

Milo and I stayed and sweated.

After half an hour, a triumph of sorts.

A discrepancy.

A second or two of sing-song, wordless jabber at the tail end of my tape that didn't materialize anywhere on the soundtrack of the video.

Ya ya ya . . . the screamer lowering his volume just a bit—a barely discernible shift not much longer than an eyeblink. But once I pointed it out, it mushroomed, as obvious as a billboard.

“Two separate taping sessions,” I said, as stunned as Milo looked. “Has to be, otherwise why would the shorter tape have something on it that's missing from the longer segment?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, and I knew he was angry at himself for not catching it first.

He sprang to his feet and paced. Looked at his Timex. “When'd you say you were going to the airport?”

“Nine.”

“If you're comfortable leaving the place unguarded, I could go get something done.”

“Sure,” I said, rising. “What?”

“Talk to the clinic director about Hewitt's social life.”

He collected his things and we walked to the door.

“Okay, I'm off,” he said. “Got the Porsche and the cellular, so you can always reach me if you need to.”

“Thanks for everything, Milo.”

“What're friends for?”

Ugly answers flashed in my head, but I kept them to myself.

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER

8

Just as I was preparing to head out for LAX, Dr. Stanley Wolf returned my call. He sounded middle-aged and spoke softly and hesitantly, as if doubting his own credibility.

I thanked him and said I'd called about Dr. Grant Stoumen.