I walk in to find Mona sitting at her station, tapping her fingers to a Gin Blossoms tune that’s cranked up a little too loud. “Hey, Chief. You’re in early this morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I cross to the dispatch station, reach over and turn down the radio. “Any messages?”

“Media mostly. From yesterday afternoon. Wanting to know about the Long thing.” She passes half a dozen pink messages to me. “Sorry about the radio. I didn’t realize it was so late. I mean early.” She grins. “Night shift flew by.”

Since the messages are media-related, I hand them back to her. “Let them know I’ll have a press release later this morning.”

“Sure thing.”

At the coffee station, I pour a cup and carry it to my office. While my computer boots, I go to the record storage box next to the file cabinet and carry it to my desk. T. Long Suicide is written in bold red marker on the side. The box contains only a fraction of what we found at the scene; most of it was sent to the BCI lab for processing. Still, I want to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb before closing the case.

Inside the box, I find the evidence log Mona put together. The preliminary report from Doc Coblentz. A manila folder contains a photo record of the scene. A plastic bag filled with pornographic photos of Mary Plank. In addition, there are two boxes of disks. All are copies; the originals were sent to the BCI lab. The first box is marked Viewed. These are the ones Glock, John and T.J. went through yesterday. The second box is marked To Be Viewed. These are the ones I need to look at this morning.

I set the box on my desk. Reviewing them is the last thing I want to do. I know the images that wait for me—rape and depravity—will negate whatever optimism Tomasetti left with me. But even though Long is dead and the case will soon be closed, all the evidence must still be examined.

Rising, I close my office door and slide the first disk into my computer. The drive whirs. I open Windows and click Play. The video opens to a sparsely furnished, windowless room. Stark white walls. A single bulb hangs down from the ceiling. A twin-size bed with an iron headboard and smaller footboard stands in the center of the room. Mary Plank is on the bed, lying on her side. She wears no makeup, but someone painted her mouth red. Her eyes are glazed. She wears a light blue dress, a white apron, gauzy kapp and ankle boots. I try to take in these details with the unaffected eye of a cop. But my chest tightens at the sight of her.