The mask toward the camera, he crosses to Mary. The camera pans in on her for a close-up. I see a hand on her upraised knee, pulling her legs apart. Something pings in my brain. I click Stop and freeze the frame. Long is standing on the far side of Mary. His hands are on his penis. Where did the other hand come from? Using the mouse, I back up a frame. Three more clicks and the hand comes back into view.

I set down my glass hard. I move the frames forward. Click. Click. Click. Long is standing on the other side of Mary. I click backward. The hand on Mary’s knee looms into view. It’s on the near side of Mary. The overall size of the hand, the wrinkling and size of the knuckles, and the blunt-cut nails tell me it’s a male hand.

And it doesn’t belong to Todd Long.

It’s my first undisputable proof that there’s an accomplice.

“I see you, you son of a bitch,” I whisper.

I know it’s possible Long cut footage or otherwise edited the disk, and it only appears that while he’s standing on the far side of Mary, that hand is on her knee. I start clicking the mouse, trying to figure out how to enlarge the image. I can stumble through most computer programs, but by no means am I a whiz. The alcohol isn’t helping. But I need a closer look at the hand to see if there are any identifying marks.

The computer isn’t cooperating. I try a dozen ways to enlarge the image, but each time I lose too much resolution. I save the image to the hard drive and open it using different software. Finally, I succeed and almost immediately find what I’m looking for. Between the thumb and index finger, a scar the size of a dime stands out against tanned skin. I try to recall if Long had such a scar, but I don’t remember seeing one.

Before I even realize why I’m reaching for the phone, I’m dialing Doc Coblentz’s number. A sleepy-sounding woman answers on the sixth ring. A quick glance at my computer monitor tells me it’s almost midnight.

Hoping I sound sober, I ask for the doctor.

“Please tell me you don’t have another body,” Doc Coblentz says without preamble.

“Just a question,” I say quickly.

He grunts and I imagine him pushing himself to a sitting position. “By all means ask away,” he snaps.

“I’m reviewing some of the disks we found at the Todd Long suicide.”

The doc cuts in, perturbed. “And you’re doing that this time of night because . . .”

Quickly, I tell him about the hand and the scar. “I was wondering if you recall a scar like that on Todd Long’s right hand.”