He watched the screen as the couple disappeared into the office before reemerging three minutes later and making their way to what Pryce knew would be room 4. The positioning of the camera meant the view of the office and the cars parked outside it was reasonably sharp, but the picture grew grainier where the rooms stretched out away from the camera’s lens.

By the time they reached the room, Amy Ong and Frank Sherman were little more than gray smudges on the screen. Pryce leaned in closer and could just make out the two figures crossing the threshold before closing the door behind them. He checked the time: 8:51 p.m.

Delaney hit fast-forward, and the time stamp jumped ahead quickly until, finally, the door to room 4 opened again. He backed up the tape slightly. At 10:02 p.m., the larger of the two figures emerged from the room. The door closed behind him. They saw him amble toward where his car was parked. He looked unsteady on his feet.

Sherman pulled his car keys from his pants pocket, dropped them, and leaned against the car for support as he stooped to scoop them up. The rear lights flashed as he pressed the fob to unlock the car before clambering into the driver’s side with some difficulty. The man was clearly in no fit state to drive. Pryce wondered if someone as intoxicated as Frank Sherman appeared to be would have been capable of carrying out an attack as brutal as the one that had ended Amy Ong’s life. The car backed slowly out of the space before turning toward the parking lot exit and driving out of shot.

“That your guy?” Delaney asked.

“Maybe,” Pryce said. “Let’s keep watching.”

The time stamp read 10:07 p.m.

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, a figure walked into view wearing plain dark-colored pants, sneakers, gloves, and a loose, long-sleeved hoodie. The hood was pulled up, covering the wearer’s hair and obscuring their face. The person carried a duffel bag.

He looked to be similar in height to Frank Sherman but was seventy or eighty pounds lighter. Pryce was certain he was not the same man who was locked in a cell at Hollywood Station right now. This one walked purposefully in the direction of the motel rooms, head tucked down, bag swinging by his side.

Pryce could hardly breathe as he watched the person stop in front of room 4. The door opened, and he saw a flash of white. The terry cloth bathrobe. The figure in black entered the room, and the door closed again.

“Can you back that up a few seconds and zoom in?” Pryce asked.

“Sure.”