spun off in the opposite direction, where the ball was somehow waiting. Natural athletes always made it look easy. Gracie Ann Brice was a natural athlete.
Watching the victim running up and down the field on the videotape—her smile, her spirit, her soccer skills—FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux wanted to find this girl alive so much it hurt. The victim was not that photograph distributed to the media; she was a real live little girl who only two days before had not a care in the world, smiling and laughing and playing soccer. And play she could. As his daughter would say, Gracie’s got game.
She had captivated her audience.
Four FBI agents, the father, and the grandparents stood facing the nine-foot-wide projector screen built into the wall of the media room, hypnotized by the victim’s image and all too aware that they were likely watching the last moments of her life. The tape was playing with remarkable clarity—Agent Stevens, who was manning the camcorder connected to the TV, had said something about it being recorded in “high def”—and had captured the sights and sounds of the game: the girls playing,a referee’s whistle, background noises, then suddenly a loud cheer and “Run, Gracie, run!” and the father’s voice: “Lou, I’m hard-core about thirty bucks a share!”
The camera abruptly swung from the field to the crowded parking lot in the distance and just as abruptly back to the field, creating a stream of blurred images. The victim appeared in frame again, up close, making a face at the camera as she ran past. Devereaux couldn’t help but smile. She then booted the ball across the field—“Go, Tornadoes!”—and the camera angle dropped precipitously, as if the operator had lost all strength in his arm; a pair of black penny loafers over white socks filled the screen. Devereaux glanced over at the father; he was still wearing the same shoes and socks. He had filmed his own feet. On the tape now, the father’s voice again: “Lou, if I had e-mail capacity at this soccer field, I’d beam Harvey a freaking shitogram!”
Back on the screen, another violent camera spasm and a close-up of a big white belly escaping from under a gold jersey and a booming voice that Devereaux recognized as the coach’s—“Gracie, stop her!” Abruptly back to the field: Gracie was running full speed then sliding, feet first, and kicking the ball away from an opponent trying to score, an incredible play … now the blue sky, then suddenly Gracie again, kicking the ball in front of her, racing down the field past her opponents—“Go, Gracie! Score, Gracie!”—to the goal, about to score, pulling her leg back, and … now the father’s shoes again. The room audibly deflated; Agent Jorgenson had damn near kicked Devereaux trying to score the goal for Gracie. On the tape, loud cheers erupted in the background … now the setting sun … and parents standing in the bleachers … and back on the soccer game … and the tape suddenly went silent.
“Did we lose audio?” Devereaux said to Agent Stevens.
“Don’t think so,” Stevens said, checking the connection.
“Increase the volume, run the tape back.”
Stevens did as Devereaux instructed. The tape replayed the same scene of the girls huddled in the middle of the field. There was a muffled sound in the background.
“Again. Louder.”
The same scene again. The same sound in the background.
“What was that? Pant deck? Again.”
The sound came through clearer this time, a male voice yelling, “Panty check.”
“The hell’s a panty check?” Devereaux said to the room.
“He was taunting her.”
All heads turned to the voice behind them: the mother stood in the doorway. She looked like hell. She hadn’t changed her clothes; her hair was wild and untouched; her blouse was hanging out; her skirt was twisted; she was barefooted. She said, “He was saying she’s really a boy, because she’s so good.” The mother turned her glare on the
Watching the victim running up and down the field on the videotape—her smile, her spirit, her soccer skills—FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux wanted to find this girl alive so much it hurt. The victim was not that photograph distributed to the media; she was a real live little girl who only two days before had not a care in the world, smiling and laughing and playing soccer. And play she could. As his daughter would say, Gracie’s got game.
She had captivated her audience.
Four FBI agents, the father, and the grandparents stood facing the nine-foot-wide projector screen built into the wall of the media room, hypnotized by the victim’s image and all too aware that they were likely watching the last moments of her life. The tape was playing with remarkable clarity—Agent Stevens, who was manning the camcorder connected to the TV, had said something about it being recorded in “high def”—and had captured the sights and sounds of the game: the girls playing,a referee’s whistle, background noises, then suddenly a loud cheer and “Run, Gracie, run!” and the father’s voice: “Lou, I’m hard-core about thirty bucks a share!”
The camera abruptly swung from the field to the crowded parking lot in the distance and just as abruptly back to the field, creating a stream of blurred images. The victim appeared in frame again, up close, making a face at the camera as she ran past. Devereaux couldn’t help but smile. She then booted the ball across the field—“Go, Tornadoes!”—and the camera angle dropped precipitously, as if the operator had lost all strength in his arm; a pair of black penny loafers over white socks filled the screen. Devereaux glanced over at the father; he was still wearing the same shoes and socks. He had filmed his own feet. On the tape now, the father’s voice again: “Lou, if I had e-mail capacity at this soccer field, I’d beam Harvey a freaking shitogram!”
Back on the screen, another violent camera spasm and a close-up of a big white belly escaping from under a gold jersey and a booming voice that Devereaux recognized as the coach’s—“Gracie, stop her!” Abruptly back to the field: Gracie was running full speed then sliding, feet first, and kicking the ball away from an opponent trying to score, an incredible play … now the blue sky, then suddenly Gracie again, kicking the ball in front of her, racing down the field past her opponents—“Go, Gracie! Score, Gracie!”—to the goal, about to score, pulling her leg back, and … now the father’s shoes again. The room audibly deflated; Agent Jorgenson had damn near kicked Devereaux trying to score the goal for Gracie. On the tape, loud cheers erupted in the background … now the setting sun … and parents standing in the bleachers … and back on the soccer game … and the tape suddenly went silent.
“Did we lose audio?” Devereaux said to Agent Stevens.
“Don’t think so,” Stevens said, checking the connection.
“Increase the volume, run the tape back.”
Stevens did as Devereaux instructed. The tape replayed the same scene of the girls huddled in the middle of the field. There was a muffled sound in the background.
“Again. Louder.”
The same scene again. The same sound in the background.
“What was that? Pant deck? Again.”
The sound came through clearer this time, a male voice yelling, “Panty check.”
“The hell’s a panty check?” Devereaux said to the room.
“He was taunting her.”
All heads turned to the voice behind them: the mother stood in the doorway. She looked like hell. She hadn’t changed her clothes; her hair was wild and untouched; her blouse was hanging out; her skirt was twisted; she was barefooted. She said, “He was saying she’s really a boy, because she’s so good.” The mother turned her glare on the
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