just flashed there?” Batra said with an arched eyebrow. “Porngrinder?”
CHAPTER
34
RAWLINS LAUGHED AND said blithely, “Oh, no, Porngrinder is on me. What can I say? It’s a lonely life in the basement at times.”
“My God,” Batra said, disgusted. “The Bureau frowns on that kind of thing.”
“Have them sue me, won’t you?” Rawlins said.
“What was the flash?” Batra said.
“I don’t know. A blip, a screen hiccup. They happen, you know.”
“Or a bug in the plug-in that drives the video player?” Batra said.
Rawlins held up a finger. “A momentous occasion. Special Agent Henna B. and I might agree.”
Batra rolled her eyes. “Tell us about the video.”
I won’t bore anyone with the details of Rawlins’s technological savvy and instincts, but they were shrewd and his results conclusive. At first, he used ordinary software to try to access the video file’s so-called dark data. No luck. The video hadbeen run through an onion system similar to the one used to create the Killingblondechicks4fun website. The dark data had been stripped away.
“Not surprising.” Rawlins sniffed. “But I’ve still got the dust rag.”
The “dust rag” was software Rawlins had designed and coded himself to raise the faintest trace of old dark and metadata. He compared the software to the Hubble Space Telescope looking for cosmic debris a thousand miles behind a comet’s long tail.
Sure enough, his screen was soon filled with fragments of code that played out in sync with the video. By focusing on the moments where the lighting was dimmest and the noise of the alleged killing most pronounced, Rawlins found evidence in the data dust that suggested an audio splice in the sound track roughly six seconds long. Those six seconds included the knife-across-the-throat slitting noise and the
pah
that sounded like air bursting out of a frightened and dying chest.
“She’s alive,” Rawlins said barely fifteen minutes after starting his examination. “Or at least, those weren’t the sounds of
her
murder.”
I sighed with relief. I wouldn’t have to give Alden Lindel or his wife more heartbreaking news. “Explain how you know. The parents will ask.”
Rawlins said, “The sound patch itself is fairly sophisticated CGA. Computer-generated audio. So someone’s had advanced training in sound effects. You’re looking for a film-school grad or someone who worked in a special-effects company out in Hollywood, not a coder.”
“Why’s that?” Batra asked.
Rawlins gave his computer a command, and the video onthe center screen rewound to the beginning of the six-second splice. A second screen showed the remnants of the dark data. He pointed out a jagged line of data that almost connected top to bottom.
“That’s your digital splice,” Rawlins said. “A more adept coder would have hidden it better, sewn it up as clean as a plastic surgeon. There wouldn’t have been even a hint of a scar.”
“So this is basic sound-editing work?” I said.
Rawlins touched his Mohawk as if it were a high-fashion hairdo and said, “Three steps above butchery. And that’s all I can manage now. I have a lot to do before Goddess opens.”
I was puzzled.
“His favorite dance club,” Batra explained.
“Do you dance, Dr. Cross?” Rawlins said.
Before I could reply, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, saw the number.
“My son’s school,” I said. “I have to take this.”
CHAPTER
35
ALI CROSS BELIEVED he was smarter than the average kid at Washington Latin but not brilliant, not a genius. The kids he considered supersmart were also the shyest and the most awkward. He decided within a month of starting at the charter school that brilliance was overrated. He’d take very bright, very hardworking, and very curious any day of the week.
Ali was the youngest kid in fifth grade at Latin by at least a year. With his attitude and sense of humor, he fit in with most of his older classmates. But, as his
CHAPTER
34
RAWLINS LAUGHED AND said blithely, “Oh, no, Porngrinder is on me. What can I say? It’s a lonely life in the basement at times.”
“My God,” Batra said, disgusted. “The Bureau frowns on that kind of thing.”
“Have them sue me, won’t you?” Rawlins said.
“What was the flash?” Batra said.
“I don’t know. A blip, a screen hiccup. They happen, you know.”
“Or a bug in the plug-in that drives the video player?” Batra said.
Rawlins held up a finger. “A momentous occasion. Special Agent Henna B. and I might agree.”
Batra rolled her eyes. “Tell us about the video.”
I won’t bore anyone with the details of Rawlins’s technological savvy and instincts, but they were shrewd and his results conclusive. At first, he used ordinary software to try to access the video file’s so-called dark data. No luck. The video hadbeen run through an onion system similar to the one used to create the Killingblondechicks4fun website. The dark data had been stripped away.
“Not surprising.” Rawlins sniffed. “But I’ve still got the dust rag.”
The “dust rag” was software Rawlins had designed and coded himself to raise the faintest trace of old dark and metadata. He compared the software to the Hubble Space Telescope looking for cosmic debris a thousand miles behind a comet’s long tail.
Sure enough, his screen was soon filled with fragments of code that played out in sync with the video. By focusing on the moments where the lighting was dimmest and the noise of the alleged killing most pronounced, Rawlins found evidence in the data dust that suggested an audio splice in the sound track roughly six seconds long. Those six seconds included the knife-across-the-throat slitting noise and the
pah
that sounded like air bursting out of a frightened and dying chest.
“She’s alive,” Rawlins said barely fifteen minutes after starting his examination. “Or at least, those weren’t the sounds of
her
murder.”
I sighed with relief. I wouldn’t have to give Alden Lindel or his wife more heartbreaking news. “Explain how you know. The parents will ask.”
Rawlins said, “The sound patch itself is fairly sophisticated CGA. Computer-generated audio. So someone’s had advanced training in sound effects. You’re looking for a film-school grad or someone who worked in a special-effects company out in Hollywood, not a coder.”
“Why’s that?” Batra asked.
Rawlins gave his computer a command, and the video onthe center screen rewound to the beginning of the six-second splice. A second screen showed the remnants of the dark data. He pointed out a jagged line of data that almost connected top to bottom.
“That’s your digital splice,” Rawlins said. “A more adept coder would have hidden it better, sewn it up as clean as a plastic surgeon. There wouldn’t have been even a hint of a scar.”
“So this is basic sound-editing work?” I said.
Rawlins touched his Mohawk as if it were a high-fashion hairdo and said, “Three steps above butchery. And that’s all I can manage now. I have a lot to do before Goddess opens.”
I was puzzled.
“His favorite dance club,” Batra explained.
“Do you dance, Dr. Cross?” Rawlins said.
Before I could reply, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, saw the number.
“My son’s school,” I said. “I have to take this.”
CHAPTER
35
ALI CROSS BELIEVED he was smarter than the average kid at Washington Latin but not brilliant, not a genius. The kids he considered supersmart were also the shyest and the most awkward. He decided within a month of starting at the charter school that brilliance was overrated. He’d take very bright, very hardworking, and very curious any day of the week.
Ali was the youngest kid in fifth grade at Latin by at least a year. With his attitude and sense of humor, he fit in with most of his older classmates. But, as his
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