I had no idea where it was shot until a boy’s hand came forward and pushed aside leafy vines and saplings to reveal the lip of a dirt bank. The camera tilted down the bank and out twenty feet toward a blue Toyota Camry in a familiar clearing. The windows of the car were down.
The camera trembled, and you could hear Timmy Walker breathing hard while Ginny Krauss and Alison Dane made love naked in the backseat.
“The little Peeping Tom creep,” Batra said.
“It is creepy,” Rawlins said. “But I think you’re going to like little peeping Timmy, God rest his soul, before it’s over.”
The camera settled and zoomed in. Alison Dane’s hand slid from her lover’s breast and trailed down over her belly, and then she seemed to hear something. The cameraman did too.
The focus went haywire for a moment before settling back on the girls, who were scrambling for their clothes. Then Ginny Krauss happened to look out the window and up the bank, straight at the camera.
She screamed, “There’s some pervo kid in camo out there! He’s filming us!”
Timmy apparently whirled around and took off back into the forest. The next twenty-seven seconds were herky-jerky, mostly flashes of green in a dim forest.
Then, over the croaking of tree frogs and the thrumming of crickets, you could hear a vehicle roar into the clearing and skid to a stop. One of the girls screamed.
The camera turned back and began moving again, going closer to the clearing, zooming in on a white Ford utility van idling in front of the Camry.
One of the girls started screaming again. “Please! Don’t do this! Help! Kid! Help us, kid!”
The screen went black.
Rawlins said, “Unfortunately, that’s all the video I could recover.”
“Shit,” Sampson said. “Can you give us a blown-up look at that van?”
“I don’t need to,” Rawlins said. “Timmy did.”
He gave the keyboard several more orders and the biggest screen was filled with a digital photograph showing a grainy zoomed-in view of the van. The windows were tinted, so we couldn’t get a look at the interior, but the signage on the side was clearly visible.
“Dish Network?” Mahoney said.
“And those are Maryland plates,” I said. “Five, seven, E, one … can’t make out the—”
“It’s a six,” Rawlins said. “You see it better in the other photographs.”
“How many other photographs?” Sampson said.
“Five. Timmy could have just kept running after the girls spotted him. But he heard them screaming and decided to take these pictures. I think he was going to go to the police with them. Otherwise, why take the risk? Why not do the natural thing for a twelve-year-old boy caught with his hand in the pervert cookie jar and just run?”
Judging from her body language, Batra seemed to have some issue with the theory, but Mahoney said, “I think you’re right.”
“I do too,” I said. “I also think those pictures got Timmy Walker killed.”
“Oh, I know they did,” Rawlins said. “The phone died less than twenty-five seconds after the last picture was taken.”
CHAPTER
94
JUST AFTER DARK that same day, Sampson, Mahoney, and I were watching FBI crime scene techs getting ready to tear apart a white Ford utility van with Dish Network signage on both sides. It was in the parking lot at the Dish authorized-seller store in Rockville, Maryland, and roped off with police tape.
The store manager, a small, cranelike man named Lester Potter, was rubbing his hands together and watching nervously.
“You know that van was stolen, right?” Potter said.
“When was that?” Sampson asked.