The recording made by the body camera that Jane had worn could be played on any computer. After dinner, Porter Walkins placed his laptop on the kitchen table, and they reviewed the last minutes of David James Michael’s life.
As evidence, the video was of less value than she expected. The high-definition visuals were superb. But nothing had been captured of what she and D.J. said. Instead of their voices, there were only the threaded oscillations of multiple electronic tones quite like the tinnitus that she’d been aware of now and then when she had been in his grand apartment.
“The creepy sonofabitch had some way of triggering a masking system to screw with an audio recording,” Jane said. “Maybe there’s no point in hating a dead man, but I hate that arrogant shit more now than before he jumped.”
The doctor poured more wine. It wasn’t a cure for what ailed her, but it was welcome anyway.