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"Essentially a wearable computer," Dr. Zihao said. "Popular with certain types of content creators. They can record video, take photos, even stream directly to the internet."
Gabriel stepped forward. "Marcus was a video blogger. These would let him film hands-free while exploring."
"Exactly." Dr. Zihao carefully turned the glasses over. "They're damaged, but the storage component appears largely intact. If he was recording when he encountered our killer..."
Sheila felt her pulse quicken. After hours of searching dark tunnels and finding nothing but dead ends, they might finally have something concrete—actual footage of their killer.
"We'll need someone who knows how to extract the data," she said. "Someone who can handle damaged equipment without destroying potential evidence."
"I know someone," Gabriel said. "Tech expert over in Salt Lake City. Used to do data recovery for the FBI."
"How soon can they look at it?"
"I can make some calls." He studied the glasses. "But given the damage, there's no guarantee we'll get anything usable."
Dr. Zihao lifted the glasses carefully, holding them under a magnifying light. "The main impact was to the front of the frames, but the storage components are housed in the temples. So I wouldn't give up hope."
Dr. Zihao placed the glasses in an evidence bag. "The damage appears superficial, but I'd recommend getting them to your expert as quickly as possible. The longer we wait, the more chance of further degradation to any stored data."
"I'll make those calls," Gabriel said, already pulling out his phone. "See if we can get the glasses looked at today."
Sheila took one last look at Marcus's body. Whatever his glasses might reveal, it had come at a terrible cost. Two deaths now, both young men with their whole lives ahead of them.
"Thank you, Doctor," she said. "Let us know if you find anything else."
They hurried toward the parking lot, leaving the sterile chill of the morgue behind. Somewhere in those damaged glasses might be the key to catching their killer. Sheila just hoped that, if there really was something actionable on the glasses, they would find it before the killer struck again.
***
"You couldn't have warned me he was like this?" Sheila muttered to her father as they watched Dr. Malcolm Petty mutter to himself, turning Marcus's damaged smart glasses over and over in his latex-gloved hands.
They'd driven two hours to reach his workshop in Salt Lake City—a converted garage behind his home filled with computers, diagnostic equipment, and what looked like several decades' worth of dismantled electronics. It was nearly noon, and Sheila had hardly slept since finding Marcus's body.
"Malcolm's... particular," Gabriel admitted. "But he's the best. Got me crucial evidence in three different homicides back when he was with the Bureau."
"When was that?"
"Oh, they fired me in '05," Malcolm said absently, not looking up from the glasses. "Creative differences." He was a small man with wild gray hair and clothing that looked like he'd slept in it. Knowing what Gabriel had told her about his habits, he probably had.
"Creative differences?" Sheila asked.
"They wanted me to follow protocol. I wanted to actually solve cases." He set the glasses under a magnifying lens attached to his workbench. "Your father understood. Always brought me the interesting problems."
Gabriel smiled hesitantly. "Malcolm sees patterns others miss. Connections that aren't obvious."
"Patterns are everything," Malcolm said. He pressed something on the side of the glasses, frowning when nothing happened. "Hardware's intact, mostly. Some damage to the external controls, but the core components..." He trailed off, mumbling technical terms to himself.
Sheila watched him work, fighting her impatience. The caffeine from her last coffee was wearing off, and the shaking in her hands told her she probably couldn't take any more caffeine. She'd caught a bit of sleep during the drive here—her father had insisted that he hardly slept most nights, anyway—but not enough to cover the deficit.
"Should have been here an hour ago," Malcolm said suddenly, glaring at them. "Sun angle's all wrong now. Changes the thermal patterns."
"The... thermal patterns?" Sheila looked at her father.
"Don't ask," Gabriel advised quietly.
Malcolm connected the glasses to a tablet, then to a larger monitor. Lines of code scrolled past. "Interesting," he muttered.
More typing. More muttering. Sheila paced the cramped workshop while Gabriel settled into what looked like the room's only chair not covered in computer parts.