Murdoch turned back to the phonograph. “Crabtree, what is the opposite of a recording?”
Later, in the constabulary’s new “audio analysis corner”—a quiet room lined with felt—Murdoch carefully placed the cylinder on the Edison phonograph. Constable Crabtree stood by, a notebook ready. Inspector Brackenreid loomed in the doorway, arms crossed.
He looked up at Brackenreid. “We need to find the man who owns the quietest room in Toronto. And arrest him before he silences us all.”
The recording crackled, and Finch’s voice broke into a sob.
Murdoch turned back to the phonograph. “Crabtree, what is the opposite of a recording?”
Later, in the constabulary’s new “audio analysis corner”—a quiet room lined with felt—Murdoch carefully placed the cylinder on the Edison phonograph. Constable Crabtree stood by, a notebook ready. Inspector Brackenreid loomed in the doorway, arms crossed.
He looked up at Brackenreid. “We need to find the man who owns the quietest room in Toronto. And arrest him before he silences us all.”
The recording crackled, and Finch’s voice broke into a sob.
