Ah, store sweet store!
I have my own professional business ‘Photofection.’ I do everything from analyze film, to develop film, to restore photos. I take pictures for parties, social stuff, weddings, passports, for papers, and for the police.
Usually I just get kids asking for fake ID and have to drive them out.
I had the key in the door when I noticed the cop leaning against the wall, enjoying his coffee.
"Joseph?" I asked. Usually the cops don’t bug me this early. He’s like your obligatory minority-sidekick-that-gets-killed-cop you see in the movies. Average height, average build, dark brown skin like rich chocolate, short black hair in tiny african-american curls, kids, wife, etc.
"You’re an hour late to your own business."
I checked my watch. "Damn. It’s noon."
"Not a morning person?"
"Not a morning person, not a straight person, not a dating the person I share a house with person, but hey, I just did. Please tell me you’re here only for the pictures Lisa took."
"Sorry."
"Story of my life."
"I thought you didn’t apologize for anything."
"I don’t, my life’s just pathetic. Hold on, I’ll get ‘em."
Lisa is the forensic photographer I trained, but she likes taking photos for fun when she’s off work.
Five years ago I was in a car crash. The police, in all their charm of really, really bad timing, decided this was the perfect time to tell me the guy who sent me through the windshield, and a wiper through me, had killed my best friend and was driving away from the crime. I asked to see the pictures of the crime scene and when I did, I started complaining about the quality of the pictures and how lacking they were. They asked me if I could do better, pumped full of sedatives and morphine and I told them yes. After listening to me lecture on procedure, cameras, clues, hints, and photos, they thought I was onto something. I was. I solved the case from the pictures. I gave them the proof they needed, the motive, everything. They gave me flowers. They would have hired me, but by the time I was fifteen I had put bricks through countless windows, been suspended twice for fighting, and I’d been arrested three times by the time of the car crash, not to mention the fact that I can’t remember how many brawls I’ve been in and the fact that I shot a mugger. Apparently the justice system and I have different ideas of how to deal with sexual harassment and threats of violence. They say diplomacy, I say beer in the face.
"Here you go, now what other business was there?"
"Not in a good mood, are we?" he asked.
"I just broke up with a boyfriend I never had."
"I thought you were a self-proclaimed carpet muncher."
"So did I," I said. "I have one stupid drink and I end up in bed with a guy and my life is ruined!"
"You sound like my wife."
"It wasn’t even alcoholic! I had a Coke!"
"Then what happened?"
"Then we did it, I woke up, and went on with my life. Bad sex isn’t the end of the world."
"Tell that to Harlequin publishers. Here," he said, handing me a few photos.
"What can you tell me about ‘em?" I asked, looking through them. Just because the cops couldn’t hire me didn’t mean they didn’t like my help. A little red-tape, a loophole, and they come in here at least once a month. At least it keeps the robbers and delinquents away.
"They started about midnight last night. A bunch of women were killed last night. They live in the same neighborhood as you. Didn’t you hear the sirens last night?"
"This is New York. Even if I didn’t sleep through them I wouldn’t pay much attention."
"Point taken."
"Anything else you can tell me about them?"
"All of them are in their thirties and that’s it."
"That’s it?"
"That’s it."
"Damn. I don’t know. I’d say an efficient and spontaneous serial killer, but…"
"But?"
"But this is a bit too nuts even for right next to New York."
"Did what?"
"This. It looks like these women had their heads… eaten."
"You’re sure?"
"Definitely. Were they all single?"
"Most of them, the rest are either divorced, or their husband or boyfriend just wasn’t there that night. Out of town, out of country, working late, at a hotel."
"Did they know each other?"
"Nope.
"So we have alone white women in their thirties. No connection whatsoever? No abortion, no condoms, no same high school, no same boyfriend?"
"Nope. The only connection is they had black wavy hair and blue eyes."
"Um, dark blue eyes?" I asked.
"Yeah, like yours. Shit."
"Give me a photo or something of what these women looked like. I may have an idea, I may not."
"What?"
"I can’t remember how many girlfriends I’ve had."
"Been around the block, right?"
"More like I own the block and I’ve got hotels on it."
"I’ll show ‘em to a few bars, I’ll see if they’ve ever seen these women."
"You think it’s a hate crime?"
"A very bonkers hate crime. Yeah."
"Any idea about the weapon?"
"Tell Lisa I keep telling her to take pictures of the necks of victims without heads."
"Why?"
"Looks like teeth marks, like a really big dog maybe an alligator. Not enough mess for a bullet."
"How would you know?"
I pointed to a sign on the wall. It said ‘Before you ask, make sure you want to know the answer.’
"I was taking forensic pictures since I was ten. Mostly roadkill. This looks like when my dog ate the head off a Barbie, only bloodier. See if there was any hair left at the scene."
"None. Only hers. Keep the photos, we got extras. Keep thinking about it and tell us if there’s anything new."
"Yeah, see if any of them are named Judith or ever dated someone named Cain."
"Cain who?"
"Cain Bloodwed. B-L-O-O-D-W-E-D."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah. I’m not going anywhere for a while. Grab me a Snickers."