J. Jance - A more perfect union

The owner of Camera Craft, Jim Hadley, wasn't in the Rendezvous' old screening room. He was hunched over a hamburger and fries at a small table in the back of the dimly lit main dining room. He was evidently a regular. When we asked, the cashier had no difficulty pointing him out to us.

Kramer approached Hadley's table, flashed his ID, and introduced us both. Busy chewing, Hadley nodded us into chairs and swallowed a mouthful of hamburger. "What's this all about?" he asked.

"The picture in the paper."

"Oh," he said. "That one. It was a fluke, an absolute fluke. The odds of the camera going off just as she fell…It's like that guy taking pictures of Mount Saint Helens just as it exploded."

"I understand your company is in charge of doing the filming for the Masters Plaza folks?"

"That's right. We unload and load the cameras every morning, refocus, and reset the timers. After that they run all day and all night on their own. We've got a free-lance editor who supervises the film-to-tape transfer and then edits out all the night scenes and rough stuff."

"What kind of transfer?"

"You know, from film to videotape. That's where we do all the fine-tuning."

"You said cameras. Does that mean there's more than one?"

He nodded and swallowed another bite of his hamburger. "Two actually. Each of them is set to take one picture every four minutes-not at the same time, of course. One is set up right across the street in the Arcade building. The other's a block or so away. Now that they're up to the forty-second floor, the Arcade building isn't tall enough to show the whole building. The developer wants it for a corporate dog and pony production, a video to show what a hell of a good job they do."

"Which camera took the picture that was in the newspaper?" I asked.

"The one on the Arcade building. We keep that one focused on the raising gang. Putting up those beams is a lot more spectacular than most of the rest of it. It's certainly the most visual."

"And the most dangerous," I added.

Hadley shrugged. "That too, although it all looks pretty damn dangerous if you ask me."

Kramer shifted impatiently in his seat. "So how did the picture end up in the newspaper?"

"Our editor pulled a workprint that night. She's the one who noticed. She said she had some friends down at the Times, and she wondered if whether Darren Gibson would mind if she passed that one picture along. Of course he didn't mind. Publicity's publicity, especially if it's free."

"Who's Darren Gibson?"

"The local project manager for Masters Plaza. He said fine. Do it. Kath was way ahead of him."

"Kath?"

"Kath Naguchi. The editor I told you about. She figured he'd say yes. She was all set to pass it along to the Times as soon as he gave her the go-ahead. She was on her way down there within minutes. It was in the paper the next day."

"What about the rest of the film?"

Hadley shrugged. "Beats me. I suppose it's back at the shop where it belongs, along with the rest of the project."

"Could we see it?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not without permission. The Masters and Rogers folks are paying us real good money to do this job. I'm not going to screw it up by showing you something I'm not supposed to."

"Has anyone else asked to see it?"

"No. Why would they?"

"So, the editor made a print of that one picture?"

Hadley shook his head. "She provided the film. I think the guys down at the paper did the actual blowup."

"Did anyone make prints of any of the other frames, either before or after the one in the paper?"

Hadley shook his head. "No. Not so far as I know. Like I said, she saw that one when she was doing the dailies."

"Dailies?" Kramer asked.

"It's a one-light print," I explained. "It tells what's on the previous day's shoot."

Kramer glowered at me. "Movie talk?" he asked disgustedly.

"You asked," I replied.

He turned back to Hadley. "We're helping the Department of Labor and Industries on this case. How do we get a look at that film?"

"I already told you. You've got to get permission from Masters and Rogers. They're the guys who write my checks. I wouldn't step on their toes on a bet."

"And Darren Gibson is the person we'd need to talk to?"

"Yes, but right now he's out of town. He was supposed to be in Toronto today. Back tomorrow most likely. I don't know if you'll be able to get hold of him or not."

"Do you have a phone number?"

Hadley leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "Back in the office," he answered.

He paid for his lunch. We followed him out the door of the Rendezvous and back down Second Avenue to his shop where he thumbed through a gigantic Rolodex on his receptionist's desk and read off two telephone numbers-one local and the other in Toronto.

Leaving Camera Craft we drove to the department. In our cubicle I found Big Al Lindstrom sitting in my chair with his feet on my desk. He was eating an apple and reading a newspaper.

"I didn't expect you in today," he said, scrambling out of my chair.

"That's obvious," I growled, sweeping stray bits of apple off the chair before I sat down.

"I thought you were on vacation until Tuesday." Big Al quieted suddenly when Paul Kramer appeared over my shoulder.

"I'll try reaching Gibson," Kramer announced, barely pausing on the way to his and Manny's cubicle. "You check with Missing Persons."

Big Al eyed me quizzically. "You taking orders from Kramer now? What's going on?"

"I am on vacation," I replied, dialing the number for Missing Persons. "Doesn't it look like it? I'm taking a busman's holiday."

Big Al shook his head in disbelief. "To work with Kramer? No way."

"Hide and watch," I said.

"What happened to your face?"

"Walked into a post," I told him.

Big Al shook his head. He was unconvinced. "Like hell you did," he said. With that he picked up his cup and went in search of coffee.

That's the wonderful thing about telling the truth. People believe what they want to believe. It's a hell of a lot simpler than lying. There isn't the ever-present danger of getting caught.

It felt good to sit down at my desk again, to pick up my phone and dial a familiar number. It felt like I had been away from work, real work, for a long, long time. Naturally, Missing Persons put me on hold. While I waited, Margie popped her head in the door.

"I just wanted you to know that I never breathed a word about Gloria and the phone number."

"Thanks," I told her. "I owe you."

If Watty had heard about my tracking down Linda Decker's phone number under false pretenses, he would have fired my ass before I knew what hit me.

"What's this about a phone number?" Big Al asked, coming back with a cup of coffee.

"Never mind," I said.

The clerk in Missing Persons finally came back on the line. "This is Beaumont in homicide," I explained. "Do you have anything going on a guy by the name of Wayne Martinson?"

"Let me check." She put me on hold a second time, giving Big Al another crack at me.

"So what's it like to be in the movie business?" he demanded. "Are you ready to get yourself an agent and take the plunge?"

"Get off my back. The movie business sucks."

The clerk in Missing Persons returned once more, and I spent the next few minutes explaining that I hadn't said what she thought I said and that I certainly hadn't said it to her. Once her ruffled feathers were smoothed, she connected me with Detective Janie Jacobs who had Wayne Martinson's file in hand when she picked up the phone.

"Are you actively working the case?" I asked.

"Not so as you'd notice," Janie answered. "We took the report. His wife called it in, but since Martinson disappeared from a fishing resort in Alaska, it's outside our jurisdiction. The detectives there tell me they've got nothing to indicate foul play. He went fishing by himself in the morning and didn't come back. Most of his clothing was left in his room."