William Bayer - Blind Side

There were whistles and cheers as the sun sank into the Gulf, and then the mob broke up. I was exhausted. In thirty-six hours I'd traveled between four cities, broken into a house, terrorized a man, and had learned crushing things about the woman I had loved. And so, even though it was only 9:00 P.m., I ate a quick dinner at a cheap Cuban restaurant, then went to bed.

I woke ten hours later, refreshed and eager to stalk my prey. On my way to my car, I ran into my motel-room neighbors, a friendly retired couple from Arizona with Mount Rushmore faces, struggling with two odd-looking machines.

I gave them a hand. The machines were metal detec tors, which they were going to use to scour the beach for coins and rings. After I helped them load the contraptions into their car, the woman took hold of my hands.

"Thank you and God bless you, son," she said.

"May you have good luck with your quest here too."

The Key West Post Office, on Whitehead Street, is a modern building with a normal enclosed section, and also a long grilled-in open-air arcade. It is in this later portion that the P.O. boxes are situated, in easy view of the parking lot. The only trouble is that occupation of spaces in the lot is limited to fifteen minutes.

I found Kim's box and peeked inside. Nothing there. I certainly didn't expect to find it loaded with mail; she was in hiding, after all. But if Grace Amos was the only person who knew where she was, and if she and Grace spoke regularly on the phone, it could be as long as a week before she showed up to check her box. Could I mount a watch that long?

I had no alternative. Though I knew she was a waitress, it would be madness to track her down aggressively. The moment I started asking questions she'd hear about it, get spooked and run.

The hours for the arcade were 7:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.m., but since I couldn't possibly maintain a twelve-hour-aday surveillance, I needed a control for the times I wouldn't be there.

I entered the Post Office, bought a prestamped envelope, then returned to the arcade and started riffling through the contents of a trash container. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for, a discarded advertising flyer. I folded it neatly, sealed it inside the envelope, wrote "Boxholder" and Kim's box number on the front, then pushed the letter through the slot for local mail.

Once that envelope was in her box, I could check on it whenever I renewed my watch. If it was gone, or in an altered position, I'd know she'd been there while I was away.

That first morning I established my routine. I found a parking space on Whitehead, with a sight line to the arcade. But since the boxes were too far away to observe with the naked eye, I mounted a 135mm. telephoto on my Leica and used it as a telescope.

Even in the best cop movies I've yet to hear a character adequately describe how tough it is to man a stakeout. It's not just a. question of physical discomfort, though being cooped up in a car is excruciating enough. For me the most difficult part was the strain of keeping alert while watching a specific spot for hours at a time.

I had to constantly fight off the wanderings of my mind. I had to avoid moving around too much lest Kim appear from an unexpected direction, notice me and run. I dared not play the radio too long, lest I run down the battery, and although Key West in late summer is very hot, if I ran the engine, in order to run the air conditioning, I also ran the risk of running out of gas.

I coped by varying my position from time to time, and rationing myself to ten minutes of radio and air conditioning an hour. I also ate large quantities of unhealthy food, with the result that the backseat of my car was soon covered with crumpled bags. I tried every kind of crisp_ and salty snack, even purchasing a twenty-bag sampler pack-Corn Twists, Cheese Doodles, nacho and plantain chips, and, of course, plain old potato chips. I tried them "Hawaiian style…… kettlecrisped," "thick cut…… wavy…… with 'tater skins," and fried in every sort of oil. It was the need for things that were starchy, salty and crunchy to keep my concentration sharp.

I had another problem too: sitting in a parked car all day would sooner or later attract attention. All I needed was for some Post Office employee to ask, "Why's this guy waiting around out front? Better call the cops."

By the end of my first day of surveillance, I had an upset stomach. I also dozed off twice. My back was sore and my muscles ached, but my control envelope was now safely in Kim's box.

The second day was equally painful, even though I raised my ration of radio and lowered my input of chips. The third day was so miserable I spent a good part of it wondering if I'd do better canvassing restaurants. I also spent some time thinking about how lucky I'd been in Cleveland, an en, with despicable self-pity, about how my good luck never seemed to hold.

It was just before noon, the fourth day of the stakeout, when I finally caught sight of her, and then it was only by a fluke.

I had turned my attention away from the arcade for a moment when I caught a glimpse of someone familiar in my rearview mirror. It was a young woman riding a bicycle up Whitehead Street in the direction of the Southernmost Point.

A quiver of excitement ran through me, and also the thought that perhaps my luck still had a way to run.

I was afraid to follow her by car; I had seen enough of Key West to know there were numerous one-way streets and impassable narrow lanes. So I grabbed up my camera bag and started after her on foot.

At first I thought I'd lost her. I was devastated. But then I saw her standing astride her bike, talking to another girl on the sidewalk in front of the Green Parrot Bar.

I took a position in front of a motorcycle store across the street, where I could see them reflected in the plate glass. When I was sure they were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice, I turned and raised my camera to take a closer look.

No mistake. It was Kim. The wet place where my shirt stuck to my back suddenly felt cold. That telephoto brought her close, right against my eye. I tripped the shutter out of sheer perversity.

A funny thing about a single lens reflex camera: when you use it to watch a person, there's a certain distancing, no matter how powerful your lens. It has to do with the complex system of mirrors, the pentaprism, that stands between the subject and your eye. For this reason many photographers prefer a range-finder camera; they feel the viewing is more sensitive because it's more direct. But I have always liked the distancing makes me feel safer and helps me cast a colder eye.

After I took that picture of Kim, my eye went very cold indeed. I was no longer just following her on the street; I was a photographer using my camera to inspect.

I focused on her hair. It looked different from when I'd seen her last. She'd cut off a lot of it, and it was lighter, streaked by the summer Florida sun.

I tilted down to her chest: her breasts heaved beneath a dazzling white T-shirt with the words "Key West" emblazoned on the front. I tilted further: she wore matching cotton shorts. Her white clothes made brilliant contrast with her tanned skin. With my camera I caressed her bare legs and thighs. She looked good. But she'd betrayed me, suckered me. I'd been her-"fall guy," her "cover photographer." Yet, for all of that, I longed to reach out to her and touch. . . .

The street conversation was over. The other girl went off. Kim started walking her bike along Southard toward Duval.

I followed. Would she turn around? If she did I'd raise my camera and use it as a shield. I almost smiled when I thought of that; that was what Rakoubian had done when he'd stalked us in New York.

On Duval she reversed direction, headed north. I let people pass, so there were bodies between us, then I too joined the parade.