William Bayer - Blind Side

Later, when my pictures were published, right-wing

Death Squad maniacs clipped them out. they mailed them to my subjects with holes punched in the eyes, and later, when these same subjects were all killed on a single night, it was pretty clear my pictures had been used to draw up an assassination list.

My photographer friends tried to comfort me. they said the same thing could have happened to them, and from now on we'd all have to be more careful. Colleagues who disliked me said much meaner things. But in the end my worst enemy was myself.

I blamed myself for being naive, for forgetting that a camera can be a dangerous weapon. I imposed my own punishment: I would not shoot people for a while. A childish idea, but it made me feel better. Except that what started out as an act of self-denial soon evolved into a phobia. From the day of the killings until the day I started shooting Kim, I could not bring myself to photograph a human face.

"Oh, Geoffrey, you could have told me. I would have understood. I wouldn't have thought you were CIA, or whatever people said. I gave you lots of chances to tell me. But when you kept your secret, it seemed like . . . I don't know-like you wanted a dishonest relationship."

That did it. I actually felt embarrassed, which greatly softened the effect of her deceits.

"Anyway," she said, "I'm very proud that I helped you break through the way you did."

"You've been a powerful force in my life. My best friend thinks so. The first time I told him about you, he said 'Don't give that girl up."

"Then I gave you up. At least that's what you think, isn't it? One thing I want you to understand, Geoffrey, no matter what happens between us now: if, as you say, I've been a powerful force in your life, that's a power I won't ever abuse."

She held my eyes for a moment, then glanced at her watch.

"Heyl It's late."

"Hungry?'; She nodded.

"Get dressed and I'll take you out." She picked up her torn T-shirt and waved it gently before my face.

"Love to, Geoffrey, but, unfortunately, I haven't a thing to wear."

I loaned her a shirt, then we walked a couple of blocks to a dark funky place called the Full Moon Saloon.

We took a corner table, ordered crabs, then Kim started pointing out the regulars. There was the happy-go-lucky sunbu@ed shrimp-boat skipper who'd made a fortune smuggling marijuana, and the intense, shifty-eyed, young black dude who was the biggest coke dealer on the island.

She looked happy as she regaled me with all this Key West lore. Though she'd been in town for only a month, she knew a lot. I let her talk, and then I told her I was sorry, I knew she needed to relax, but there were still things I had to know.

"Don't apologize," she said.

"Ask me anything."

"What happened that Saturday night when you came running to me at two A.M.?"

She paused, looked down at her food.

"I think that was the scariest night of my life."

She started to talk, and as she did I felt this sickening feeling growing in my gut.

After Sonya was killed, Kim heard rumors about the Masked Man, stories that told her he was a lot more dangerous than the benign spectator he'd appeared to be. The stories concerned professional call girls. Kim managed to trace one of them back. She met the girl in a coffee house in the Village. The girl wore dark glasses and wouldn't give her real name.

"Just think of me as your informant," she said.

She told Kim she'd been hurt. She'd known that she would be, she'd been told up front, and on that basis an extremely high fee had been negotiated and paid.

What will happen exactly'?" her informant had asked the call girl service manager, worried because the amount offered was so many times larger than what she usually received. The answer she got was candid and complete:

"You'll be tied up and gagged and mildly drugged, and then certain minor bones will be broken by a man who likes to hear them break. It won't be nearly so bad as it sounds; the drugs will alleviate much of the pain. But not all of it-don't say you weren't warned. Your fear and anguish are important. They're what this man is paying to see.

"Afterwards medical attention will be provided. Anything broken will be expertly reset. For a while you'll have to wear a cast; you can tell your friends you were in a skiing accident. Out of the dozen or so Herms scarfs you'll receive, you'll be able to make a handsome sling. .. ."

During the recuperation period, there was an onslaught of gifts: not only scarfs, a different one sent each day, but also a matching set of Vuitton luggage, a little fur hat and muff, various and sundry earrings and pins, and finally a gold Cartier watch.

But neither the extraordinary fee nor the generous gifts could wipe out the memory of the horror. The girl told Kim that even if she were desperate and broke she would never go through such a scene again.

So how bad had it been? The pain was real enoughnot severe, as promised, although the girl had definitely wanted to scream. No, it wasn't the pain she was afraid of, it was the terror-the sense of helplessness, of powerlessness, of being at the mercy of this person she couldn't see. Because he wasn't just some kinky guy who got off hurting girls; most of the guys who did that were rather sweet, once the session was done. The Masked Man was different. In this business one became highly sensitive to people, and the signals coming off him were very, very bad.

What signals? Kim asked her. After all, since he was masked, you never saw his features. Oh, but she did, the girl said, she caught little glimpses through the mask, a hint of the thin tight set of the lips and the sharp predatory eyes. And then there was the feel of him, his touch, his smell, the little sounds he made, the way he moved, like a mechanic fixing the motor of your car, whistling slightly under his breath as he worked, half humming this cheery little tune. . . .

There was-how to put it?-no consideration, no human connection, no sense that you were a human being. And he wasn't human either. There was something hor@ible about him that was impossible to describe. His touch was cold. He radiated malevolence. When he touched you it was like being touched by a snake.

Kim picked up a crab, sucked'out the meat, wiped her mouth. All the time she was speaking she had stared past me at the room. Now her eyes met mine.

"Sonya was special," she said.

"I loved Shadow, but Sonya was someone I adored. Everyone in our group felt the same way. All of us in Mrs. Z's 'ensemble.'

"She was a real beauty, you have to understands true live Nordic goddess. She was from Sweden, came to New York as an all pair, then decided to stay on. Precisioncut blond hair, cold blue eyes, she had this great little accent. She was nice too. She loved to joke and make us laugh. And onstage she was terrific, especially as a dominant. Cruel countess, pitiless equestrienne-Sonya loved those kinds of roles.

"And that was what the Masked Man liked to see: one girl being cruel to another. Mrs. Z spun all sorts of scenarios, including one in which Sonya played this empress who puffed on long gold-tipped cigarettes while her female rivals, and I played one, were tortured slowly before her eyes.

"Then one night Mrs. Z prepared a surprise. That was her method-to suddenly reverse the roles. She'd turn us regular submissives into dominants and make the dominants submit. It made for good theater, shock value, but there was something else working too, something we mentioned sometimes among ourselves. That Mrs. Z liked doing it. That she got off on it. That she liked to bring down the mighty and the proud. And that coincided with the Masked Man's fantasy, this thing he had about seeing haughty girls brought to their knees and made to beg "Look, for all I know, it wasn't a surprise. they could have discussed it on the phone. Maybe the Masked Man said, 'I'd like to see Sonya crushed." And Mrs. Z replied, 'Oh, yes, that can be arranged………