M Sellars - Love Is The Bond

“Yeah, I got that too,” I returned. “And did you notice there’s no fear?”

She gave me a quick nod. “Aye. I did. And, I really don’t know what to make of that.”

“Me either,” I huffed. “But something is definitely odd here.”

“Is everything okay back there?” Murv called out from the front of the room.

“Fine,” I replied, looking up with a quick wave. “Just took me by surprise is all.”

“Yeah,” he replied, continuing about his business with the other tech he’d brought in. “It’s a friggin’ mess.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Felicity asked me when I turned back to her. “Are you certain you don’t want to wait outside?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Really. It was just the initial shock.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Let’s get this done.”

“All right then.” She gave me a nod. “There is a set of photoevidence scales in the bag. I’m going to need them.”

Even though I was more than ready to put distance between this scene and me, my stomach had calmed considerably. I knew there was a time when it would have taken much longer for me to get over something like this, but my own learned indifference was starting to return, much to my disappointment.

We had already shot the wide angle and mid-range photos of the scene proper then moved immediately into the close-ups. We ran into a problem positioning a photoevidence scale near the exit wound, so since I had the free hands, I had been charged with the duty of reaching in and carefully holding it in place. Felicity didn’t really have it any easier as she was forced to contort herself into a position where she could shoot the picture and not disturb any potential evidence. Still, it wasn’t the most pleasant task I’d ever performed.

I was certain that the medical examiner would be taking far more detailed photos and even made mention of it aloud. However, my wife informed me that this was standard operating procedure, and she was going to follow it to the letter. I couldn’t disagree.

I stepped back out of the way and watched on as she steadied herself in the doorway while snapping off a series of pictures to show the location of a bed pillow, which had been haphazardly tossed into the bathtub. It bore its own velocity-patterned bloodstains, as did the translucent plastic shower curtain. Both spatters had their own stories to tell. One said that the pillow had probably been used to muffle the gun’s report; the other hinted that perhaps the shower curtain had been used to shield the killer from the spray. Still, even as Felicity called out the particulars of the shots for me to record, my gaze kept being drawn back to the victim.

Wentworth’s chest and protruding belly were flaccid and pale, making the red spatters and trickles of blood stand out in stark contrast beneath each harsh white burst from the camera’s flash unit. I lowered my eyes to make sure I was writing in a straight line as I filled the logbook with the details I’d been given but almost unconsciously returned my gaze to his lifeless torso.

The niggling “something not right” feeling grew into a full-fledged itch at the base of my skull as I stared. The brilliant glow of the strobe painted his form once again, and I heard my wife call out another set of notes. This time, however, I didn’t look away.

Instead, I asked, “Are you going to do close-ups of his chest?”

“No,” she replied. “That will be in the mid-range shots. You only do close-ups of wounds or anomalies.”

“Okay, but look at his chest,” I told her, pointing.

The streaks of blood, which at first had appeared to be merely a by-product of the head wound were beginning to reveal much more. Upon close scrutiny, a few of the trickles followed an opposing pattern to that which had dripped from above. It wasn’t readily obvious, primarily due to the amount of collateral spattering, but if you looked hard enough, you could see it. On top of that, they looked as though they formed some kind of pattern.

Felicity cocked her head to the side and concentrated on the area I indicated. Finally, she leaned in at the threshold and peered through the viewfinder of the camera. That didn’t surprise me, as the lens always seemed to act as an amplifier for her. It was a focal point of sorts and one that often caused her to transcend the physical, allowing second-sight to take hold. And, through it she could see things even I could not.

After a moment she snapped a series of pictures then turned back to me. “I think they’re shallow cuts. Like from a razor.”

“Like maybe he was tortured?”

“Maybe.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. They aren’t very deep. In fact, there are several of them that are almost completely superficial. They don’t even look as though they actually bled. But, there might be a pattern there. I’m not sure.”

“Bizarre,” I mumbled.

“Aye, that’s for sure. Either way, the medical examiner will be able to get better pics once he’s cleaned up.”

Whether it was an effect of the flash, prolonged staring, or just luck, I couldn’t say. At any rate the equation suddenly changed. It wasn’t solved, but there was definitely a new value to assign to one of the variables. Of course, new values sometimes do nothing more than beget new unknowns, and that didn’t always make solving the equation any easier.

I kept telling myself that we were just here to take the crime scene photos, but in the back of my head I knew better. There was a reason for the flu epidemic and rash of no-answers from the other photographers on the list. I might not be having one of my customary headaches or visions just yet, but they were probably just around the corner. There was something ethereal at work here, and it had brought us to this particular scene for a purpose; of that I had no doubt.

I could feel the muscles in the back of my neck tighten as my hair prickled upward. A tired bromide that I’d spouted to my wife only a few days before popped into my head, and I suddenly realized just how foretelling it had been.

The calm was over and a violent storm front was fast approaching. What’s more, Felicity and I were standing directly in its path.

“I already told you I don’t work for you,” Felicity spat angrily while remaining fully engaged in a “stare down” confrontation with a young, overly groomed, FBI agent.

The sun had been up for almost an hour now, and we had only just finished shooting the exterior of the motel, the parking lot, and Wentworth’s car when he had stopped us and quickly displayed his badge.

“That is not an issue,” he replied, his own gaze not wavering from the face of the petite redhead in front of him.

“It is for me.”

“Get over it.”

“All right then, who’s going to pay for the flash cards?”

“You’ll get them back when we’re finished,” he told her.

“Yeah, right,” she snipped.

Ben walked over to where we were standing, coming within earshot just in time to catch my wife’s adamant commentary. “What’s goin’ on here?” he asked. “Pay for what?”

“Flash memory cards,” I explained. “The FBI wants us to hand over the crime scene photos. We were just…”

“Bullshit!” my friend interjected without letting me finish. Even though his voice climbed a pair of notches in volume, he was still maintaining far more composure than I was used to seeing from him when dealing with most federal law enforcement. He shook his head and looked over at my wife. “Felicity, you got the film or whatever it is with ya’?”

“Aye,” she replied, not taking her heated stare off the agent.

“Givit here,” my friend said, holding out his hand and gesturing with a wag of his fingers.