The Investigator Took My Print And Left A Number

I watched the print rock in its wash tray while Rocco waited.

“The camera needs work,” I said.

That was true. The old paper camera sat on a shelf with its shutter in pieces.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Then you understand why I asked.”

“No.”

For once, I let that small word stand alone.

“My wife hates unflattering pictures,” he said. “Bring me any film. I'll add $500.”

“Send a written request.”

“Must everything be written?”

“At my age, yes.”

He hung up.

I didn't call a friend with a big mouth. I didn't drive back to the hall. I wrote down the time, his words, and what I had answered. Then I called the county prosecutor's public number.

“I may have photographs of a man being held against his will,” I said.

The woman who answered asked where I was. She told me to stay inside and call emergency dispatch if anyone came to the door.

Before anyone arrived, I slid the dry negative strip into a new archival sleeve. I marked its edge, outside the image area, with the date and my initials. Then I put it among replacement bellows in a labeled parts drawer.

Bellows kept light out. For the next hour, they would keep something else out too.

I wasn't hiding it from the police. I was afraid Rocco would arrive first.

The investigator came through my side entrance at three-fifteen. She showed her badge against the glass before I touched the lock.

“Mara Delgado. You spoke with our office.”

She had brown skin, dark eyes, and short black hair threaded with gray. Her coat was plain navy. She checked the alley, then stepped inside.

“May I see the photograph?”

I handed it over by its white edge.

She looked at each frame. Her face barely changed.

“Where's the original film?”

“In that drawer. Behind the folded leather.”

“Leave it there for the moment.”

She called another investigator. Then she asked me to begin with the morning, before the tray of food.

I told her about the gray cap. The question about the curtain. The test button.

“Did you see him pushed?”

“Only on the film.”

She wrote that down exactly.

“Can you tell when these pictures were taken?”

“The camera doesn't keep a date. I can tell you when I loaded it and when I pressed the switch.”

“Good. Don't give me more certainty than you have.”

I liked her for that, though I didn't yet know how much.

She asked about the film, the chemicals, and whether I had cut or changed anything. I showed her the reel and the full strip print, including the blank gaps between frames.

“His name may be Nicolas Bell,” she said. “His sister reported him missing this afternoon. We still need her to confirm the photograph.”

“Is somebody looking for him now?”

“Yes.”

She said it without adding comfort she couldn't support.

The second investigator, Owen Price, arrived with evidence envelopes. I opened the drawer while he recorded what I did. He photographed the sleeve where it lay, then took the negative, my print notes, and the test back.

Mara took the print herself. Both gave me receipts.

“Nobody comes for these without a record,” she said.

Before she sealed her envelope, she asked whether I wanted a moment to look at the print again. I didn't. I wanted somebody trained to look at it, somebody who could do more than turn a key in a shop door. She understood without making me explain.

I read the item numbers twice. The paper felt better in my hand than an empty promise would have.

At the door, she paused beside a school portrait pinned above my bench.

“Your family?”

“Me. Nine years old. My father fixed the machine that took it.”

“Same eyes.”

“More hair.”

Her mouth moved, almost a smile.

“I'm fifty-seven,” she said. “I don't make hair jokes.”

“You just let other people do the work?”

“Whenever possible.”

Then she grew still again. She gave me a direct office number and told me whom to call overnight. A patrol car would pass the block. I should report any contact from Rocco and keep the messages.

After they left, I made tea I didn't drink.

An email arrived from Rocco's office. It canceled my $1,840 repair bill and accused me of taking property from the River Laurel. Attached was a supposed sales rider, dated two weeks earlier.

According to that page, I had sold him Booth Fourteen, all cameras, and all images for one dollar.

My name appeared at the bottom in a shape that almost looked like my signature.

Below it, someone had typed: DESTRUCTION REQUIRED WITHIN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS.

I forwarded the message to Mara. Her reply came three minutes later.

“Keep the email in its original form. His sister has identified Nico. She says Rocco called her too.”