“No shit,” he said. “Get me the cardiac monitor. We should record asystole before we bag him.”
“Not here.” The sheriff stepped in, all puckered up because the press was on site. “I want this body in the ambulance and en route-now.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on it.”
“Then quit staring at that woman. Move.”
1:06:49 p.m.
The sheriff’s men weren’t happy to see us either. A big bouncer type who stood guarding the perimeter backed us off before I even had a chance to make our case. We hung out for a few minutes trying to get someone to talk to us without any luck.
“What now?” Ainsley asked as we retreated to the roadside.
“We’re on a bear hunt, College.” I scanned the perimeter and started toward the shrub line. “Can’t go through ’em. Can’t go over ’em. Got to go around ’em.”
I walked along the road to where the fence line ended, then turned up a small side road that seemed to follow the boundary of the property.
Ainsley matched my pace, breathing heavily with the camera case in tow. “Where are we going?”
“Don’t know. I’m looking.”
Not far from the turn, I cut back following a line of scraggily shrubs and small trees up a slight incline toward the farmhouse we had seen from the road. Every so often I popped through the bushes and held up my camera to check for a decent line of sight.
The college boy threw questions at my back the entire way. “Do you think we’re trespassing? What if someone lives here? Is this legal?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Follow me.”
“Wish you’d stop saying that.”
Near the crest of a small rise, through the heavy barberry branches, I found a spot where the perspective on the action by the tree was perfect. Firefighters and police were milling around. The ladder was coming down. Some of the men were fascinated by a spill of cardboard boxes and paper where the body dropped.
“Okay, College Boy, this is it. Let’s get a hand-held shot. We’re too far away for anything but the in-camera mic, but record it anyway. We may want to use the ambient sound-wind, leaves rustling, birds. See if you can get tight enough for a couple steady, close-up head-shots of these guys. I want facial expression if you can get it.”
Ainsley set the camera case down with a thud. His face glowed with a faint sheen of sweat from the effort of getting it there. He took a few minutes to organize himself. We’d prepped in the van, so it didn’t take long. Once he had the camera rolling, I stepped back to give him some room. Behind me, I heard the rustle-crack of a scramble in the hedge, the sound of an animal trying to escape.
With two hands, I spread the leafy whippets of overgrown barberry. My camera bumped against my chest, swinging heavily from the neck strap. It took a second for my eyes to adjust.
At first, all I saw was her face and her fear. The white of the young woman’s skin reflected light where her dark clothes disappeared into the shadow. Bits of contrast jumped out at me. She was wearing a hat, a black Amish bonnet to be exact, but she had a cell phone pressed to her ear.
“What the hell is going on here?” a man’s voice rose behind me.
I admit, I jumped. The branches I’d been holding snapped back into place as I spun around. Ainsley jumped too, but he kept the camera up and running. The guy shouting was obviously The Man. From what I could see, he was the only one wearing a decent suit and all the men around the tree stopped everything to watch.
“I thought I said no cameras!”
“The officer told us to stay as far back as the road, but no one said anything about no cameras.” I smiled. Behind me, there was absolute silence in the bush. “I’m Maddy O’Hara, WWST. You’re the man in charge, I presume?”
He was a fairly large guy, enough so I’d notice. Not a whole lot older than me. Sandy-dark hair with a thread or two of silver, maybe. Good sharp bones beneath the cheek and brow. He’d be a dream to photograph monochrome, except you’d lose the eye color-the pale green of a cloudy agate.
“Give me the camera,” he said to Ainsley, ignoring me in the extreme.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I pressed. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Sheriff Curzon.”
Boy, I hadn’t cheesed-off a local public servant this fast in years. Good to know I hadn’t lost my touch.
Ainsley appeared mesmerized. He lowered the camera off his shoulder and shot me a quick, panicked look.
“It’s all right,” I soothed with a snicker. “You don’t have to give him anything.”
While I was busy being amused at the sheriff’s bravado, Curzon reached over and grabbed the television camera, scanned the side quickly and pressed eject. He plucked the card right out of its slot. Ainsley stood there, face frozen.
“I am the man in charge here,” Curzon announced. “And I said, no cameras.” He looked at me and the 35mm hanging from my neck.
I wrapped a hand around my Nikon lens and dared him to try.
He jabbed the little black rectangle of digital recording at me like a pointed finger. “Give me that card or I will arrest you. You can tell your story to the judge-tomorrow morning.”
It felt like being clocked upside the head. Six months ago, I’d have gone to jail for my card with no hesitation.
My fingers opened the camera and handed him the memory card.
Of course, the fact that I had a roll of exposed 35mm tucked in my pocket made it a little easier. “We heard there might be a story worth covering here, Sheriff.”
“I don’t think so, Ms. O’Hara. A man’s dead. Sad, but nothing important enough to rate the television news.”
I couldn’t help it. This time, I did laugh.
“Something funny about that?”
I was thinking, then why bother? But I said, “Just between you and me, Sheriff, around here, it’s news when somebody’s dog dies.”
“Not from around here, are you?” he deadpanned. Was that a sense of humor? It didn’t last. “There’s nothing to see here, Ms. O’Hara. My office will provide a written statement to the press as soon as possible.”
“Ah.” I nodded, all understanding. “And when do you think that might be?”
“Couldn’t say.”
“Look, I’m just trying to do my job, Sheriff. Performing a public service, you know?”
His gaze dropped abruptly, taking in my leather pants. He hesitated for half a second before he added, “Funny. That’s what they used to say about prostitution.”
I flashed the man a smile and winked. “And I’ll bet people like you still do, Sheriff.”
Ainsley’s eyes popped and he did a panic check-look left, look right, look down.
Now I’ll admit, I was overdressed for fieldwork. Compared to the girl in the bushes in the long dress and hat, I was looking more Saturday night on Rush Street than Monday morning on Michigan Avenue. But no way did Sheriff Curzon, in his fine suit, hold to an Amish dress code standard. He was trying to annoy me.
Oh, there was definitely something going on around here.
“What’s in the bushes?” Curzon asked, stone-faced and heavy on the green-eyed death glare.
“What?” I asked him back.
“You had your head in the bushes. You drop something?”
“No.” I felt the silent shadow-presence of the girl behind me. A little louder I answered, “No. Thought I heard a rabbit or something.” I crossed my arms over my chest and shrugged. “You know us city girls, we’ll do anything for a glimpse of wildlife.”
He wasn’t wholly convinced, but one of the other men down near the tree called out. “Time to go,” Curzon announced.
“See you.” I waved.
I caught the flavor of a grin quickly suppressed, before he grabbed Ainsley’s silver camera case with one hand and the boy’s elbow with the other.
“Walk,” Curzon ordered Ainsley.