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.
CHAPTER 7:
“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.
She reached into her pocket and extracted the two compact flash cards then dropped them into Ben’s palm.
“That all of it?”
“Detective Storm,” the agent spoke up.
“Just a minute,” he snapped in return. “Felicity?”
“Yes, that’s all of it,” she replied. “Rowan, give him the log.”
I handed over the small notebook but kept my mouth shut.
Ben stepped back and scanned the activity on the parking lot then yelled, “Yo! Harrison. Over here.”
Across the way, a tousle of blonde hair poked up from beneath a trunk lid. The young woman was turned away from us and was wearing a jacket emblazoned with the words “CRIME SCENE UNIT” across the back. She turned around, and with a confused expression creasing her face, she pointed at herself and mouthed the word “me.”
“Yeah, you,” Ben yelled. “C’mere.”
“Detective Storm,” the FBI agent started in again. “You need to consider…”
“Fuck that,” he spat. “What I need ta’ consider is that I called ya’ in as a courtesy since the stiff is a federal judge. Other than that, it’s still a homicide that falls under local jurisdiction, and right now Major Case is gonna handle it. You wanna help, great. You wanna take over, fuck off.”
“Yes, sir?” the young woman spoke up at Ben’s side, interrupting before the agent could respond.
He turned to her immediately. “Yeah, look, Harrison…”
“Detective Storm!” the agent demanded.
Ben glared back and held up a finger as he declared, “I’m talkin’ ta’ Harrison right now.”
“Huddleston, sir,” the woman offered.
My friend looked back to the woman, creased his brow, shook his head, and then said, “What?”
“My name is Huddleston, sir. Not Harrison.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “I need ya’ ta’ take these to Murv. Tell ‘im to bag ‘em and process ‘em.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied as he handed the cards and log to her.
“…And stop callin’ me sir. You’re makin’ me feel old.”
As she hurried off we heard her reply, “Yes, sir.”
“Now,” Ben continued, turning back to the FBI agent. “You were sayin’?”
“Detective Storm, we assumed that since you called us, we could count on your cooperation.”
My friend planted his hands on his hips and gave a quick nod. “Cooperation, yeah. Rollin’ over and playin’ dead, fuck no. Once we get the pictures processed out, you want copies, no problem.
“Now if you wanna go in there right now and make your own scrapbook, have at it, but ya’ better get a move on before the coroner pulls the body.”
“Detective,” the agent attempted to reason with him, “As you said, you are dealing with a federal judge here. Hammond Wentworth is a very influential individual, and there are circumstances here that should remain confidential.”
“Listen, Agent…?”
“Drew.”
“Agent Drew, what ya’ got here ain’t circumstances, it’s a DEAD federal judge. He’s not gonna influence anybody anymore.”