“Naked?”
“Naked.”
“This is a sad moment. But shoot away, William L. What do I have to lose?”
I can’t accurately describe what it’s like to be photographed naked in a cave by an examiner of questioned documents who reminds you of Hemingway. Humiliating. Infuriating. Mystifying. Dreamlike. Hilarious. Demeaning. Chilly. At one point he asked me to hold out my penis for various angles, and I realized from that moment on, my life would simply have to improve. The penis in the evidence pictures was partially obscured by shadow, but who was I to say what a picture of a dick proved or didn’t prove? Finally I put my clothes on and stepped out to the afternoon sunshine feeling no emotion that I had ever felt before in my life.
Fortune already had his bag packed. He was squatting down, petting Moe.
“I’ll need those photographs of your wife’s that you told me about on the way here,” he said.
“They were stolen, like I told you.”
“I’ll need the others.”
“I’ll send them to you.”
“Immediately if not sooner?”
“That’s right.”
“I want your camera, too.”
We walked back down to my ex-home and I put Moe back in the yard. I let myself into the house and tried to act like it was still my home, like I was still welcome there. Curiosity got the better of me and I stole briefly into my old room to see if my suede chukka boots had been confiscated, per the search warrant. They had. I came out a moment later feeling invaded, assaulted, raped. What had Mel felt, as they pillaged her home? If Will Fortune suspected my feelings he didn’t show it. I found my old Yashica 35 millimeter in the hallway closet, its case covered with dust, and I put it in a paper grocery bag and gave it to him.
Outside I patted Moe’s head and dug my fingers into his thick neck fur. I knew my hand would smell like him until I washed it — something I’ve always found sort of pleasant. He whimpered as I walked away. I drove Fortune back to his car at Loren’s office and we watched the dark blue Pacific churning away below Coast Highway.
“You live in a real nice place,” said Will.
“I feel lucky sometimes.”
“You weren’t lucky with those photos. They’re good, Terry. They’re damned good.”
“I didn’t hire you to tell me how good they are.”
“I contracted with you to deliver the truth and nothing more. There are examiners out there more eager to please their clients. They’re even cheaper than me. Loren could have got you one if he thought you needed it. If you’re that worried, hire one. I don’t think you are.”
I watched a bicycler labor up the PCH grade. His feet rotated on the pedals at about one rpm and the bike was wobbling so bad it looked ready to fall over. I wondered why people did things that were difficult simply because they were difficult.
“The thing is, Will, I already know the truth you promised me. I’m waiting for you to catch up. And the world is looking at me like I’m something stuck to the bottom of a shoe. I’m already sick of it and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
“Then let me tell you something. The images are good. But good, and good enough to fool me, are two different things. I’m a modest man, more or less. I like to hunt birds and spend time with my family and do my work. I quit the Bureau pretty young in life, because I didn’t like working for someone else. Not that I didn’t like the Bureau, or my bosses there. It just wasn’t what I wanted. But the FBI will still tell you I’m the best examiner in the country. The American Academy of Forensic Sciences will tell you the same thing. The American Board of Forensic Document Examiners will tell you that, too. Same with the American Society of Photogrammetry and Remote Sensing, and the Association of Federal Photographers. Last of all, I’ll tell you that. I’m the best. There isn’t an artist, craftsman, creep or criminal out there who can fool me. And I’ll tell you just as soon as I can whether or not those pictures will stand in a court of law.”
I drove awhile, thinking.
“Thanks, Will.”
“I look forward to helping. Get me those pictures your wife took as soon as you can. Get some rest. Maybe get that dog of yours out for some birds someday. He’s just crying to hunt.”
“Yes, he is. How long is it going to take — your examination?”
“Three days, tops.”
“That’s a long wait.”
“Hang in there. Do something good for yourself.”
“Listen, Will. There’s a thing calling itself The Horridus out here. He’s going to do some awful things to some young people if we don’t stop him. That’s the worst of it. I’m getting my dick photographed in a cave while this animal is out there planning his massacre.”
“I didn’t realize he’s killing.”
“He will. And you can massacre a person without killing them. You ruin a life or you take it — they’re both first-degree mortal sins if you ask me.”
Will was quiet for a while.
“Stay on him, Terry. Just because your badge is gone doesn’t mean you can’t stay on him.”
I thought about that and I realized — strange how it can take you so long to see the obvious — that Will Fortune was right.
Twenty-Three
That afternoon I stood in the meadow at Caspers Wilderness Park, where Ranger Bret Stefanic had met his bloody end just five days before. I could see a grassy swale, a ring of big oak trees and the bed of a stream that flowed only in winter. There was still a long fragment of crime scene ribbon tape staked up, lilting in the breeze like a yellow kite tail. I had a copy of the arriving deputy’s report, which I’d filed in my briefcase before my arrest so I could work at home. I was doing something good for myself, as ordered by the best examiner of questioned documents in the world.
The early May afternoon was warm. The sky was light blue, with a circle of black vultures turning far overhead. The locusts buzzed on and off in short bursts that sounded like signals. I could smell the damp richness of the grass and trees surrounding me, and feel the winter’s rain evaporating with spring. Another six weeks, I thought, and everything here but the oaks will be tan, dry and hot.
I knelt by the tape stake and looked out at the grass. According to the deputy’s drawing, Stefanic was lying about ten yards from me, on his back, head east and feet west. The deputy had duly noted an area of matted, bloodied grass, about twenty feet from the body. Blood turns black in the sun, of course. I watched the grass blades tilt in the breeze. I’d brought my yellow shooting glasses from the car and slipped them on. They concentrate the light and enhance contrast when you’re outdoors, which is why hunters like them, especially early in the morning or at dusk. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the fresh onslaught of sunlight, but when they did, I could easily see what I was looking for. The yellowing grass caked in black jumped out at me. The clotted blades didn’t tilt in unison with the others because they were heavier, and some of them had been choked dead by the fluid. I could see the big patches where the CSIs had collected specimens. I looked at their report to remind myself of what else they’d taken: citation book, park ranger’s (1); hat, park ranger’s, size 7 1/4(1); sunglasses, Ray-Ban aviator style, green lens and cable temples (1 pr.); pen, aluminum ballpoint, black ink, Scripto brand.