With the lane closures on I-75, it took more than forty-five minutes to get home. Jumping out of the car, I noticed the shopping bags in the backseat and wondered if I should head right back to the mall and return my wasted purchases. The amount spent on the dress was staggering and with the way my life was headed, there’d be no money from a gallery show to balance my checkbook. When and where would I ever wear a dress like this now? Still, it wasn’t over yet. There was the remote possibility Bill’s relationship with Ms. Grace—if that was her name—was more friendly than romantic.
Suddenly, it struck me. Bill and the woman were coming out of a jewelry store. Tiffany’s, for God’s sake. Could it have progressed that far so fast? Progressed to the point he was buying expensive jewelry? Perhaps THE jewelry.
Bill had never given me more than token gifts. I only remembered a DVD of The Departed and an inexpensive necklace he picked out at the art fair in Ann Arbor last summer. For Christmas, he took me to Chicago for the weekend. Out of the way, as usual.
It was because I was white; I knew it in my heart. He’d never taken me seriously because I was white. A convenient woman to sleep with till the real thing came along. Was the real thing the woman at the mall today? Once he knew I wasn’t 100 percent white, would that make a difference?
Before I could settle into a full-blown pity fest, the phone rang. I leaped for it, thinking whatever distraction it might bring had to be better than this. The voice saying my name was vaguely familiar—a woman’s voice.
“Ms. Hart?” the voice repeated for the third time.
“Mrs. Olsen?” I assumed Mrs. was the title she’d prefer. I mumbled the words the cops from Law and Order always said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Olsen. Derek—well, he was a terrific guy. I didn’t know him for long…”
“Thank you, Violet,” Mrs. Olsen interrupted before I could finish my thought. “I hope I can call you by your first name, knowing how close you and Derek were.”
I didn’t correct this misconception since Mrs. Olsen sounded far too shaky for any disappointing clarifications. Maybe in Derek’s world, I was a close friend. Mrs. Olsen was still talking, telling me Derek’s body had been released—it was now being prepared for the funeral.
“Would you be willing to take his picture, Violet?”
Take his picture. Had Derek told his mother?
“The photographs I’ve been taking have all come from the Fontenel Funeral Home. I made an arrangement with the mortician there. The men have all been African-American.”
“I want a photograph for myself.” Mrs. Olsen cleared her throat. “Derek told me you took pictures of dead people. Art photographs. At first I thought it was a little odd, but Derek seemed to think it was a good idea. I think he’d want you to take his picture.”
“You might find it painful,” I said, not warming to this idea at all. “I’m not sure Derek would want it for himself either. He liked the idea of it—the art aspect. He never saw any of the photos, you know. He might not have cared for them. You might not either. It takes some getting used to.”
“Even if I never look at the photograph, I’ll know it’s there. We’ll have it, at least. I can’t remember when we last took a picture of anyone besides the grandkids.”
Bill told me how many of the parents of the dead men had said this—that they had no recent pictures. Instead of producing prints, the images from cell phones or digital cameras sat on people’s hard drives now. Or never left their cells. Sorting through cold technological devices was more difficult somehow than flipping through an album.
Mrs. Olsen paused. “You know it’s only his sister and the grandchildren besides me. Have you met her?”
“No, I didn’t get the chance.” I still couldn’t tell Mrs. Olsen I’d only been with Derek three times, and he’d never mentioned a sister. We’d never shared a meal, or a cup of coffee. Our time spent together couldn’t have exceeded two or three hours and most had been spent burying the animal fetus in my neighbor’s garden. “Tell me where they have him—the name of the funeral home, I mean.”
“And you’ll stay for the viewing? I’d like to have you there. I know he’d want that.” Mrs. Olsen was starting to cry now. “He didn’t have too many friends, you know. He was popular as a kid, but once his troubles started—well, you know. He got—unpredictable—in high school. People flee from a child like Derek, especially teenagers. They thought Derek was cool for a while. The way he’d do the unexpected. Like urinating in a water fountain or skateboarding holding onto the back of a truck. But, well, they figured it out. I can’t say he didn’t scare me at times. Once we got him on the proper medication, it got better.” Mrs. Olsen sighed with a momentary relief, probably forgetting for a second or two that those better days had come to an end.
“I’ll be there.” I’d never been to the funerals of the men I photographed. “I’ll call the funeral home and find out when’s a good time for me to take pictures.” I wasn’t sure if other morticians worked as efficiently as Bill. Or if I’d have a hard time gaining access to Derek. “You might want to call and clear it with them, Mrs. Olsen. They may not be used to someone photographing a…”
“I sent his best suit over with a courier, but it may be too large for him now. It’s actually from his high school graduation—well, he didn’t actually graduate. He’s lost weight now, living like he does—did—food got short shrift.” She sighed. “I should’ve kept him at home, even during the day.”
“They’ll make the suit fit. They know what to do. It happens a lot. People can change quickly.”
I hung up as soon as I could, not able to listen to Mrs. Olsen anymore. She was, thankfully, unaware of my part in Derek’s death. I hoped her ignorance would continue, but I felt like a hypocrite going along with the fiction that we were close friends. Even if it was a merciful interpretation of the events.
No good could come from telling Mrs. Olsen I used her son’s illness to try and procure subjects to photograph. Sent him out looking for exactly what got him killed. No one’s interest would be served by hearing that. If I was acquiring a more active conscience, it didn’t sit well. I could feel pushing from each corner.
My familiarity with corpses did little to prepare me for Derek. This was the first time I’d looked at a familiar face, now dead, through a camera lens. Whatever Derek went through in the last few days had changed him; he looked older than his years.
And whoever prepared him for burial at Barton’s Funeral Home didn’t have Bill’s touch or care. I’d rushed into the mortuary out of the rain, where a sullen secretary met me and pointed me in the right direction, gesturing wordlessly to a place to stash my umbrella. I shook my head like a wet dog, soliciting darker looks and a quick search for a towel to wipe it up.
Derek’s graduation suit looked huge on him despite my assurances to his mother that this sort of problem was easily solved. I tried to adjust the jacket, but it was a two-person job and I went for help.
The Charles Barton Funeral Home, in a far better neighborhood than Bill’s place, didn’t have much to recommend it. The interior furnishings looked cheap and indifferently selected, and the rugs were threadbare. The prep room must have been located right beneath the room where Derek lay because I picked up its odor whenever the air-conditioning came on. I hadn’t fully realized how much care Bill took with his business. More than the corpses got his attention. Black people took death seriously, perhaps because it loomed larger in their lives. They’d never put up with a shabby place like this one. They’d see the paucity of nice touches as a sign of disrespect.
I found help quickly, a young guy who seemed willing to give me a hand. Together we fixed Derek’s coat so he didn’t look like a victim of a debilitating illness. We also propped a small pillow under the small of his back, so he didn’t seem to collapse into the satin. I asked for cosmetics, which Rudy brought quickly.
“You’re pretty good at this,” he said, taking the case from me when I was finished. “If you ever need ex
tra work I could tell Mr. Barton…”
I shook my head, hoping to hold back a grimace. “Actually I’ve done a little of this cosmetic work in the past, but it probably helps that I knew Derek. Know how he needs to look.”
I thanked Rudy, and he hurried off to replace the borrowed equipment. Probably his boss wouldn’t be too happy to find me making little adjustments to his work. But Derek looked better for it; even the assistant saw it.
Just in time, I realized Derek’s hair was parted on the wrong side. Hesitating a minute, I took out my own comb and changed the part, tossing the comb into a trash basket when I was done—it was too macabre to think of using it again. I took a dozen pictures, my stomach kneading the whole time, bile floating up and down my throat as I bent over him. He was so small in the coffin. Though all of the men had been young, Derek’s death was immeasurably harder to deal with. But I deserved the discomfort and heartache it brought.
“Hope you’re not planning to stick around after you’re done with him.”
I turned to see Inspector Saad standing in the archway. “For the viewing, I mean.” He was dressed in a navy suit, his hair still slightly damp from the rain. A maroon tie finished his ensemble. What did these cops get paid anyway? Had he ever worn the same suit twice?
“Mrs. Olsen asked me to stay for the viewing after I finish.”
He looked at the camera with distaste. “I thought all the men in your scrapbook were black.”
I flushed angrily. “This isn’t for that. Mrs. Olsen asked me to take a picture for the family. It’s a favor.”
“Guess it’s catching on. Mantel photos of the dead. You’ve started a trend.” He seemed lost in thought for a minute and I started to return to my work. “Hey,” he said finally. “I forgot to mention something back at my office the other day.”
“How could there possibly be anything else?”
He walked all the way into the room now, coming to stand over Derek’s body. “Whew, he sure took a beating. I’d forgotten. Mortician couldn’t quite cover up the bruises on his throat, could he?”
I adjusted the collar again, trying to pull it higher. “Bill would’ve done better by him.”
Saad nodded. “Whoever strangled Olsen had the strength of a Samson. Squeezed the air out of the carotid, the jugular, the larynx. Plus the trachea. It would take pretty significant muscle to do all that damage.” His mouth tightened. “The coroner’s almost certain it was one unaided pair of hands too. No ligature. And the poor kid was so skinny, a quick squeeze would’ve been enough.”
“I know.”
You could see the delicate bones beneath the flesh. Underneath the makeup, I could see the imprints of fingers still. It was nearly enough to undo me. This was the most maternal I’d ever felt about anyone—and it was too late to act on it, to save him.
“So anyway, I meant to warn you on your way out of the station.”
“Warn me about what?” I asked, putting my equipment away and pushing the stepladder back into the corner. “Not leaving town?”
“No, not that.” A smile flittered across his face. “You’re too much at the scene of the crime for your own good, Miss Hart.”
“Half the time you’ve called me in. The other half I’ve been trying to help.”
“That’s not what I mean. A damned nasty thug killed the guy that Derek found parts of scattered on Belle Isle. Derek was killed because they thought he knew too much about it—maybe saw things he shouldn’t have seen. Who else was involved with those body parts? Who else was on the scene at the time of Derek’s death? Who found Derek’s body? Who’s been in and out of my office?” He stopped. “Get my point? And, as I said, here you are again. You might as well have the words ‘next victim’ stamped on your forehead.”
My hands went numb. “You think someone might try to kill me?”
“You’re like the woman in an old murder mystery who goes down the cellar steps after she’s heard a loud noise. The ‘had I but known’ girl.” He stopped suddenly. “Yes, someone might try to kill you, Violet. Probably not tonight, but you never know.”
“I told Mrs. Olsen I’d stay for the viewing. She’s worried there won’t be a good turnout.”
We both looked at Derek; he looked insignificant and insubstantial in death. His sculptures in the park would probably attract more interest than his life.
“She’s probably been worrying about that sort of thing her whole life. The kind of mother who peeked out the window and wept when Derek played alone, when nobody gave him a Valentine or invited him to their birthday party. She’ll get over it and you’ll be safer out of the fray.”
“Look, I have to stay. I owe her that.”
“I’ll follow you home then,” Saad said, shrugging. “Okay?”
“Wouldn’t seeing us leave together tip them off? I mean, I’m only mentioned as an area photographer in the newspaper. No names. Maybe no one knows who I am.”
His mouth tightened. “You should get out of here right now, Violet. But if you won’t, I’ll follow you home after the viewing. No one will know I’m doing it.” He helped me carry my bags to the back room. “We more or less owe you one for spotting those marks. Least I can do.”
“Like you said, they—he—probably wouldn’t show up.”
“Probably not.”
The crowd was sparse and someone not connected to Derek by family or friendship would’ve stood out. No one did. They came mostly in ones and twos, said a word or two to Mrs. Olsen, peered sadly at the body, signed the book, and left. I stayed until nearly the end. Despite the suddenness and nature of his death, no one seemed surprised. He’d been headed down this road since puberty.
Inspector Saad followed me home as promised. On the way to the car, he gave me his cell number. “Just in case.”
“Think someone might show up at my flat?”
“I doubt it. This sort of person isn’t usually skilled at putting the plot points together. Probably has no idea who you are.” I took the piece of paper. “And do us both a favor, Violet. Don’t show up at the funeral tomorrow. Someone’s much more likely to come forward there. Out in the open in a big cemetery isn’t as chancy as a tiny space in a funeral home.”
I nodded, thinking I’d have to call Mrs. Olsen and give her an excuse other than the real one. No sense having her worry more than she already was. I’d tell her I was ill. Which I was.
“I photograph to find out what something will look like photographed.”
Garry Winogrand
After the scrambled, REM-less sleep extreme fear produces, I got up, climbed into the car, and took off. I’d be damned if I was going to sit around waiting to hear footsteps on the stairs or to see a hand reaching out for me in the tub. So I didn’t take a shower and I didn’t eat breakfast either. And other than Derek’s mother, I didn’t call any of the people I’d have liked to call from a landline phone with good reception and a soft chair to sit in. Grabbing my cell, a banana, a camera, and a poorly tossed newspaper, I fled.
My first stop was Fontenel’s Funeral Home, which hovered darkly over the empty blacktop parking lot despite the sunny day. The din of rush hour traffic on Jefferson Avenue was only a block and a half away, and I waited impatiently for it to fade. The air smelled bad. The Detroit incinerator was cranking out toxic spew, but it was too hot to sit in a car with the windows closed. I sat, four houses down from Bill’s mortuary, for a good hour, watching for the unlikely possibility that Bill and/or his lady friend might exit through the front door. Oh, yes, I hadn’t forgotten her. She ranked pretty high on my lists of worries.
Bill usually kept his funeral-friendly Lincoln in the smaller back lot, but the space was cut off from my view. He and his lady friend could be having sex in the back seat for all I knew.
Watching a house was more difficult than I’d expected. You couldn’t do anything but watch. Pick up a book, start listening to the radio, dream a bit because you hadn’t slept in two days, smoke a joint, bite into your banana, do any of these
and you might miss what you’d come to see. I quickly decided I’d never become a private eye. I bet the same people who liked to fish went into that line of work.
I didn’t know exactly why I was there, what I expected to find, and what I would do about it should I find it. I just needed to put myself near Bill in the hopes something would disprove my suspicions. Why hadn’t I called him last night? Tried to get something out of him? I guess a more surreptitious approach suited me. Maybe Ted Ernst was right and I preferred to live my life behind masks or cameras.
I thought briefly about taking a few photos but getting the proper bead on the house would draw attention. So I sat—waiting and watching. The only upside to my enforced immobility was it gave me more time to think about my father and what to do about that situation. Was it possible my new information would open the door to a relationship? Did I want one? Was it worry about exposure that sent my father into the night or was it only one aspect of his disinterest in his family? Did he see us as an impediment to his career? That’d be my guess. My birth was a good excuse to leave. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be bothered much about color. But as Bunny often reminded me, the sixties were another era.
Nothing was going on at Bill’s place. I took a bite of my banana, looking around. A stakeout was worthless here. No activity at all. The door remained closed. Things only picked up once, for about thirty seconds, when a Fed-Ex truck pulled up. But after trotting halfway up to Fontenel’s front door, the delivery man checked the address on the package, made a swift right turn, and cut across the well-watered lawn to the house next door.
Bill was almost certainly tied up with the burial of the child killed in the drive-by shooting. I didn’t know where or when it would take place. After an hour’s wait, I decided my vigil was worthless. Derek’s funeral was probably underway, and I wondered if the turnout was any better than the one last night. My whole life was occupied with death now. The deaths I photographed, the deaths I read about, the deaths I caused. Was it the death of my relationship with Bill I was here to witness? And how did my project tie into it?
Shot In Detroit Page 22
