by Paul Bishop
“It’s a fake.”
“If you say it's fake, I believe you.”
Fey felt gratified. “Internal Affairs said your people at SID verified the photo hadn't been tampered with.”
“Not true,” Eddie said. “We said it didn't appear to have been be tampered with. There's no way to be sure.”
“Why not?”
There was more silence, but Fey realized Eddie Mack had covered the receiver in order to talk to somebody. After a few seconds, his voice came back on the line in a low whisper. “I can't talk right now.”
“You have unfriendly ears around?”
“Yes.”
“Then listen. I need a copy of the photograph.”
“Come on!” Eddie's voice went first high and then low again. “It's more than my job is worth. IA would be all over me if they found out.”
Unfriendly ears around or not, Eddie was engaged.
“Who's going to tell them? I have a right to examine the evidence.”
“Then ask them for a copy.”
“And wait until they decide to give it to me.”
“I can't, Fey. You're one of the most professional homicide dicks I know, but Internal Affairs has clamped down hard on the photo. They took all our copies.”
“I know you, Eddie. You keep copies of all your work, because you know stuff gets lost. It's a habit. It saved several detectives over the years.”
“Fey...”
“You're my only chance, Eddie. They're talking about prosecuting me. I'm a suspect in this case because of the photograph. I've got to clear it up before it goes further.”
“But…”
“No buts! You said you believed me. Help me get the bastard who's trying to shaft me.”
Silence.
“Eddie. I need you.”
Silence.
Then finally, “I'm sorry.”
“Eddie!”
The line went dead.
Fey sat next to the phone with her head in her hands. She had already called Mike Cahill and reported her on duty at home status. Cahill had been formal and cool over the phone. Fey dreaded what kind of scuttlebutt was being issued by the squad room's rumor control.
Cahill asked her briefly about the events of the night before, but was not forthcoming when Fey explained about the attempt on her life. The photograph of her with Miranda Goodwinter had turned her into a leper. Mike Cahill was proving to be a fair weather friend.
Fey was bound and determined she wasn't going to sit back and wait for the department to proceed with their case against her, or their investigation into the attempt on her life. With Cahill covering the department’s collective political butt, waiting for Internal Affairs to conclude their investigation would be anticipating the guillotine blade to drop.
Steely resolve was fine, but Fey needed a starting point. She had hoped for more from Eddie Mack. The dirty idea she’d formulated was slightly less reasonable in the morning, but she had no choice except to crack things open and see what fell out.
The logical starting point was the photograph. It was the one piece of the case Fey knew to be true. It didn't matter what anyone else believed. She knew she had never had contact with Goodwinter while the woman was alive. Therefore, the photo was a loose thread. If she pulled on it hard enough, it might unravel the whole case.
The phone rang.
Fey picked it up. “Hello.”
A whisper came down the line. “Ajax Photo Supply. Eleven o'clock. See a guy named Rhino.”
The phone line went dead, but not before she was able to recognize Eddie Mack's voice.
Fey listened to the hum of the dead wire. She hung up and smiled. It was like coming out of darkness into the brightness of a gorgeous summer day. Her brain was clicking over at a thousand miles per hour. She didn't know what she was going to find at Ajax Photo Supply, but it could be the starting point.
Meanwhile, there was Isaac Cordell. He was part of the main problem of solving Miranda Goodwinter’s murder, but he was the largest part. He was the wild card.
Fey's gut told her even if Cordell knew the charges against him were dropped, he was still going to come after her. She had heard his voice on her answering machine. She'd seen what he'd done to her brother. She knew he wasn't going to back down.
Whatever Cordell had been before he went to prison had no bearing on the animal he was now. Ten years in a hellhole doesn't turn anyone into a model citizen. Incarceration was only procrastinating dealing with a problem until the problem was again unleashed on society.
Rehabilitation was simply a word used to fill dictionaries. A word used by liberal prison reformers to spark the emotions of other bleeding-heart knee-jerks who didn't understand a thing about the rights of a victim.
Prison never cured any serious criminal. Nothing short of God could—and the only way to get them an interview with God was to fry them.
Fey had seen Cordell's eyes when he had turned to attack her. What she saw there was a soul devoid of mercy or fear.
The threat of Cordell had to be faced and defused. Carrying around shotguns was not a solution, especially since it had proved of little use the night before.
The department was not going to back her where Cordell was concerned. She believed Monk and Hatch would be there for her, even if it would put them squarely on the hot seat if things turned sour. But it was a moot point. Fey had another solution.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
Ajax Photo Supply was tucked away in a relatively new industrial complex behind Union Station in downtown Los Angeles. Fey walked through the door at eleven o'clock and found herself surrounded by three walls of photographic blowups. Scenes of graphic tragedies everywhere: car crashes, famine, the aftermath of plane crashes, photos of abused children, familiar shots from Vietnam, Afghanistan, WWII concentration camps. Blood, gore, pain, and anguish assaulted the eye from every direction. The effect was overwhelming.
The wall behind a lower counter was filled with smaller snapshots of smiling children, family outings, office parties, and other festive gatherings stuck every which way with drawing pins.
The most startling thing about the setup, however, was the total absence of photo supplies.
Behind the low counter, on a high stool, sat an elfin-like girl dressed in black. Her miniskirt rode high on her crossed thighs, revealing long legs encased in sheer black stockings capped by black chunky pumps. A black Lana Turner sweater hugged pointed breasts, between which ran a cheap string of black beads. On her thin face the girl wore bottle-cap sunglasses superficially poised to offset her trendy, spike-cut black hair. The elf was even smoking a black cigarette.
“Yes?” she said with an air of artful detachment as Fey approached.
Fey took another look at the photos on the walls before asking, “Is Rhino here?”
“In back,” said the elf. She extracted the cigarette from her mouth with the uniquely European underhanded gesture, pointing it in the direction of a door at one end of the wall behind the counter.
Fey lifted up the counter gate top and let herself through. She walked to the doorway. Like the rest of the back wall, it was covered with pinned-on snapshots of happy scenes, a stark contrast to the blowups on the other three walls.
Not knowing what to expect, Fey took a breath and forged ahead. She had a lot riding on this excursion. According to the rules of being on duty at home, Fey was supposed to remain at her residence unless she was contacted by her supervisor to do otherwise. At the risk of inciting further departmental wrath, she had driven from her house to West L.A. station, where she made an unannounced appearance.
She had gone directly to Mike Cahill's office and had closeted herself in there with Cahill for the fifteen minutes it took him to ream her out for disobeying the stay-at-home order.
Fey insisted her only motive in coming to the station was to make a direct plea to Cahill to reinstate her. Cahill told her, in no uncertain terms, the decision to reinstate her did not rest with hi
m. It was a decision to be made by Internal Affairs.
Fey knew Cahill wouldn't and couldn't do anything for her. But she suffered the humiliation for two reasons. First, she needed an excuse for being away from her residence in case Internal Affairs tried to contact her while she was gone; second, she needed somethings from the wall of the station's coffee room.
As she entered the back room of Ajax Photo Supply, those precious items were burning with hope in the pocket of the windcheater wrapped around her shoulders.
The room was dim, filled with a permanent haze of cigarette smoke. It was twice the size of the lobby, and the walls were lined with VCR machines stacked floor to ceiling. All had red-glowing recording lights. What space wasn't filled by VCRs held bins of videotapes and printed tape boxes. Fey saw the photos and titles on several empty tape boxes—lots of flesh tones. It was a porno reproduction plant. By all appearances, probably a pirate operation.
Under the lone overhead lamp, a hunchbacked man with long, greasy hair sat at a battered table. He was using a mouse attached to an expensive computer setup. A small stub of a cigarette threatened to burn his lip while shrouding his head in smoke.
“Rhino?” Fey asked.
“Yeah. Shut the door behind you,” he said, in a British accent. “And if you want my help, you'll keep a set of blinders on.”
Fey's reply was immediate. “I see nuthink,” she said, in a mock German accent.
“Thank you, Sergeant Shultz,” Rhino said. “Come sit down.” He cleared a stack of magazines off a hard-back chair.
Fey did as she was told. The cigarette smoke was getting to her, the craving deep from within her chest waking up.
At close range, Rhino was no better a prospect than he was from behind. His haggard face was grimy with neglected patches of beard, and there was a blob of dried egg at one corner of his small mouth. Thick glasses, each lens having an additional watchmaker's magnifying glass on a wire to be dropped into position, rested on a long nose with a full crop of hair sprouting from wide nostrils. He smiled at Fey, revealing a dazzling array of large, sparkling white teeth.
When Fey looked slightly startled. Rhino simply shrugged and stated, “I believe in good oral hygiene.” He must have experienced similar reactions to his teeth before. He continued to fiddle with the computer in front of him. From her position, Fey couldn't see the screen.
“How do you know Eddie Mack?” Fey asked, when she tired of listening to the hum of the VCRs recording.
“We has a shared business interest, don't we?” Rhino tossed his head in a gesture encompassing the whole room. “He must really trust you to let you in on his little secret.”
Fey looked around at the stacks of busy VCRs. Through the gloom, she could make out another room farther back filled with camera equipment. She was surprised. Eddie Mack didn't seem to be the type to be a pirate video king, but she wasn't going to complain. Especially if Rhino was going to help her.
“Did Eddie tell you what this is about?”
“He said you was havin' a spot of bother with a photo snap of you with your arm around another bimbo. You say it ain't a possible scenario since you didn't know the other tit.”
“Not until she was dead and cold anyway.”
Rhino wrinkled his nose. “Not my style. I don't know 'ow you do it.”
While he talked, Rhino never took his eyes off the computer screen or stopped twiddling with the mouse.
Fey held her breath while asking her next question. “Did Eddie give you a copy of the photo?”
Rhino kept pushing the mouse around. Eventually, he looked up at Fey. He gave her another quick look at his teeth and said, “Yeah. He says you owe him big time.”
Fey shrugged. “Before this is over, I'm going to be in debt over my head.”
Rhino rolled and tapped the mouse again.
Restlessly Fey asked, “Were you able to do anything with the photo?”
Rhino tapped the mouse a final time and turned the computer screen toward Fey. Fey took one look and burst out laughing. The screen was a very high resolution monitor. The picture displayed was crisp and clear. In the dim light of the back room, Fey was looking at the same photo of Miranda Goodwinter in the nightclub setting—only this time Fey wasn't in the picture. This time there was a man with his arm around Miranda Goodwinter. A well-known man—Richard Nixon.
“Whoa,” said Fey.
“I thought you'd like it,” Rhino said, and flashed his teeth.
“I am not a crook,” said Fey.
“Your impersonation is lousy. Stick to Sergeant Schultz.”
Fey looked at the screen again. “Okay, I'm impressed, but how do you get it off the screen and into the form of a photo print?”
Rhino rolled the mouse and tapped it. A machine at the other end of the table began to whirl and click. The machine was about a foot wide by three feet long by one foot high. A sheet of Kodak print paper rolled out. Rhino picked it up, took it over to a cutting board, trimmed the sides, and gave the finished product to Fey. It was as perfect to look at as the original photo with Fey next to Miranda Goodwinter.
Rhino tapped the print with a chewed fingernail. “You want prints, slides, or negatives? I can give 'em all to you. Nobody will ever be able to tell for sure they're not originals.”
“Amazing,” Fey said. “Do you know what this means where photo evidence is concerned?”
Rhino snorted. “Pretty soon there won't be any such thing. This technology has made it outmoded. Should provide blackmailers with a load of business, though, before it becomes common knowledge.”
“The criminal mind,” Fey said. “Always a step ahead.” She took a harder look at the new photograph. Richard Nixon still had his arm around Miranda Goodwinter. “How does the system work?”
Rhino sat back down again. “Simple really. It's called digital imaging. You take a photo, use a top-quality scanner to put it into a computer with the appropriate software, delete or add whatever you want, start up a high end printer,” he pointed to the machine which had produced the print, “and presto, a new negative with no signs of tampering. But photography is child's play compared to doing a whole video.”
“You can do this on video?”
“Sure. The technology is the same, but it takes a real artist to do it right. Give me enough time and I could produce a video of JFK assassinating himself. You have to be real careful about shadows and mirrors and stuff. Here, I'll show you.” He pushed his chair across the room and flipped on a television screen Fey hadn't seen nestled among the VCRs. He took a tape off a low shelf and plugged it into an empty VCR. Within seconds, an erotic coupling of Britain's ex-Prime Minister Maggie Thatcher and Ronald Reagan appeared on the television screen.
“Wow,” Fey said. She was as amazed by the film's quality as the identities of the faked images it portrayed. “And at their age.”
“I wanted to send a copy to Nancy, but I remembered to just say no,” Rhino said. He shut the VCR and the television off before wheeling himself back to the table.
“How common is this technology?” Fey asked.
Rhino shrugged. “Common enough. The equipment and software are expensive, but this stuff is being done all the time in the movies today. Terminator 2 is an example. The silver guy who keeps forming and reforming was all done through digital imaging.”
“How about small jobs, like putting my image into the photo?”
Rhino belched and rubbed his tummy. “There are a few photo freak guys like me around. We're not hard to find if you know where to look. Then there are larger image developing businesses who could do the job.”
“How many freaks or legitimate businesses would you say are in the L.A. area?”
Rhino thought for a moment before shrugging. “Two dozen freaks. Maybe twenty businesses.”
“You think you could track down the guy who put me into this photo?”
“Maybe. What's it worth?”
“My job.”
“Don't mean nothin' to me.”
“How about your freedom to exploit the free enterprise system?” Fey waved her hand at the illicit videotapes being recorded around her.
Rhino shook his head. “I told Eddie letting you come here was a bad idea. But I don't think you'd screw Eddie over.”
“Probably not,” Fey said.
Rhino let loose with his orthodontia. “Didn’t think so. I'll do what I can.”
“Thanks.”
Fey looked back at the computer screen again. “If a person is deleted from a photograph, can you reverse the process?”
“You mean from the new negative?”
“Yes.”
Rhino picked his nose and flicked away the prize. “No way. The original image never appears on the new negative, so there’s no way to recover it.”
Too bad, Fey thought. It would have been nice to confirm who was sitting next to Miranda Goodwinter in the original photo, but she already had a good idea.
“However,” Fey began, “you could put any of these people into the photo next to the woman?” She pulled out the promotion party photos she had taken off the wall of the station's coffee room.
The only photo she hadn't been able to find on the wall was the one of her with the two other female officers—the one labeled The Crack Squad. But she knew what had happened to the photo…and how her image had appeared next to Miranda Goodwinter’s. She'd always had a vague feeling she'd seen the image of herself in the photo before.
Rhino looked at the photos in Fey's hand. “Yeah, I can put those folks in the picture. Simple as wanking in bed.”
“Wanking?”
Rhino flashed his teeth. “You're not old enough for me to explain the term.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“Take it how you like.” Rhino took the photos. “You want glossy or a matte?”
Chapter 36
Fey could feel the momentum of the investigation building. It was as if she had been on a steam train groaning its way up the side of a mountain and was now gathering speed as it crested the top for the run down the other side. From experience Fey knew—like The Little Train That Could—the investigation would soon be moving at a speeds threatening to turn it into a runaway.
