"Brass monkey...that funky monkey," chimed in my pocket, and as I unsheathed the glowing, vibrating music box I answered.
"Talk to me buddy." I said.
"Forrest Creek Estates! Another one. Finish your beer, kiss the lady across the table from you goodnight, grab your case, and a cab and get down here. 5300 block of Suncreek Court," a familiar voice barked at me.
I hung up, finished my beer and glanced at myself in the mirror behind the Top Shelf liquor. I was tired. I closed out my tab, blew Veronica, the bartender, a kiss and hit the pavement. I walked the three blocks from 'The Salty Dawg Tavern' to my apartment, slipped in the door, raced up the two flights of stairs and through my door, #250. It's not in my nature to rush and to say crime scenes are a part of my routine is an understatement. Five maybe six days of the week I position myself inches from a lost life, sprays of blood, murder weapons, crying relatives, and the Plano PD.
Mulder barked with a full strength lunged yelp and lifted his head from his corner; he knew I had a gig. That yelp, mixed with the three high whines that followed told me he was worried and missed me.
"I know buddy. I miss you too! I'll be alright. It's going to be an early night," I told him. Mulder, obviously my dog, and a deep seated reference to the X-Files was a stubborn but affectionate full breed bloodhound. He was my roommate, who at times was more human than I was. I changed my clothes, grabbed my case, scooter keys, and helmet and dashed out the door. I decided to avoid the hoopla of getting an Uber or a cab as 8:20pm it'd be murder. I'd forgotten something!
Traffic wasn't too terrible and I arrived at the Westside of Plano in 24 minutes flat. Unloaded my weapon, Nikon D750 SLR, and got to work.
I looked through the viewfinder and carefully focused the camera on the broken drivers side window (FLASH, SNAP, SNAP). I briefly scanned the area, as to not hinder the investigation in progress, and in the incandescent glow of the LED porch lights, under the front driver's side tire glaring up at me was a heavily oxidized orange and brown iron pipe and a small puddle of blood (SNAP). That puddle led to a few small shards of glass (FLASH), a small recently dried stream of blood (SNAP, SNAP) drizzled amidst the silver paint up the driver's side door (SNAP) to the roof (SNAP, SNAP) and low and behold a partial bloody handprint.
'Nice,' (FLASH, SNAP) I mumbled to myself.
'An Audi?' I smirked. The traditional rich white woman's BMW. It was parked at an angle, how cocky, towards the middle of the driveway. I wonder if she's single and looking for a knight in shining armor to save her. I mused down the lens of my camera.
5307 Suncreek Court, that'd be an easy one to remember(SNAP, SNAP). My seventh grade math teacher was named Ms. Sunny Creek. Have to make sure I get every angle of this parked car, street and all. She was definitely one of the ones my class would never forget. Always wore the perfect tight tops, getting the rear tires and tail light, fitted bra, skirts were always a little making sure I’m not hitting my reflection in the side mirrors, and look at you on the brick and door of the garage, too high, but low enough to keep our pubescent imaginations guessing what lies at the top another half bloody hand print of the thigh high tights and a heather gray high heel pump left behind and I know not deliberately. Anyway….besides that, this is Forrest Creek Estates, in the thick of Plano, the houses mostly belong to the police officers, firefighters, their spouses with money, and the Donald Trump voting 'white-folk' Republicans; the higher echelon if you believe that. This particular stretch has even been called by the New York Times 'an insular, Leave It to Beaver world where white people can live out entire lives without ever getting to know a black person, where people rarely venture beyond understood borders." This all goes to say that Dallas has crime, but this is Plano, crime doesn't happen in Plano, and definitely not in this neighborhood. What can I say, I'm full of useless information.
Back to looking through the viewfinder, it's what I do best. It's my weapon, my shield.
I took a deep breath, moved three steps closer.
Ripped stocking? Maybe a sock? Backup Mertz you don’t know what you're shooting today.
A sudden fear filled my entire constitution. The hairs at the back of my neck stood on end and all the blood from my face slowly left. Something felt familiar, but as I glanced at my reflection in the rear window, catching the sweat now falling, I couldn't think clearly enough to figure out from where. I couldn’t yell, I couldn’t even think... I had to snap. (SNAP. SNAP. FLASH. SNAP.) Photo after photo, its my protection, its my saving grace, my eternal memory.
Inside I screamed as a flashback took over. “They were kids dammit!” it's a thought that rings in my brain at the beckon call of the Plano PD.
This is probably a great spot to give you some exposition, a little background into what makes me tick. So let me fill you in.
Photography is such a broad topic to concern oneself with. I could've been a journalist, a wedding, sports, or even one of those Bordeaux, make a momma blush photographers, Unfortunately for me, my mother died when I was in the third grade, and being surrounded daily by police officers who were investigating her mysterious death, I had convinced myself and my friends that we wanted to be police officers. The problem was, try as hard as I could, I couldn't bring myself to use a gun. Well, shoot a gun. I just couldn't master it. After my third go at the academy and three ex-girlfriends later I realized I had a gift for photography and enrolled in the photography classes at a local community college, and because of that, it all goes back to my first crime scene. I can still taste the crunched Nacho Cheese Doritos I scoffed moments before I entered that fucking death cell. Detective Lance Skurlig (hang out with me I'll give you details on him in a minute because it's all about who you know, not what you know) called me that night, got clearance, and I entered that coffin of a bathroom. Blood dripping down the dollar store brand plastic shower curtain, “haha,” fucking Teddy Bears. There in the tub, two children's bodies, covered from head to toe in blood. There was a woman's body crouched in a praying position at the edge of a bed, with several bullet holes and a missing skirt. The stench of iron, body odor, and cheap after shave, welled in my nasal cavity and I felt the gurgling bile in my throat, rushed out, and puked in an azalea bush. I knew Doritos would never taste the same, and as I rushed back in snapping everything I could see in the viewfinder from bloody boot prints to puddles of blood leading back to the bathroom, bullet casings, holes in the wall, and a phone off the hook, I knew I'd found my calling. I resort back to my thoughts from time to time when the harrowing blue glow lights, and slight vibration alerts me to glance at my phone “one more picture, one more picture,” and it might destroy any sense of humanity that I might have, blinding me to the horror. And yet, still, I rush back in with only the best of consciousness “Gotta get that picture Mertz!”
So with that humanizing background, allow me to introduce myself, I am Mertzon Sandhill, veteran Crime Scene Photographer, guilty as charged. I’ve been in and out of the worst crime scenes for the last fifteen years in the heart of and surrounding boroughs of Dallas. Most of my cases as of late find me in the upper echelon of Plano. I'm a gentleman in a world of manic depressed, egocentric, bodybuilding, wife beating, abusive pricks that share my gender. I’d even go as far to say I’m a bit of a professional, down to the plastic suit, gloves, and occasional face shield or cloth mouth covering I wear. 'Shit! I knew I forgot something, my gloves!" I guess I'll settle for the powder coated cheap plastic disposable ones that the PD hoped would save money. I work on a ‘per crime scene’ rate and let me tell you I don’t do family photo shoots, cover birthdays, bar mitzvahs, quinces or weddings, anymore, and I absolutely abhor pro-bono work.
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“Skurlig” I shouted! Detective Lance Skurlig, the ins and outs of Plano Crime Scene investigation starts with him. Lance currently is a mildly depressed, divorcee, gentleman in training. He's always been my best friend since cops and robbers on the playground, dragging me into this mess, always gives me the tip of the hat with his Lieutenant, and honestly, I don't know how he'd get through his day without acting like my big brother.
"Told you you'd meet Skurlig"
“Lance what you got for me? Buddy!” I huffed as I traipsed up the walkway.
“Meet me by the mailbox Mertz” he said under his breath.
It wasn't like Skurlig to send me away. Especially in front of his crew. I always felt like one in the crowd.. Skurlig always briefed me, gave me an overview, and as I always pulled down on my mask I went into the two “B's”: bodies and blood. With a Flash and a Snap I'd capture the essence of the killer, the elegance of the murder, and essentially the cry for help from the victim. You know sometimes there's a third B...breasts. I confessed to you earlier I'm a gentleman but I'm also thirty-five and single. Dead breasts are still breasts and with the increase of crime it's all the breasts this hound dog has seen lately. Please give me a reprieve of that execution stare will you!
I took a slow walk to the heavily decorated red, white, and blue explosion of a mailbox as an opportunity to light up a cigarette, Marlboro Smooth menthols and took a swig from my flask, Johnny Walker, and noticed a real estate sign, this house was for sell. Unfortunately the front yard was too dim to read the sign, and apparently the city was too lazy to change the seizure causing flicker of the streetlamp on the curb. After a couple puffs I proceeded to wait. I will tell you this...waiting is never my modus operandi. Get in and get out, I thought.
In his shuffling of steps Skurlig almost fell to the pavement as he rushed towards me. Our eyes met and somehow I already knew who the victim was. Another shot and Johnny Walker swirled around my teeth and cheeks leaving a slow burning laced with menthol on my tongue.
“Mertz, you aren't going to like what I'm about to tell you. And you're probably going to need a bigger swig of that flask buddy.” Skurlig chuckled, there was an air of caution in his voice.
“Come on out with it!” I said. The victim was someone I knew, dated and broke up with, or deep down wished had been killed.
“It's Meredith.”
What? My heart sank. Better yet, my heart exploded. The hairs and pale face we're just a warning to what I already knew. He didn't need to say anything else. The bastard would rot in hell. My gumption swelled, and I'm pretty sure no gentleman in a coherent state would have used the language I just spouted.
“And Dick!” Skurlig continued.
“What, no!” I snapped back.
Meredith and Dick, we're the “perfect couple.” It was in the depths of my heart that I just hoped Dick would snap, go off the deep end, cheat on her, divorce her, anything but kill her so I'd get my chance with Mer, and now, I'm wedding photographer turned “death do us part” crime scene documentarian.
The hairs on the back of my neck didn't lie, I'd talked to Meredith a week ago about this place. I looked to the Audi, no plates, it was new! It was the perfect car for a highly successful, highly sought-after real estate agent. I mustered the courage and choked up the words.
“What happened?,” faintly escaped my lips as I took another drag of my smoke.
It's really very good, JP! I'm glad you've started writing!This is crime writing from another angle. I don't remember it from a photographer's POV. I've often wondered if I am the only one who uses my camera as a shield. I'm glad to know I am not. From an English major's POV, there's quite a few grammar corrections that would make it much easier to read. If you need an editor, I'll be glad to volunteer. Keep up the good work! I'm anxious to see more!
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