Shutter(19)

I snapped over thirty photos of her belongings, scattered around the timeworn orange carpet. Over by the door, I photographed a set of luggage leaking thin, uneven stuffing from holes left by escaping bullets. Many of the projectiles were embedded in the walls and in the cheap wooden bed frames and dressers. The handles of the luggage were bloody, as were some clothes lying next to an empty briefcase. Photo 145 was of the briefcase with its yellow crime scene marker, “M” for miscellaneous. When I moved toward it, I could see there was a scatter of white dusting the corner, but the drugs were gone except for what had escaped through a bullet hole.

I took a photograph and called one of the officers. “Hey, did you guys see this over here?”

Garcia looked my way, his face pressed against his phone. One officer dropped another yellow marker on the site: N-1— narcotics. I pressed my finger down, sending a flash around the room. I could smell Garcia approaching, hear his breathing right behind me. He eyed the new evidence, never dropping the phone from his ear.

“May be more than just a drive-by, Detective Garcia,” I said. He ignored me.

There were bloody footprints, about one hundred bullet holes, bloody shoe prints, razor blades, casings, cigarette butts, shredded photographs, mirrors and straws, shattered beer bottles, and countless other things that weren’t even distinguishable. Four hundred thirty photographs later, I walked out of that lonely hotel room trying to clear my throat of the heavy iron taste. An investigator stopped me, pulling at my coat.

“Ms. Todacheene, right?” He extended his hand.

“Yes. Rita.” His grip was firm and his hand, warm.

“I am Lieutenant Declan from Internal Affairs.” He handed me a card and pointed toward the scene. “Gang activity?”

Declan was a little over six feet tall and had dark hair and a serious face. He wore a nice suit, but not too nice—just enough to say he had taste, but not enough to make him look full of himself.

“Internal Affairs?” I asked. “Are you lost?” Like clockwork, my phone rang. OFFICE. I silenced it. “I’m sorry, but I have another scene to go to. I hope you’ll excuse me.” I turned away, but he grabbed my shoulder.

“Do you think she’s going to be okay? The victim, I mean.” He continued to follow me.

As I put my bag and gear into the car, I saw her: the victim, thin and confused, still dressed in her nightgown. I knew the answer then.

“We’ve been trying to talk to her for weeks. She only replied to us yesterday morning.” Declan turned to see what I was looking at.

“I don’t think she’s going to make it, sir,” I replied. The poor woman was sitting shotgun next to me before I had a chance to blink. Her ghost was in shock, pulling at her blood-soaked, holey nightgown.

“How do you know?” He leaned against my car.

“I just know.” My phone began to ring again. I had to take it.

“We’ve got another one over here. You close?” I could hear Samuels chewing gum.

“What is it?” I kept my eye on Declan’s suit; he kept his eye on me.

“Rollover fatality involving a police officer. Eastbound I-40 at the interchange. About five minutes from where you are now.”

“I’m en route.” I hung up and looked at Declan, this time meeting his eyes. “Sorry I couldn’t have been more help.” He was still staring at me as I pulled away from the scene.

“Does this mean I’m dead? Just like that?” the woman’s ghost asked.

“I’m afraid so.” I weaved in and out of traffic.

“I wasn’t ready,” she said, then disintegrated into my passenger seat.


7:45 A.M., I-40 WESTBOUND AT THE INTERCHANGE: FATAL ACCIDENT INVOLVING AN OFFICER

I drove onto the scene about five minutes later and grabbed a hardened granola bar from my glove compartment. A small red sedan was on its roof, most of the top half of the car crushed into the dust, hay, and debris that usually sat in roadway medians. The police had already covered the left side of the vehicle with a white sheet. The front end was mangled, the metal pushed up into the leaking engine. The smell of hot oil and antifreeze was fresh. The approaching traffic had almost come to a standstill as death-curious drivers wove through the bits of car on the asphalt.

I spotted a few familiar faces, shook their hands, and asked about the scene. It looked like the victim—another woman— had become distracted and veered off the road at a high rate of speed. But they were unsure how the other vehicle—a city vehicle, an off-duty officer—had been involved.

My first shot was taken from the back bumper of the idling ambulance, as high as I could get from the still-hectic scene. Judging from the marks left on the road, she had traveled quite a distance after the initial loss of control. I lowered myself from the ambulance and walked slowly up the road to look at the tracks, then snapped a few more establishing shots of the scene. A deep, black skid mark was shaved into the asphalt on the left side of the road. The metal of the rims had sparked against the black surface, leaving a huge gouge. I snapped a photo. From that point, the car had to have flown into the median at seventy to eighty miles an hour, flipping and landing on its roof. The woman had no chance. She must have died on impact while desperately trying to gain control.

The driver of the city vehicle had only minor injuries: a cut above his eye and a grid of cuts and punctures from glass. We took pictures of him on the scene. Detective Burns from the Vice Unit in Albuquerque was a fifteen-year veteran of the force whom I’d only met three or four times. He seemed perturbed that I was taking pictures of him and asked me repeatedly about the driver of the red sedan.