Shutter(23)

I could feel tears on my face. I couldn’t control them.

“You need to rest.” He rose to his feet and led me to the couch. “If you’re worried about your grandma, I’m sure she is fine. She will be back here tomorrow, you’ll see.”

I lay down on the couch and watched the flicker of the television, but sleep wouldn’t come to offer its comfort. Instead, I cried after my grandma. I knew that it wasn’t good to cry after people, but it came like a flood.

Mr. Bitsilly and Travis sat and watched television with me, but no one spoke. After Travis drifted off to sleep, Mr. Bitsilly sat on the floor by me, next to his boots.

“Did your grandma tell you where she was going?”

“No,” I said. “But I don’t think she can take care of me anymore.”

He looked surprised at my answer. “Why do you think that, Rita?”

“Because I can feel it.”

“I guess you’re right, in a way. Your grandma went to help your mother settle into a place for the both of you. It’s time that your mother took responsibility for you.”

I couldn’t say a word.

“We will always be here for you, Rita.” He looked in my eyes. “This place will always be here for you—a safe place.” Mr. Bitsilly stopped. “The two of us are connected. I think you were just meant to do something more.”

We sat in silence as Johnny Carson pushed through his curtain. Mr. Bitsilly was right. Maybe we didn’t see things in the same way or use our gifts in the same way, but there was a bigger connection between us, as if we sometimes shared the same eye.

On the day my grandma was set to return from her travels, I went into Mr. Bitsilly’s closet and taped some photo paper into Grandma’s box camera. I told Mr. Bitsilly and Travis that I was going to take their picture, but they didn’t believe me.

“You’re going to take our picture with that box?” Travis asked. “That’s crazy!” Reluctantly, the two of them sat on the porch with Travis on the bottom step between his grandfather’s knees. I pointed the small hole at them.

“Watch,” I said and pulled the tape from the front of the box. They chuckled. “Don’t move,” I said. “Stay very still.” They looked perfect—Mr. Bitsilly in his big overalls and well-worn moccasins and Travis in holey jeans, his skinny brown legs popping out. I pushed the tape back into place and ran back to Mr. Bitsilly’s closet.

When I came out, the police were in the driveway. Travis and I watched the officer advance toward us. He was coming to tell us what I already knew.

“Yá’át’ééh, Mr. Bitsilly,” the officer said. He took off his hat and wiped his brow. “I just came by to let you know that we found Deswood Nez yesterday. We wanted to thank you for your help.”

“I’m sorry to hear that he has left us,” Mr. Bitsilly said and shook his head. “Thank you for coming by to tell us.” We all watched the young officer walk back to his car and pull away. Travis and Mr. Bitsilly looked at me. There was nothing else said.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nikon D200 AF-S DX Zoom-NIKKOR 17-55mm f/2.8G IF-ED Lens


4:34 P.M., 11271 JUNIPER HILLS— POSSIBLE MURDER/SUICIDE

THE SCENE HAD been secured by the time I had arrived. I left my car as close as I could, parking with the yellow tape up against my hood. I wasn’t looking forward to what we would find inside. The radio scratched through. “Mobile unit in route. Eastbound on Tramway from I-25.” I rested my bag on my shoulder and walked under the tape.

The house was beautiful. It was one of those homes that sat perched on top of the mountain, their mirrored glass sending prisms down to the rest of us. Photo one was of the outside, photo two the house number, and three the entire foyer just as I saw it, with high, wide ceilings and white and periwinkle accents. As I walked into the front door, I could smell the faint hint of gunfire and potpourri. Silver frames covered every available piece of wall on the right side: baby pictures, soccer games, family get-togethers, a young couple standing next to each other. The man was recognizable immediately.

Judge Harrison Winters was a nice enough man. I had met him a few times at police fundraisers and when I had to testify in court. He always seemed as uninterested as I was to be at those events. About a month earlier, they’d caught the judge high as a kite and passed out on the freeway with a very young woman. They found a huge amount of cocaine in the car and two open bottles of eighteen-year-old scotch. The girl—a sixteen-year-old prostitute—had been reported missing in Arizona. He was toast.

I took three more steps inside and saw Judge Winters’s wife lying on the floor, a deep and blackened hole right in the center of her head. Her face was surprised, her eyes wide open, and her lips purple under the uneven lipstick still left on top. The wound measured about two inches in the widest areas—a starlight tear and burn telling us that the gun must have been right up to her head. We found and photographed P-1. The slug had passed through a wet sponge, bounced off the counter, and embedded itself in the wall behind the sink. There was an oval spray of blood on the window above the sink and on the ceiling. Her head was in a pool of black, the blood dried around her face. I took sixty-four pictures in the front room: Mrs. Winters, the blood-spattered mail in her hand, the bloody handprints on some paperwork on the table. Even her dog was dead, bloody and mangled by the sink. I photographed the shell casings, three in all, shimmering next to two or three breadcrumbs and a collection of wiry dog hairs. A .45.