grainy quality had accentuated the violence. A mob funeral, with a bodyguard exploding in rage at the collected bank of photographers and cameramen. He’d shot fast, ducking at the last minute, catching the black-suited muscleman swinging, teeth bared, 1/1000 at f-2.4 with high-speed film. Another funeral, flag-draped, a flyer who’d taken too much flak over Haiphong and nursed his f-16 all the way back to the Oriskany and safety in the Gulf of Tonkin, only to lose power on his approach and die in the warm choppy waters before rescue could scramble to his side. The family had seemed resigned, Jeffers thought; there had been few tears. He’d caught them in a line, staring down into the grave, as if on parade, 1/15 at f-22, leaving the print a little long in the mix so as to bring out the grayness of the sky. He remembered, too, the stiffened, frozen body of a junkie, warmth found from a needle, who’d braved a February night outdoors and simply died. It had been by the waterfront; his shot had grabbed light from the Cuyahoga, reflecting an icebound world, 1/500 at f-5.6. But, as always, when he remembered Cleveland, he thought of the girl.
He had been in the darkroom, a small transistor radio that he’d purchased with his first paycheck playing in the corner, filling the room with Doors’ harsh lyrics and sound. Every time he switched on the radio ‘Light My Fire’ had flowed out. He had spent two blistering summer days walking an early beat with one of the city’s last foot patrolmen. He’d found the photos routine, too filled with softness. The policeman was popular, outgoing. Everywhere he went he was greeted, applauded, welcomed. Jeffers had snarled at the pictures. Where was the edge? Where was the tension? He wanted someone to take a shot at the cop. He prayed for it. and decided to spend another day on the street. Lost in
the music, the darkness, and his plans, he’d barely been aware of the voice of the photo editor yelling for him.
‘Jeffers, you lazy slug, get out of there!’
He’d carefully put his things down, moving deliberately. Jim Morrison was singing, ‘I know that it would be untrue …’ The photo editor, he had swiftly learned, existed in two states: boredom and panic.
‘What?’ he’d asked, stepping from the cubicle.
‘A body, Jeffers, one hundred per cent dead, right in the middle of the Heights. A nice white teenage girl in a rich neighborhood very goddamn dead. Go, go, go. Meet Buchanan at the scene. Go!’
He had paced, oddly nervous, on the edge of the police perimeter, standing apart from the other newsmen and television cameramen who were waiting in a knot, joking, trying to learn a little, but mostly willing to wait until a spokesman or a detective came over to brief them en masse. Where’s the shot? he’d demanded to himself. Moving right, then left, in and out of afternoon shadows, finally, when no one would notice, swinging up into a large tree, trying to get some clear vision. Stretched out like a sniper on a tree limb, he’d fixed a telephoto lens to his camera and peered down at the policemen working meticulously around the body of the young girl. He swallowed hard at the first sight of a naked leg, tossed haphazardly aside by the killer. Jeffers had strained to see, feverish, snapping off pictures, pulling the camera tightly on the victim. He needed to see her breasts, her hair, her crotch; he adjusted angle and focus and continued to fire the camera like a weapon, twisting it, manipulating it, caressing it to bring him closer to the body. He wiped sweat from his forehead and fingered the trigger again, swearing every time a detective moved into his line of sight, the motordrive whirring every time he had a clear shot.
He’d kept those pictures for himself.
The paper had run three others: a shot of fire-rescue personnel bringing the body-bagged-wrapped victim out on a stretcher, a ground-level long-lens shot of the detectives kneeling over the body, which was
He had been in the darkroom, a small transistor radio that he’d purchased with his first paycheck playing in the corner, filling the room with Doors’ harsh lyrics and sound. Every time he switched on the radio ‘Light My Fire’ had flowed out. He had spent two blistering summer days walking an early beat with one of the city’s last foot patrolmen. He’d found the photos routine, too filled with softness. The policeman was popular, outgoing. Everywhere he went he was greeted, applauded, welcomed. Jeffers had snarled at the pictures. Where was the edge? Where was the tension? He wanted someone to take a shot at the cop. He prayed for it. and decided to spend another day on the street. Lost in
the music, the darkness, and his plans, he’d barely been aware of the voice of the photo editor yelling for him.
‘Jeffers, you lazy slug, get out of there!’
He’d carefully put his things down, moving deliberately. Jim Morrison was singing, ‘I know that it would be untrue …’ The photo editor, he had swiftly learned, existed in two states: boredom and panic.
‘What?’ he’d asked, stepping from the cubicle.
‘A body, Jeffers, one hundred per cent dead, right in the middle of the Heights. A nice white teenage girl in a rich neighborhood very goddamn dead. Go, go, go. Meet Buchanan at the scene. Go!’
He had paced, oddly nervous, on the edge of the police perimeter, standing apart from the other newsmen and television cameramen who were waiting in a knot, joking, trying to learn a little, but mostly willing to wait until a spokesman or a detective came over to brief them en masse. Where’s the shot? he’d demanded to himself. Moving right, then left, in and out of afternoon shadows, finally, when no one would notice, swinging up into a large tree, trying to get some clear vision. Stretched out like a sniper on a tree limb, he’d fixed a telephoto lens to his camera and peered down at the policemen working meticulously around the body of the young girl. He swallowed hard at the first sight of a naked leg, tossed haphazardly aside by the killer. Jeffers had strained to see, feverish, snapping off pictures, pulling the camera tightly on the victim. He needed to see her breasts, her hair, her crotch; he adjusted angle and focus and continued to fire the camera like a weapon, twisting it, manipulating it, caressing it to bring him closer to the body. He wiped sweat from his forehead and fingered the trigger again, swearing every time a detective moved into his line of sight, the motordrive whirring every time he had a clear shot.
He’d kept those pictures for himself.
The paper had run three others: a shot of fire-rescue personnel bringing the body-bagged-wrapped victim out on a stretcher, a ground-level long-lens shot of the detectives kneeling over the body, which was
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