Part 34 (1/2)
Predictably, Kit was sleeping when I left for work. This day, I attended the morning meeting.
When I returned to my office, Claudel was there.
”Figure out who killed Dorsey?” I asked as I threw the morning's case log on the desk.
He gave me a look that could freeze molten lava, then held out an envelope.
I sat, unlocked my desk drawer, and handed him the Myrtle Beach photo.
”Where did you say this came from?”
”I didn't.” I gave him the lens. ”Because I don't know.”
”It just appeared?”
”Yes.”
His eyes roved the print.
”I noticed it yesterday. I can't say for certain when it arrived on my desk.”
After several seconds the lens froze and he drew closer to it. Then, ”You're talking about the man next to Z. Z. Top?”
”Show me,” I said, surprised at the musical reference. I would have pegged Claudel as strictly cla.s.sical.
He turned the photo and pointed.
”Yes. The girl next to him is Savannah Osprey.”
Back to the lens.
”You're sure?”
I dug out the yearbook portrait Kate had given me. He studied it, then the picnic shot, going back and forth like a fan at Wimbledon.
”You're right.”
”What about Buckle Boy?”
He indicated the envelope in my hand. ”Desjardins was a large man before his illness.”
I shook out the photos and Claudel circled the desk so we could view them together.
Large was an understatement. The partially headless form I'd seen in the chair was a feeble reminder of the body that once had housed Cherokee Desjardins. Before cancer had parched his innards, and drugs and chemo had done their magic, the man had been ma.s.sive, though in a spongy, gut-bulging sort of way.
The file photos spanned a period of years. Beards came and went and the hairline crept backward, but the belly and facial features changed little.
Until the cancer struck.
Six months before his death Cherokee was a shadow of his former self, bald and death-camp thin. Had the picture been unlabeled, I would not have recognized the subject as the same man.
As I studied the face from shot to shot I remembered an old Brando quote. I have eyes like those of dead pig, the aging actor had said of himself.
Not to worry, Marlon. They served you well. This guy looked merely baleful, and mean as a pack dog with a stolen flank steak.
But try as we might we could not determine for sure if our late but unlamented Cherokee was the one wearing the buckle at Myrtle Beach.
30.
I GATHERED THE GATHERED THE C CHEROKEE PHOTOS, AND WE MOVED DOWN THE hall to a section labeled Imagerie. We'd decided that I would manipulate the image using Adobe Photoshop, since I was familiar with the program. Should that prove inadequate, a technician would help us with more sophisticated graphics software. hall to a section labeled Imagerie. We'd decided that I would manipulate the image using Adobe Photoshop, since I was familiar with the program. Should that prove inadequate, a technician would help us with more sophisticated graphics software.
We were expected, and the equipment was immediately available. The technician clicked on the scanner, keyed the computer to the proper program, then left us to our task.
I placed the snapshot on the flatbed scanner, cropped to include the full scene, then digitized the image and saved it to the hard drive. Then I opened the file to the Myrtle Beach picnic.
I clicked on Buckle Boy's face and zoomed in until his features filled the screen. Then I cleaned up the ”noise” of dust and cracks, modified the curves that control the contribution of red, green, and blue tones, adjusted the brightness and contrast, and sharpened the edges of the image.
Claudel watched as I worked the keys, silent at first, then making suggestions as his interest grew, despite his initial cynicism. Each correction morphed the highlights, shadows, and midtones, mutating the curves and planes of the face, and bringing out detail invisible in the original shot.
In less than an hour we sat back and studied our work. There could be no doubt. Buckle Boy was, in fact, Yves ”Cherokee” Desjardins.
But what did that mean?
Claudel spoke first.
”So Cherokee knew the Osprey girl.”
”Looks that way,” I agreed.
”And Dorsey killed him.” Claudel was thinking aloud. ”What do you suppose Dorsey had to trade?”
”Maybe Cherokee killed Savannah and Dorsey knew that.”
”Could she have traveled up here with him?” Again, it was verbalized thought, not conversation.
I pictured the puzzled little face, the wide eyes taking in the world through clock-face lenses. I shook my head.
”Not voluntarily.”
”He could have killed her in Myrtle Beach then displaced the body to Quebec.” This time he was addressing me.
”Why transport it all that way?”
”Less chance of discovery.”