Extreme Exposure

by Mae Argilan

She sat back, and drew her knees up under her coat. "How can I explain this so it makes any sense to you? Can you imagine going to the World Series and your favorite ball player invites you to hang around and shag flies with him."

  "Like if Cal Ripken had me come down to Camden Yard and share the same infield as him? Okay, I’m there. But, if he makes a pass at me, I’m gone."

  "So, it’s a little different between the sexes. But, you get my drift?"

  "Unfortunately, you’re coming through loud and clear."

  "I was in awe of Phil. He was a great photographer once. He was also very sexy, and aloof. To be in the same room with him was incredible. And yet, in spite of his fame, from the moment we met, we had this connection. It was like a powerful drug. He has this way of looking at you, like you’re the only thing in the universe. It goes right to your head. And, then, wow, he said he wanted to see my work. I was in heaven. I'd like to claim he seduced me, but I knew what I was doing. Of course, I was only 19 and he was 30, so in a way I guess I was a victim of my youth."

  "Thirty? And you were a teenager? Who does he think he is, Hugh Hefner? Dirty old man."

  "It didn't feel dirty. I fell for him, hard. We spent the first night we met together, like he was some rock star or something. I was sure it was a one-night stand, but I didn’t care. He was full of surprises, though. Instead, of sending me on my way he asked me to move in with him. Just that fast. What was I supposed to say to that? Oh, my, it was that kind of passion that makes you feel like the rest of your life has been a dream." She cleared her throat. "But, I was in for a rude awakening. We were inseparable. Working together or making love: it was all the same, a colorful blur of images. I found the combination intoxicating."

  "Is it me, or is it getting warm in here?"

  She looked at him as he cranked the car window down. "Where was I?"

  "Hot sex," he said.

  "It was all hormones, of course. But, being inexperienced, I mistook it for true love. He became my whole world."

  "Get to the dumpsite. Who dumped who?"

  "Easy, there, big fella. This is really getting to you, isn’t it?" She smiled. "Okay, I’ll cut to the chase. Technically, I dumped him, but he broke faith first. We were doing boudoir portraits between assignments. I'm used to grit work, but this was artistic. I'd set up the shoot, hold the girls’ hands, housewives mostly. We'd pick out lingerie, talk about poses. I was in such a blissful state of pure joy, I really was insufferable in those days. A big old foolish, sugary sweet blob of optimism. Not myself, at all. Then, one day, when I was cleaning up around the studio, I ran across some videos. I popped one in to see if it was one we could tape over it."

  "I see where you're going. It was porn."

  "Home-grown filth, filmed in our own bedroom," she said.

  "Nice guy. He filmed you two in bed? I’d pay real money to rent that one."

  "That was my first thought. Until I saw a strange woman in my bed. I was so angry. Then, I was relieved. As I watched, Phil started getting rough with her, pushing her around. She wanted to leave, but the more she fought, the more excited he got. He used a necktie to fasten her wrists to the bedpost. There’s no nice way to put this. That terrified woman was raped by my boyfriend."

  "My God," Geoff whispered.

  "I don't know how long I sat there. My first instinct was to erase it, to make it go away. Then, I realized it was forensic evidence. I stumbled around the studio, searching for other tapes, hoping it was an aberration, you know, an isolated incident. But, there was a collection of nude photos taken by a hidden camera in the dressing room. It was so sordid. I had to get out of there, but I wasn’t ready for a confrontation. I left a note saying I was going on assignment. And then, I just never went back to him. That part always bothered me, that I ran away."

  "I’d have beat him like a bongo drum."

  "That was one option. But, I went another way. After I calmed down, I knew what I had to do. One day, while he was away, I let myself back in to get my stuff, and while I was there grabbed all the photos and videos I could find. I returned them to their owners, telling them that they could destroy them or use it to prosecute the s.o.b."

  "So? Did he get arrested?"

  "It’s interesting. Shortly after that, Phil was mugged in his studio. Whoever it was, beat the crap out of him, then piled his stuff in the middle of the room, and torched the place. The noxious fumes almost did him in."

  "He could have been killed."

  "Oh, well. Better luck next time."

  "How’d you get taken in by someone like that?" he asked.

  "Are you kidding? I was the luckiest girl in the world. He was a legend. I think that's really what I fell in love with." She felt the truth of it settle around her like a blanket.

  "A key," Geoff said. "You used to live here. Do you have a key?"

  "Isn’t that breaking and entering?" she asked.

  "If you have a key it would be opening and entering. Would you at least check?"

  "I used to keep it in my camera bag." She rifled through the zippered pockets of her bag, and found a single door key. "Well, what do you know?"

  They got out of the car, and crossed the parking lot.

  "That's odd," Glenn said. "From this angle that looks like his car over in the corner, behind that bush."

  "Maybe it is."

  "He always parks here by the door." She looked up at the second story window. "Lights aren’t on. I suppose he could be in the darkroom."

  "Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you. Let me go first."

  "No. If he sees you he’ll be hostile," Glenn said.

  Geoff laughed. "What's he going to do when he sees you, greet you with open arms?"

  "That's exactly what he'll do," she said. "He can’t help himself. He's got to cop a cheap feel first." She shrugged. "All right, don't believe me."

  Glenn rang the doorbell, and then the brass buzzer to the darkroom. There was no response to either. The key still worked. She crept through the studio calling his name softly to the steady hum of electricity.

  "I'll check the darkroom," she said.

  "I'll look over this way."

  "That’s his film library."

  The darkroom was empty. Glenn made her way back across the studio, growing accustomed to the darkness.

  "What a mess," Geoff said. "This guy's a slob."

  "What do you mean? His workspace is very organized. Whoa. It looks like somebody was searching for something."

  Videotapes were strewn around like dominoes. Papers and strips of negatives littered the floor; film canisters were flung like dice. Geoff picked up some booklets, flipped through them and put them on a shelf.

  "Another jealous husband?"

  Glenn whispered, "You don't think somebody's here, do you?" She moved toward the front of the house. "Let’s look upstairs."

  "Upstairs?" Geoff asked. "That seems kind of private. Like trespassing."

  "What do you call this?"

  "I know. This doesn't seem as bad, though."

  "Come on." She led the way up a wooden staircase. "Uh-oh. A camera." She bent, and picked it up.

  "Kind of a strange place to keep it."

  "His Nikon F. This is the first real photojournalist camera. Phil considers it his good luck charm. Got his first cover credit with it." She turned it over in her hand, lifted it to her eye. "He changed the focusing screen. Used to have a microprism, but this is a clear screen."

  "What's the difference?" Geoff asked.

  "The microprism has a jagged pattern when the image isn't in focus. The clear screen offers a brighter image in low light."

  "I don't mean, what's-the-difference, as in, I want a course in cameras. I mean, what's-the-difference, as in, who-the-hell-cares?"

  They continued up the steps. "The bathroom's that way. I'll check the bedroom," she said.

  "Jeez, what's that stench?"

  "Electrical. Maybe there's a short somewhere." Glenn headed for the bedroom. "Maybe it's a heate
r," she called down the hall. "Could be dust in the heat register."

  "Oh, God." Geoff’s voice echoed down the hallway.

  Glenn turned to see him backing out of the bathroom. "What is it?"

  Geoff blocked the doorway. "Don't go in there."

  "Why? What is it?"

  As soon as she pushed past him, she wished she had taken his advice. It was Phil. Seems he was home after all.

  10

  Philip Bleetz looked as if he’d dozed off in the bath. His head was reclining against his shoulder; his elbow was crooked over the side of the tub. The ghostly glow of a streetlight crept through the small casement window, spread across the linoleum, and spotlighted the death gaze in his pale, frozen eyes. His whole countenance had the appearance of a martyr who had been gazing into heaven at the moment he slipped his earthly bonds. Somehow Phil’s corpse had achieved a classic beauty and quiet dignity that had escaped him in life. The only element that seemed out of place was the electric appliance that bobbed like a large tub toy between his knees.

  "Let's get out of here." Geoff took her by the wrist.

  "I just had one of those adrenaline things you hear about. My mind is suddenly sharp and clear."

  "Let's go." His hand closed around hers.

  "Not yet." She shook him off, and looked at the Nikon F she was still holding—Phil's camera, his lucky piece. "We have to be smart."

  "What we have to be is gone. Now."

  She looked at Geoff. "We ought to make sure. See if he's dead."

  "You want me to...to touch him?"

  "Go ahead, he won't bite." She smiled, sadly. "Not anymore."

  "I'm not going to touch him. You touch him."

  "What's the matter, little man? Scared?" Glenn asked.

  "A little. Besides, look at him. He is definitely dead."

  "I suppose you're some sort of expert."

  "No, but I have a brain." Geoff put two fingers to his temple.

  Glenn looked at Phil. "I wonder how long he's been here. Put your hand in there. See how cold the water is."

  "Are you trying to kill me? May I direct your attention to the hair dryer in the bathtub."

  "You won't get shocked. The lights are off, so it could have blown a fuse. Go ahead," she said, nudging his arm.

  "The water could still be holding a charge. No way I'm going near that tub."

  She took a deep breath. "At least I can do my job."

  "What?"

  "Sh. I'm nervous enough."

  She slid along the sink until she was at a 45-degree angle. Then, she took a picture of Phil. Then, she shivered. She climbed on the sink, and got a long shot of the tub. That one probably wouldn't be any good, but she had to try.

  "Can we leave now?" Geoff pleaded.

  "Right behind you. Just let me remove the film."

  "Take the whole darn camera. Who's gonna care?"

  "I'm sure Phil would want me to have it."

  "Yeah, I'm sure he left it to you in his will."

  "I ought to at least say good-bye to him." Glenn lowered her voice. "I could swear he's still watching me, judging me."

  "I thought it was just me, but I keep seeing his eyes move."

  They quickly made the stairs. "We should call someone," she said, when they reached the bottom. "The cops, or somebody."

  "Not until we're out."

  "We left fingerprints." She stopped. On a table next to the wall sat a miniature aluminum Christmas tree. "A timer."

  "Open the door," Geoff said.

  "Listen. Phil loved contraptions, you know, gadgets. Gadgets, gimmicks. Don't you get it?"

  "Get what?"

  She went to the darkroom, and returned with two pairs of linen gloves. "We wear these to keep fingerprints off negatives. Over here is the changing room. Hidden cameras. There's the vent."

  Geoff snapped his fingers. "The videos you saw were filmed in the bedroom."

  "Go," she said. "I'll search the studio. Bring back any tapes you find. If Phil's surveillance was any good at all."

  "I get it," Geoff said. "His killer might be caught on film."

  "Hurry up. I've got the heebie-jeebies."

  Glenn dropped Phil’s camera into her coat pocket. By the time they were finished, Geoff had confiscated two videotapes from upstairs, including one hidden in the bathroom vanity. They piled them into a nylon gym bag and tried to remember to wipe the surfaces they'd touched. They exited through the back door, breathing hard.

  "Try to look casual," Geoff said.

  They drove to a Sheetz store with a pay phone. "Pull over," Glenn said. She dialed 911. "A man has been killed," she said, and gave the address.

  "Are you there now?" the operator asked. "What is your name?"

  "Anonymous." Glenn hung up. Geoff looked at her when she got back in the car. "I talked too much. The way things have been going they'll probably identify me."

  "Maybe we should wait for them, anyway," Geoff said.

  Glenn shook her head. "I don't know what's going on, but if we hope to find out, we've got to keep on the move."

  "We disturbed evidence, not to mention removing the tapes. They could have a murder on them. Guess we’d better find out." Geoff looked at the gym bag on the seat between them. "He sure had a fascination with video tapes."

  "Not just videos. He taped phone conversations, too. We didn't get those."

  "We’re not going back," Geoff said.

  "We can get there before the cops. Go down that alley," she said.

  "That's an alley?"

  "It comes out on the other end of his parking lot. Move it."

  Geoff drove down the narrow lane. "This is really stupid. We're going to get so caught. There isn't time to get inside again."

  "Turn here," she said. "We don't have to go inside. It just dawned on me. Here it is. Thatis his car. I knew it."

  Glenn raced to the rusted Roadrunner, but the door was locked, and she knew she didn’t have a key for that. The air stirred with red and blue lights. She ran to the passenger side, and yanked on the handle. Sirens filled her head. Break the glass . She pulled the Nikon from her coat pocket, and struck the window. Thud. She struck again. It held fast. Suddenly, a gloved hand came from behind her, and grabbed the camera. Geoff cocked back his elbow, launched himself forward, and punched the glass. The window disintegrated, and she reached inside to unlock the door.

  "Watch the glass," he warned her.

  There was a nylon tape case on the front seat, and Glenn lifted it by the handle. She handed it to Geoff. Then, she went back inside. She punched the eject button on the console, and a tape leaped out. She pocketed it, and fled to the Granada, which was already moving.

  "You have to back out," she said.

  "There isn't room."

  Geoff looked over his shoulder. A police cruiser turned into the parking lot, and Geoff slammed his car into reverse. Glenn leaned across him, and flipped the headlights off. The car barreled backward, and she tumbled under the dashboard. Geoff’s foot eased off the gas.

  "Go!" she cried, and threw herself on the accelerator.

  "Okay, okay."

  He shook her off his leg. She rolled back onto the seat, and stared wide-eyed at the city flickering past. Her thoughts gathered inside her head, and she experienced that clarity of mind again.

  "Take Branch Avenue. Then, East West Highway."

  "Oh, no. I'm getting on I70, and I'm not slowing down until I hit Hagerstown."

  "There's too much to do." She wet her lips. "I have to go home."

  "No way." He shook his head vehemently. "I have to keep you away from there."

  "All that matters is these tapes. I have the equipment. It's the only place I can go." Glenn looked at him. "I have to do this. You don't have to stay. Just take me home. Please."

  Geoff looked at her, and sighed. "Okay. But, I am going to stay with you." He hammered the steering wheel. "Bodies in bathtubs, breaking and entering, looting the scene of a crime. And she looks at me with those big green eye
s, and I go against every instinct for self-preservation. I'm a mental case."

  "Yeah," she said. "But, at least you finally admitted it. That’s the first step on the road to recovery."

  "Yeah, well, those who live in glass nut houses shouldn’t throw stones."

  "If I get out of this alive, I promise to join a twelve-step program for alcoholics, or workaholics, or whatever-aholics you think appropriate."

  Geoff patted her arm. "I don’t think they’ve come up a program for you, yet. Or, me either, for that matter. We both seem to suffer from pathologically poor judgment."

  "Maybe we can have it surgically removed, like a bad gall bladder," she suggested.

  "Yeah, right, and then have good-judgment implants put in their place."

  "But, then we’d have no excuse for the crazy things we do. What fun is that?"

  Back in her apartment, Glenn turned on the lights, and adjusted the thermostat. Geoff went to the sliding glass door, and peeked through the print curtain.

  "Is anyone out there?" she asked.

  "Just crack addicts stabbing each other. Other than that…"

  "I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor." Glenn emptied the contents of her coat pockets on the coffee table. "Can you do something for me?"

  He looked at her. "Sure."

  "Hold me a minute?"

  "Come here." He helped her out of her coat, sat her on the sofa, and removed her gloves. "This has got blood on it. Didn't I tell you to be careful? Let me get something for that cut."

  "No," she said, clutching his shirt. "Don’t leave me."

  He wriggled out of his jacket, and surrounded her with his arms. "I know," he said. "I know."

  He stroked her hair, starting at the crown of her head and going down the back of her neck and shoulders.

  "I can't cry," she whispered. "I can't stop shaking, but no tears will come."

  "That was the worst thing I ever saw in my life. I keep trying to convince myself it didn’t happen, but there sits the evidence."

  She looked at it. "Guess we’d better start sifting through it."

  "Feel up to it?"

  "Sure, you know me." She tapped her chest. "Heart of stone."

  "Yeah." He tapped her on the forehead. "Head to match."

  "Oddly enough, you're not the first to point that out."