Shot In Detroit

by Patricia Abbott

  This priest was white, much older than the fellow in the coffin, and more than a bit hot under his stiff collar. “I’m talking about the guy you’re looking at,” he said, seeing what must have been the puzzled look on my face. “Do you know his name?” He stepped closer.

  I hadn’t met a single person related to any of the men I’d photographed until now. Bill had seen to that. So I was more than a little shocked. I didn’t know the dead priest’s name. Had Alice told me?

  I evaded his question, saying, “Someone must have okayed a photograph. Maybe his family?”

  The priest shook his head. “I’m the closest thing he has to a family. You don’t look like you’re taking a photo for the record either.” He looked at my equipment. “Not with this fancy gear. What’s this all about? Newspaper send you out here? Free Press? The News?”

  “Why? Is he famous?” I looked down in the coffin. “First black priest in Detroit? That it?”

  “Not even close. First black priest was Father Clarence Williams, I think. Quite a bit older than Wally. Father Walter Bertram,” he corrected himself. He came over to the casket and looked down at Father Bertram, shaking his head. “Maybe it’d be better if we spoke our minds instead of exchanging inane and time-consuming questions and responses. I’m Father Francis Talley.”

  We were both silent for a few seconds, looking down at Father Bertram.

  “Violet Hart.”

  “Why are you taking Wally’s picture. Ms. Hart?”

  “Bill Fontenel—that’s the funeral director here—gave me permission to take photographs of his…clients. With the family’s permission, that is.” I looked around wildly. “Must be a signed contract filed away.”

  But in my heart, I knew it was all a mistake. Bill never intended for me to take photographs of this priest. Who would he have asked for permission? This would have been a big deal, and he would’ve told me. I kept talking anyway.

  “I’m a professional photographer, Father. This is the tenth photograph in a series I’m doing.”

  “A series? Why would you want to do that? Take pictures of the dead?”

  He put a hand on Father Bertram’s arm, squeezing it gently. And then he bent over and kissed the priest’s cheek, brushing a tear away.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone with your friend. I don’t need to take this photograph.” It was a damned shame that old Alice had screwed this up because I’d probably never get the chance to photograph a black priest again.

  Father Talley straightened up. “Answer my question first, Ms. Hart. Why are you taking pictures of the dead?”

  Why indeed? Because I was suddenly reminded of how mediocre my career was, I thought of saying. My time is running out. I wasn’t even living a real life. I’m alone in the world and I’m feeling it more every day. I need some success. I need to produce work that matters. If I’m to miss out on a personal life—at least there’d be a professional one. Because black men are dying here every day. Would saying that seem like I was hustling him? Was I trying for the magic words that would win his approval?

  “I’m putting together an exhibit. If I can get enough pictures, that is. All of the photos are of young black men who died in Detroit over the last year.”

  “Who’d want to see such a thing? Have you also considered your work might look exploitative?” Yet his words didn’t seem accusatory, merely interested.

  “I’ve thought of that.” Hourly, I could’ve told him. “But I hope people will find the photos compelling. I don’t know if you’ve been to any of Bill’s funerals, but he dresses the deceased like they’re going to an important event. Tries to match their final wardrobe to their personality or profession—to make it special. You don’t forget his funerals quickly.”

  Lately the bodies wore uniforms or business dress. The high fashion of earlier days had been drained away. I badly needed those peacock colors again. But not today, it seemed. And saying the words aloud now, it did seem exploitative, ridiculous. Peacock colors, indeed.

  “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?” Suddenly he got a strange look on his face.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He walked over to a chair and sat down. “I might be willing to sign one of those contracts you mentioned. Sit down, please.”

  I did and he leaned over until his mouth was inches from my ear.

  “Are you planning to explain the causes of death in your show?” I stared at him, not getting his meaning. “Explain how each man died,” he said slowly.

  “You mean like placing a placard beneath the photograph?” He nodded. “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  I didn’t like that idea at all. It turned the work into photojournalism, my bugaboo. What I steered clear of. “It’s more about the art than politics. I’m not good with words.”

  “Can’t it be about both? I understand your interest in this as an artist, and I’m not saying a long accounting of their deaths is necessary, but wouldn’t it be effective to document how these men died? Perhaps include their name, age, the date, and cause of death.” He stopped, lost in thought. “People are going to wonder about it anyway, aren’t they? I think you almost have to include it. Certainly a catalog would contain such information. Otherwise a lot of the power of your images is lost.” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s it all about if not that?”

  I didn’t like to say it, but for me it was about creating art. It was about composition, shadows, angles, color. A piece of art was important in its own right—without making a statement. It wasn’t superficial or exploitative or any of those things. I wasn’t going to say a picture’s worth a thousand words though it was.

  I wasn’t a Catholic, but telling a priest I was using these dead men for my own purposes took more guts than I had. “I could, I guess. But not the names. A lot of the families didn’t want the name specified. I’m not sure how they would feel about it.”

  I didn’t like this idea at all. Ted probably wouldn’t go for it either, perhaps diluting the power of the image with words, making them, in effect, even more like morgue shots. Words rarely complemented art; they usually watered it down, made it too obvious, sapped its strength. Told the viewer what to think rather than allowing him or her to discover it for themselves.

  “Father Bertram died of AIDS,” Father Talley said, tapping the casket.

  I nodded, not getting his implication.

  “Look, I don’t want to get on my soapbox now, but a simple photo with his death listed as a consequence of AIDS might help the issue. People think no one dies of AIDS anymore in western countries. And I bet there are other issues in your portfolio too. Other deaths needing explication.”

  “I see what you’re saying. That priests die of AIDS too.”

  “Not too, Ms. Hart. More. Priests don’t always get treatment fast enough. And the church doesn’t do much to help. We’d all rather pretend celibacy is universally practiced, that priests are never gay or sexually active.” He stopped and lowered his voice. “I’m not talking about sexual abuse here—not pedophilia. This man never laid a hand on a child.” He sighed. “Homosexuality in the priesthood is an especially sore topic—as I am sure you know. And a black priest dying from AIDs highlights the dual problem of it affecting both populations at a statistically higher level.” He stood up. “Look, I’m going to the office to sign your contract in the hopes you’ll do the right thing.” He headed for the door. “I don’t see any reason not to sign it either way. Can’t do Wally any harm now, can it? There’ll be very few people to mourn him—he’s been sick for a long time and nursed in out of the way places. They hid him like he was....Well, never mind. Perhaps this will help in some small way.”

  I felt like a character in a Spike Lee movie as I watched him depart. Okay, I could certainly do what he wanted. It wasn’t much to ask.

  “Photography is a small voice, at best, but sometimes one photograph, or a group of them, can lure our sense of awareness.”

  W. Eugene Smith

&n
bsp; I was planning on heading straight to the police station with my new information, but when I’d finished photographing the priest and looked at my cell, I found a message from Ted demanding, more than asking me, to meet him at my flat or his shop. This had to be about the contract his attorney drew up, the document asking—no, coercing—Bill into stating he’d never demand a share of any profits derived from my work with him.

  The document was still in my handbag, ready for the increasingly unlikely possibility Bill would return to his formerly docile self. The days when I couldn’t get him out of my apartment, my bed, were a fading memory. Now I was lucky to get him into bed—and, in fact, hadn’t in quite a while. Why? Was I ducking him as much as he was ducking me, not wanting to tell him about my arrangement with Ted? About the contract I needed him to sign?

  I hurried home, noticed the photos were still sitting out, and decided to leave them. It couldn’t hurt to have Ted see the pictures as soon as he walked in the door. Maybe they’d take a bit of the starch out of him, derailing this obsession with contracts. We could discuss the idea of a contract once the material for the show was nailed down.

  My apartment had become an absolute rat hole thanks to the constant rush of my life since I started taking these pictures. I made a small effort at orderliness. The collection of masks, the first thing a visitor saw, was covered with a film of dust—and not a fine coating. And when was the last time I’d had a moment to run the mop across the floors or do a load of wash? My hair needed trimming; I hadn’t shaved my legs in a week, maybe two. It was just as well no one wanted to climb into my bed lately—maybe this was why. Perhaps I was also covered by a film of dust. Di had suggested I smelled. I sprayed myself lavishly with a five-year-old bottle of Vera Wang and hoped it’d do.

  Ted looked ready to say something the moment he stepped across the threshold, but on seeing the photos fell silent. “Nine photos?” he asked breathlessly. “Didn’t know you were this close to finishing….” He stopped mid-speech, walking over to the portrait of the firefighter.

  I could tell Ted especially liked that one. His eyes zeroed in as I told him, “Ten actually. I took a few of a priest an hour ago.”

  “A black priest under forty? How’d he die?” He turned around, immediately interested.

  I didn’t want to get into the AIDS issue with Ted—I was sure an offensive comment would quickly follow. “Bill wasn’t there to ask.” Ted still seemed expectant. “I can’t always tell the cause of death, you know. Bill makes each man look perfect.”

  He nodded. “Well, these are sensational, Vi.”

  He stood in front of Wylie Edwards, the kid who’d been hijacked and then dumped at the casino. I followed him around, anxious despite my pride in the work. Although Ted’s approval might mean the most to me professionally, I wished Bill had looked at my photos the way Ted was doing now. Just once couldn’t Bill Fontenel have said my work was good?

  “Don’t know about using this picture though. What’s he? Sixteen?” Ted squinted and held the photo up to the light.

  “Twenty, I think.” Was it twenty?

  I definitely intended to use Wylie but didn’t say a word. It was important to have one or two photographs reminding the viewer of how fleeting life is—especially life in Detroit. Maybe no children would be in the show, but boys, at the moment they became men, were important. I’d go down in flames over Wylie.

  “Looks younger than that. We’ll see.”

  Ted continued to stroll around the room, coming back again to the firefighter. “I like the one of the fireman. That’s what he is, right? And the race car driver’s pretty cool too.”

  A small frisson of revulsion bubbled up inside me at the word “cool.”

  “I think they prefer to be called firefighters now with a few women in their ranks.” I took a deep breath. “I may not be able to use the rapper. Cajuan Grace. Family didn’t sign off.”

  A vein in Ted’s forehead throbbed. “Why’d you take the shots then? Pity, because its absence would be a real loss.” He seemed to have forgotten his earlier dictum on the use of celebrities. Cajuan was a star—even in death.

  “Once I saw him, I had to have it.” I remembered the day. “I think I told you—the family had their own photographer coming in. A fancy-pants guy from New York or LA. Taking photos for a tribute book. It may be out by now. A money-maker even after death—Cajuan was.” I walked over and took the photo from him. “Maybe Bill can get them to change their minds. An exhibit could only help promote their lousy tribute book. Don’t you think?”

  Ted whirled around, not answering. “So how did Bill react to signing off on the contract? You did bring it up with him, didn’t you?” I stood silent. He slapped a hand on his forehead. “Weeks have passed. We’re almost ready to go. What the hell are you waiting for?”

  “You can’t imagine what’s been going on, Ted.”

  I know I sounded like a whiny little girl, and for a second or two, contemplated filling him in on all of it: Derek’s death, the police investigation, the hands, the feet and the head, but chances were it’d turn him off, make him think that staying away from me was his best alternative. No money had been invested in a show so far. He’d suffer only a minor disappointment. Whereas I had so much to lose, having given myself over to this project for months now, hardly taking on enough assignments to keep afloat. I was living off my meager savings as I poured all the time I had into this. This and its consequences: my involvement with the police.

  Notoriety only went so far in the art world; Ted wouldn’t want to tie himself to someone under suspicion in a murder case. The liberal sensibility of the art world didn’t extend to exploitation and that was precisely how my relationship with Derek might come across, especially when paired with the dead black men.

  Ted didn’t read the newspaper because otherwise he would’ve known about it, maybe figured out my involvement. Perhaps only Di among my minuscule coterie knew it was me poking around on Belle Isle. That it was me discovering bodies in a storm. Bill hadn’t called either. Nor my mother. Maybe no one would ever have to know. Now that I had the photo with the marks on the ankle to take in to Inspector Saad, maybe the police could wrap it up in a day or two, and I’d be free to finish my work.

  “You’re telling me you haven’t approached him yet?”

  Ted was talking again and I snapped back to life. He gave the monumental sigh I expected and sank onto the sofa.

  “You’ve taken the tenth photo and you haven’t brought it up with Bill. Guess you didn’t get it when we talked about this before. We’re not doing a show without his signature on that piece of paper. No way.” He threw his feet up on the coffee table and screwed his face into a scowl. “I know you’re not a businesswoman, but surely you can understand my position.”

  “I am so a fuckin’ businesswoman, Ted. Just because I don’t have a storefront or office space doesn’t mean I haven’t supported myself with taking photographs since art school.”

  I walked over to the table and began collecting the pictures, handling them like a sulky child taking her marbles home. “Look, I’m afraid Bill will cut me off before I have enough work for the show if I bring up the contracts. At this point, what’s the harm in waiting? It’ll only be another week or two with any luck.”

  Ted didn’t blanch. “It’s because you’re screwing him, isn’t it. That’s what’s fuckin’ this up. Pardon my excessive use of the word.”

  We were a pair all right, both of us in it for ourselves—not terribly interested in the other one’s stake despite our parasitic connection.

  “And I’ve got to start advertising, there’s the harm,” he said without the slightest hitch in his speech. “I don’t want to sink more money into your work—into this show—if it’s not going to pan out.” He began to pace. “My attorney says Bill will eventually come after a share of the money if we make any sort of splash. As soon as Bill sees you’re earning more than room and board from your work with him, he’ll think of it. Someone
will put the idea in his head if he doesn’t come up with it himself.” Ted stood stock-still. “We’re all of us businessmen.”

  “Is that a line from an Arthur Miller play? You don’t know Bill…”

  He didn’t let me finish. “And I’m damned tired of hearing you saying, ‘You don’t know Bill.’ It’s you who doesn’t know how he’s going to act about this. He’s not a charitable trust. He’s as much into making a killing as the next guy.”

  A killing? I could hardly take it in. Ted headed for the door a few minutes later, looking up at my collection of masks on the way. “Well, I finally figured out why you collect masks. It occurred to me last night as I was falling asleep.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “The masks tell me you have a face you don’t show.” He drew himself in, pontificating. “And that mirror over your bed—”

  Now Ted was going to present me with the golden apple.

  “Unmasks the poor sap beneath you.”

  “Is that Jung or Freud?”

  “It’s Ernst,” he said. “And now that I’m thinking about it, these photos”—he waved his hand at them—“pretty much look like death masks.”

  “You got me, Ted. I’m all about the masks.”

  I tried to make it light but he didn’t smile, pressing another copy of the contract into my hands as he left. I tossed it on the desk and picked up the phone to call Bill.

  He wasn’t in. Maybe he was up in Saginaw with his mother? There was no putting it off. I’d have to go see Inspector Saad. So that’s where I went, wondering on the way if I was all about the masks.

  Detroit News: Ten-year-old Levan Dorris died today as he played with his younger sister on the floor of his bedroom. An errant bullet, presumably fired at a man sitting on the porch next door, entered his room through the wall and fatally lodged in his skull. He was declared dead at St. John’s Hospital at 8:45 p.m. It is believed the intended victim owed money to a local drug dealer.