Mark Taylor: Genesis (Prequel in the Mark Taylor Series)

by M. P. McDonald

  The light changed and he crossed as part of a crowd of office workers just sprung from the high-rise buildings that created a canyon in the heart of the city. He was tempted to try to capture the light and shadows, but changed his mind. The buildings were beautiful, with gorgeous architecture, but he had plenty of similar photos. Cabrini-Green housing projects were only a few blocks away. Mark contemplated heading in that direction. About half the buildings had been demolished in the last few years, and mixed income housing had taken their place. He wanted some shots of the projects before they were entirely gone. It was a bit risky but after being in Afghanistan and seeing poverty beyond anything he had ever encountered before, Cabrini-Green didn’t seem quite so poor and dangerous. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he shook it off. It was like comparing oranges to coconuts. He was less likely to be shot in a remote Afghani village compared to the likelihood of getting gunned down in the Chicago projects, but stepping on a land mine while crossing a dusty village road carried about the same odds.

  By the time he came to Division Street, he had made up his mind. He could take a few pictures, and if it seemed too dangerous, he could always leave. Probably.

  He scouted the site for the best angle, and decided that a shot of the sun glinting off the fence that gave the building the appearance of a high rise dog kennel would capture the mood of the place. Like a dog locked in a kennel, the people of Cabrini were locked into a life with little hope of leaving. It wasn’t so different from the women of Afghanistan.

  He raised the camera to his eye and framed a shot. Would it produce a future photo this time? What if today was the day the camera just stopped working altogether? If it stopped working, he wasn’t certain he could go back to his boring and mundane old life. Life had never seemed boring at the time, but looking back, there were only so many parties and bars a guy could go to before they all started blurring together. He snapped off a couple of shots and moved around to the other side of the building. The John Hancock Building made an ironic backdrop. Located at one end of the Magnificent Mile, it looked so close, yet to the residents of this building, it must have seemed about as close as the moon.

  What had he accomplished in his life prior to having the camera? Not much. He had a nice photography business, but that was about it. Now he had a purpose and it felt good. It felt right. Saving total strangers wasn’t something he ever thought he could do and to think he finally had something in common with his father just blew his mind. He doubted, however, that his dad would see the similarity. His father would see only that Mark hadn’t finished college, never mind going on to med school. In his mind, saving people took a medical degree, and that was that.

  At times, the responsibility of saving a person terrified Mark. What would happen if he didn’t change a picture? Would hell open up and swallow him? The prospect worried him, but then he would change a picture and someone who didn’t even know that they would have died, would carry on with their life, completely unaware of how close they had come to death, and Mark would get a heady rush of satisfaction. How could he give that up?

  He snapped away, getting a few more shots of the mesh on this side, but moved in closer and laid on the ground to get a picture of a large blackbird picking at a piece of garbage. The building was just a blur in the background.

  “Yo, man. What you doin’?”

  Startled, Mark rolled from his belly to his side and squinted up at the boy standing beside him. With a grunt, he rose to his feet and put out his hand. “Hi. I’m Mark. I’m a photographer and just thought I’d get a few pictures of this place before they tear down all the buildings.” The kid looked about thirteen. He wasn’t quite as tall as Mark, probably about five-eleven, but judging by the size of the hands gripping the basketball he held in front of him, he still had some growing to do.

  The kid gave Mark’s hand a suspicious glance and ignored it, but he wasn’t completely rude as he then warned, “This probably ain’t the best place to take pictures.”

  Mark nodded. “I know. I just wanted a few shots. I figured it would be safe enough during the day.”

  “This place ain’t never safe.” The kid cast a wary look around. “This corner belongs to the Gangster Disciples. They know me and know I just wanna go play ball and don’t want no trouble. Most of the time they let me by, but if I was you, I’d get out of here as fast as I could. You don’t belong here.”

  Feeling suddenly exposed, Mark noted the group of young men coming towards them. “Thanks for the advice. I think I’ll take you up on it.”

  The kid lifted his chin in acknowledgement. “No problem, man.” He jerked his head towards the approaching group. “Tell them you was lost and asked me for directions. I don’t want no trouble.” With that, the boy hurried the opposite way from the group heading towards Mark.

  His mouth dry as the dusty grass, Mark decided not to wait for the group to reach him, and instead turned and crossed the street mid-block. Raucous laughter chased him, mocking his actions. He didn’t care. One guy against a gang would have been stupid. Fortunately for him, the thugs didn’t cross the street and give chase.

  Feeling he had reached a safe distance away, Mark turned and watched as the group loitered in the area he had just vacated. Not wanting to be spotted, he ducked into the shadows beside a liquor store. Bright red graffiti decorated the side of the building. He wished he had his telephoto lens with him. He watched a series of cars pull up, one of the gangbangers would lean in the window and few minutes later, the car would speed off. Friends? Or drug deals? Mark bet it was the latter and was again thankful to the boy for warning him.

  After observing several more cars repeat the stop and go procedure, Mark turned for home, his earlier eagerness to learn if he would get future photos pushing his curiosity about the dealings on the corner to the back of his mind.

  Mark swished the chemicals around, mentally urging the prints to develop faster. He carefully lifted them from their chemical bath and hung them on the lines he had strung over the washtub.

  While they dried, he put away all the chemicals and pans and wiped down the counter. The red light had afforded him a glimpse of the pictures, but not enough to tell what was going on. He saw the photos of Cabrini-Green and a sharp pang of disappointment at another day without a future photo stabbed him in the gut. Maybe the magic had vanished. The pang twisted his stomach into a tight knot. There was so much more he could have done.

  He left the prints hanging and went out to the studio to pay some bills. It could have been just the disappointment, but his stomach growled so he grabbed the phone and ordered a pizza from a place down the block. After hanging up, he sighed, fatigue stealing over him now that there was no prospect of a future photo. Maybe he had been addicted to the adrenaline rush. Good thing he had never told anyone about the camera. If he had, he would have had to explain why it no longer worked.

  An hour later, he tossed a final crust of pizza into the trash and took a last swig of beer. The bottle followed the crust into the garbage. He closed the lid of the pizza box, deciding that the remaining half would make a decent breakfast.

  As he stood to go up to his loft, the light above the darkroom caught his eye. He really should take the photos down. Even though there wasn’t a future photo, he might have a picture he could sell to a magazine or something. Cabrini-Green had been the subject of quite a few articles about its demolition and there was a chance he could sell one or two photos as a freelancer. He flipped on the regular light in the darkroom, having no need for the red one now, and quickly unclipped the dozen photos he had managed to snap before the boy had interrupted him.

  Back in the office, he tossed the prints on top of the pizza box and, holding it like a platter, he carried it upstairs. The box barely fit in his fridge but he was an expert at making room. He shoved the carton of baking soda to the far corner, and slid the box onto the top shelf, snatching the photos and another beer just before the door shut.

  Mark plopped onto the sofa and
set the beer on the end table before glancing at the photos.

  The top one was the photo of the bird, and he had to admit, it was pretty good. He had caught the bird mid-hop and it was looking right into the lens, a remnant of a fast food wrapper clutched in its beak. The housing project rose up in a distinct blur behind it. It was a keeper. His mood lifted a tiny bit as he turned to the next print, hoping it would be as good.

  At first glance, it seemed to be one of the photos he had taken, but the group of thugs was already on the corner, and Mark was sure he had stopped snapping pictures well before they appeared. He flipped to the next and spotted a fifth man with the group. Once again, Cabrini-Green rose in the background, but he definitely hadn’t taken this photo. He would have remembered taking a photo of the men making a deal.

  His breathing quickened. Could it be? He snatched the next photo out of the pile. The fifth man was on the ground along with one of the original group. A car drove off the side of the photo, only the passenger side showed. A hand extended out of the back window, a gun clutched in the fist.

  One more photo showed the scene, and this time, Chicago Police officers were present, but they were obviously too late as the fifth man lay in a pool of blood, eyes wide and sightless. There was no sign of the other person who had been down, so either they had been able to get back to their feet and leave, or they had been removed for some reason. Possibly taken to the hospital, which meant this photo might take place a short time after the other ones.

  A woman was reaching into the deceased man’s coat, her hand wrapped around something shiny. Mark pulled open his desk drawer and found his eye loupe. He peered at the image through the loupe, recognizing the shiny object as a police badge, and the woman as Jessica Bishop. He set the loupe down with a sigh. Just great.

  After looking for more details in the other photos, Mark set the loupe down and sank back. It was only a guess, but it looked like the dead man might have been an undercover cop. Rubbing the back of his neck, he considered the idea that the cop might have been buying for his own use. Or maybe it wasn’t a drug deal at all. There were no drugs in sight. The cop might have been having a friendly chat with the group. Mark snorted, not believing his own hypothesis.

  Gathering up the photos, he set the one with the bird aside, and put the others in the order he thought they occurred. Excitement and a trace of fear triggered an adrenaline rush, wiping away any traces of fatigue. The possibilities of what exactly happened in the photos made his mind whirl, but It was no use speculating until he had a dream to match the photos.

  The dream played out as it had appeared in the photos with no surprises. The problem was the man gunned down still wasn’t positively identified in the dream. Police on the scene speculated that he was undercover from the badge found on him, but they were still tracking down the badge number when Mark woke up. Why hadn’t that information been immediately available?

  Like the gas station incident, he thought it was too big for him to handle. If he could find the undercover cop first, that would be one thing. He could have tried to warn him, but without a name, he could think of only one person to turn to.

  “May I see Detective Bishop?”

  He had thought about calling first, but was afraid she might not speak to him. He had tried calling after their date, but had never reached her. He wasn’t sure if that was intentional on her part or he had just always just missed her. After about three attempts, he had given up.

  The desk sergeant glanced up from his computer. “Is she expecting you?”

  “No, but it’s really important.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say.” The man laughed, apparently impressed with his own wittiness. Mark chuckled. Whatever it took to get past the guy.

  The sergeant pointed to his right. “Her office is down the hall, first door on the left. Not sure if she’s in. If she’s not and you want to wait, you’ll have to do so out here.” He indicated a bench against the wall.

  Luck was with him, and Jessica was at her desk. Another desk took up the other half of the tiny office, but it was vacant at the moment. Mark rapped on the doorway.

  She glanced up from some file and a cascade of emotions played across her face at the sight of him: surprise, a hint of warmth, and then anger. Her face finally settled into a mask of indifference. “Taylor.”

  Ouch. Using only his last name didn’t seem like a good sign. “Hi, Jessica.”

  “It’s Detective Bishop.”

  That hurt even more than the use of just his last name. “Sorry. Detective Bishop. I have to speak to you. It’s urgent.”

  “If this is to apologize for our…dinner, you’re about a year too late.”

  “I am sorry about that, and I tried to call to apologize at the time, but that’s not why I’m here today.”

  “What do you need?”

  Mark took a step into the office and stood in front of her desk, gripping the back of a wooden chair. “Remember that tip I had on the gas station robbery?”

  She sat back, arms crossed, and nodded. It wasn’t much, but at least she was hearing him out.

  “I have another tip like that, only this time. There’s going to be a drive-by shooting over at Cabrini-Green this evening.”

  “And you know this how? Or do I even want to ask?”

  At least he had a better answer this time and he didn’t have to deviate too far from the truth. “I was over at Cabrini yesterday shooting photos—“

  “Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”

  “I told you, I was taking pictures. I wanted to get photographs of the buildings. ”

  “And you could take some, oh I don’t know, perhaps over on the Gold Coast or Oak Park. I heard they have some nice buildings. Mansions and,” she put a finger to her chin as though thinking hard, “even some designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I understand, but they aren’t being torn down in the near future, are they?” He had her there and she grudgingly shrugged. “Anyway, why I was there isn’t important, but while I was, I heard some guys making plans for the drive-by. Their target is a guy who’s actually an undercover police officer.”

  She sat forward, her demeanor changing, becoming serious instead of sarcastic. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  Waving her hand towards the chair, she said, “Have a seat. Now, what’s the cop’s name?”

  “I don’t know. I figured you guys would have that information.”

  “No, undercover operations are kept very quiet—for the cop’s protection.” She opened her desk drawer and dug around for something, pulling out a legal pad and a pen. “Can you give me descriptions of the shooters?”

  Crap. “No. I only heard them; I didn’t see them, they…they were in a car. I was on the other side of some bushes and they were parked on the curb. I heard them talking about it.”

  Her expression hardened and he knew he had lost her again.

  She tossed the pen down. “Are you serious? You come in here with news of a shooting, of a cop no less, but have no description of the shooters. All you have to go on is an overheard conversation from some guys in parked car? That’s not exactly hard evidence.”

  “I realize that. I have a description of the car though, and the guy who gets shot.”

  Sighing, she picked up the pen again. “Fine. Give me what you have.”

  He saw the car in his mind’s eye. “It’s a late ‘90s model Ford sedan. Dark colored.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a license plate?”

  Mark shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Jessica gave him a long look before sighing. “Listen, Mark. What’s your agenda?”

  “Agenda?” Totally confused, he could only stare at her.

  “This just doesn’t add up. For one thing, you stick out like…well, you wouldn’t go unnoticed at Cabrini-Green, so I’m a bit skeptical that you would get anywhere near a parked car where people are discussing a drive-by. I have a feeli
ng you’re trying to, I don’t know, impress me maybe?”

  Mark’s face heated up but whether with embarrassment or anger, he wasn’t sure. “Listen, Jessica, you can doubt me all you want, and be pissed because I screwed up our date, but you remember I was right about the gas station, and I’m right about this. If you don’t warn this cop, he’s going to be murdered sometime around six p.m. How could it hurt to take a few precautions, maybe get in touch with the undercover guy and warn him?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for games.”

  Calm down. He told himself that becoming angry wouldn’t save the undercover cop. He blew out a breath and pushed his hands thorough his hair in frustration. “It’s not a game and I don’t have an agenda except to prevent the death of a police officer. I gave you accurate information before, and I’m doing the same now.” He remembered a detail, leaned forward and said, “The officer is African-American, young, good-looking, and has a scar on his left forearm. It appears to be a healed burn or something.”

  “I don’t know anyone like that in our precinct. Besides, even if I were to believe you, I wouldn’t be able to track the officer down by your vague description. In fact, your alleged victim probably isn’t from a precinct near Cabrini-Green. They wouldn’t chance him being recognized as a cop, so they’d bring in someone who has never patrolled in that area.”

  He couldn’t leave without a promise that she would do something to prevent the shooting. “But you could ask around. Even if he isn’t from your precinct, I know that you’ll be involved.”