The Mystery of the Moving Image

by C. S. Poe

  We grew silent.

  I wasn’t trying to accuse Lee of anything. I didn’t think. I only wanted to point out that… that… maybe we were both wrong about Mr. Robert.

  Fuck.

  Because while James Robert was definitely many things, a liar just hadn’t struck me as being one of them. I’d believed him when he said his grandson Casey was trying to rob him. Probably with the help of this friend I’d unfortunately met a few times. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself to the contrary, I absolutely believed unlocking the mystery of the Dickson footage would reveal the reason for the thefts.

  Logically, thefts equated to money.

  But the movies themselves were simply not worth all this trouble. And Mr. Robert’s brownstone had been full of so many other gorgeous and rare items that would have fetched a far prettier penny and been less of a pain in the ass to obtain.

  It was what was on the film that was worth it in someone’s mind to lie, steal, and kill.

  I didn’t think these two teenagers were working alone either. Yesterday it’d almost made sense that the grandfather was pulling the strings and this was a far less convoluted mystery. But now? Nothing was ever cut-and-dry where I was involved. I don’t doubt for a minute that there were kids who loved art and history like I did and had learned about Dickson at an early age. But it simply wasn’t the norm. Students learned about his accomplishments, if at all, in college.

  Usually in a specific field of study.

  Like moviemaking.

  “It’s never good when you’re quiet,” Calvin murmured. He didn’t look up from his food.

  “It’s never good when I talk either,” I countered.

  He smiled.

  “Look,” I began. “I’m not trying to make this uncomfortable for you. But I think we need to discuss something about Lee—like, how yesterday when the grandfather called the Emporium after the shooting, I wrote his address on my hand.” I raised it to show Calvin the faint outline of letters that hadn’t come off in the shower. “And the people with me when that happened were Max and Lee.”

  “Lee was in the shop when the shooting happened,” Calvin replied. “And you identified a teenager outside of James’s house and in the subway—”

  “Exactly. I don’t think those kids were acting of their own volition. I think someone’s preyed on two susceptible teenagers and convinced them to commit terrible acts in the hunt for those film reels.”

  “Why Lee?”

  “Because there’s no way Casey or this unidentified assailant are Dickson fans trying to collect long-lost footage to hand over to museums. Someone in a higher position than a student, with knowledge of the movies, is orchestrating this. The logical assumption is a teacher. Lee works with students. At the Emporium, he would have had time to call this second kid and give him the address I’d written down. I didn’t hide the fact I was going to visit the grandfather.”

  “You’re coming to conclusions without evidence, Sebastian.” Calvin pushed his plate away. “Before you jump off the deep end, let’s wait until I receive a copy of Casey’s transcript. If Lee is one of his instructors, then I have reason to interview him.”

  “Lee is definitely a big enough guy—”

  Calvin held his hand up. “Stop theorizing and eat your waffles. Please.”

  I slumped into my chair, picked up my fork, and hacked off a chunk of syrup-soaked waffle.

  Calvin pointed at his tablet on top of my book tower. “Researching recipes?” he asked, cutting through that awkward “we’re not angry at each other, but sort of annoyed and unwilling to apologize” silence.

  “No,” I muttered. “I wanted to borrow your copy of Professional Criminals of America.”

  He looked interested at that. “And why does my boyfriend require a handguide written by the controversial Chief of Detectives of New York City in 1886?”

  I smiled a little and pushed pieces of waffle around my plate. “Who was that again?”

  “Thomas Byrnes.”

  “Careful or you’re going to give me a chub.”

  Calvin laughed under his breath.

  I took a few bites of the soggy waffle and grabbed the tablet. “Before I was robbed in the subway,” I began, searching through Calvin’s e-books, which were, in fact, mostly cookbooks, “I spooled through the film.”

  “And?”

  “It was the same as with the Leonard-Cushing fight—footage thought lost to time. But there were more spliced test pieces attached. One was the same outdoor scene—could have been a few hours before the killing. The other was definitely shot inside at Edison’s lab, earlier in the murder timeline.”

  “So what’s it all mean?”

  I chose Byrnes’s comprehensive book on criminals, tweaked the brightness level on the screen, and started scrolling through pages. “Supposedly, someone was after Dickson in 1895, and these movies were a crucial element to his safety. Since the only damning footage I’ve seen so far is the murder, I suspect if we can identify the men involved, we’ll understand why Dickson was in peril. And why I ended up with a Kinetoscope that’s killed a kid.” I looked at Calvin.

  He puffed his cheeks as he blew out a big breath of air. “In all my career, I’ve never heard of anything quite like the cases I’ve picked up since meeting you.”

  “I wasn’t kidding when I said antiquing was murder.”

  “And curiosity kills.”

  “Not yet, it hasn’t,” I answered. I put my phone on the crowded tabletop. “I took a picture of one of the stills that had Muttonchops—the murderer.”

  “Are you going to utilize the mugshots?”

  “Bingo.”

  Calvin took a sip of coffee. “There are only about 200 mugshots in the book.”

  “The New York rogue’s gallery had a lot more, yeah?” I glanced up.

  Calvin made a so-so motion with his hand. “Byrnes claimed he had documented over seven thousand criminals.”

  “Well, if I had access to that registry, that’d be one thing. But it no longer exists, and I’m not sure how else to obtain a story about Muttonchops,” I said. “So much of what Dickson did has been lost. Finding the names of the even lesser-known assistants is all but an impossible task. Especially if they killed a man.”

  “But a book of century-old mugshots?”

  “It can’t hurt to look,” I said in return. “I know the timelines don’t exactly add up, but there’s always a chance that he committed less-violent crimes before he had it in himself to kill. If that were the case, maybe he ended up in here,” I continued, tapping the tablet.

  “You think Thomas Edison would have hired a committed criminal?” Calvin picked up my phone and opened the photos.

  “It was considerably easier to become a new person back then.”

  “That’s true, I suppose.”

  I was scrolling through photographs of forgers, pickpockets, and bank robbers, and paused at a woman known as the Confidence Queen. “Geez… this lady robbed a man of his life savings while in prison.”

  “Big Bertha,” Calvin murmured.

  “Yeah—hold on, have you read this entire book? It’s, like, four hundred pages.”

  “Cop,” he reminded me absently, pointing at himself, still scrolling on my phone.

  “It should be the last picture. What’re you looking for?”

  Calvin turned the phone around. “When’d you take this?”

  It was at his old studio, of him and Dillon asleep on the bed together.

  “When you were sleeping.”

  “No shit.”

  I laughed and shrugged a shoulder. “Stop being cute and I’ll stop taking photographic evidence.”

  Calvin gave me a mixed expression—part questioning, part amusement. He pulled up the photo of Muttonchops and set it on the tabletop between us. “This is him?”

  “Yeah. He’s memorable-looking. Might help,” I said before returning to the mugshots.

  Calvin got out of his chair and moved around the ta
ble. He leaned over my shoulder and studied the photos with me. “He’s going to be at least ten years younger—I’d suspect midtwenties—if he’s in this collection. And keep in mind, he might have put on the weight and grown the facial hair after the fact.”

  “I know.”

  “Look at some of these aliases… Aleck the Milkman, Big Dick, Three-Fingered Jack….” Calvin pointed at one photo. “Ah. This man rented an apartment fewer than ten blocks from here and made counterfeit silver coins on the third floor.”

  “They don’t make criminals like they used… look at this guy!” I quickly enlarged the page for easier reading. “John McCormack. Alias, Kid John. Burglar, sneak, second-story man.”

  Calvin reached over me, picked up the phone, and held it up against the tablet to compare photos.

  “What do you think?” I asked, looking up at him.

  “Same nose and deep-set eyes. No muttonchops, but he’s got impressive sideburns. Says he was twenty-nine in 1886. Was considered a first-class burglar in what sounds like the tristate area today. Arrested in 1884 after being caught on a second-story job and—he murdered a servant while trying to escape the house. Sentenced to ten years at Sing Sing, escaped in April of 1885.”

  “Holy shit. Was he caught?” I studied the block of small, dense text.

  Calvin shook his head after a moment. “No, doesn’t sound like it.”

  “Work on the Kinetoscope didn’t even begin until six years after his escape. By then, if he hadn’t been recaught, I doubt anyone would even remember him,” I said.

  “It’s possible,” Calvin murmured. “Add thirty pounds and the muttonchops, and he’s never going to be mistaken for Kid John….”

  “So help a guy with shitty eyesight out,” I said, leaning back to stare up at Calvin again. “Are John McCormack and Muttonchops one and the same?”

  Calvin’s cell phone rang. He reached into his pocket. “The probability is high enough that I wouldn’t bet against you.”

  “This isn’t Vegas.”

  “Hey, Quinn,” Calvin answered.

  I watched Calvin’s stance stiffen as he listened to his partner on the other end of the call. Out was my boyfriend; in was the police officer.

  “When was the body found?” he asked.

  Shit.

  “I’m on my way,” Calvin confirmed. He ended the call and glanced at me.

  “What happened?”

  “James Robert was found dead in his home by his housekeeper.”

  “Oh my God. Was he—I mean, he was ninety and smoked, Calvin. Maybe—”

  “He was murdered,” Calvin interrupted. He took his wallet from his back pocket, removed several bills, and put them on the table. “I have to go. I can drive you to your father’s first,” he offered.

  I shook my head. “I’m going to hit up NYU.”

  “All right.” Calvin leaned down and kissed me. “Be safe.”

  “You too.” I touched his hand and gave it a final squeeze before Calvin left the table.

  I sighed and set the tablet on the stack of books. I grabbed my phone, held it close, and began the arduous process of sifting through New York University’s 101 webpages in search of a phone number that would at least get me through to the correct school. This would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t put Dr. Freidman’s business card in my so very cursed messenger bag.

  I was lost in art history undergraduate courses when the waiter returned to collect the dishes from the table.

  “Is your partner finished as well, sir?”

  I looked up. “You can take his. Duty called.”

  He picked up the plates. “I understand the feeling. Mine’s finishing his fellowship in pediatric surgery.” He flashed a smile. “Duty calls at the least opportune times.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I met his smile with one of my own. Once he’d left, I continued poking through university pages before finding a listing of graduate faculty members.

  Lo and behold! Dr. Bill Freidman.

  I tapped the phone number provided on his bio page and put the cell to my ear. I was expecting voicemail this early in the morning, so color me surprised when Freidman—a man as gritty as gravel but with a voice as smooth as whiskey—answered.

  “Bill Freidman.”

  “Er—hi, Dr. Freidman. My name’s Sebastian Snow. I used to be one of your students. Uhm… about twelve or thirteen years ago….”

  He didn’t say anything in return.

  “Anyway,” I said, continuing onward. “I run an antique business now, and I’m really in need of expert advice on some footage I’ve acquired—”

  “Mr. Snow,” Freidman interrupted. “I am not an authenticator, appraiser, nor do I make evaluations for businesses. Thank you for taking my course. If you’d like to learn more about cinema, I’d suggest a visit to the Museum of the Moving Image. Have a pleasant day.”

  “No, wait! This is about W. K. L. Dickson! Please don’t hang up.”

  Silence.

  “Dr. Freidman?” I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t believe he hung up on me. “Goddamn—”

  “How exactly does your footage pertain to Dickson?” Freidman asked suddenly.

  I opened my eyes. “I’ve reason to believe someone threatened Dickson’s life while he was employed by Edison. I’ve… ah, sort of come into ownership of footage shot by a Kinetograph camera that has left me with more questions than answers.” I paused before adding an ego stroke for good measure. “I’ve already visited the museum. They suggested I contact you.”

  Freidman didn’t say anything.

  “If you could spare me any time today,” I prodded. “Ten minutes, even.”

  “I have class at 9:30.”

  “Okay.”

  “Be here in thirty minutes. I’ll call the front desk and put your name on the visitor’s log. Snow, you said?” As if he cared so little he’d already forgotten.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right.” He hung up.

  I ended the call and noticed the waiter had dropped the bill off. I picked it up, gawked at the cost of waffles I hadn’t even finished, and double counted the cash Calvin had left before my phone starting ringing. The number was a mild surprise.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “What do you know about the Colt Walker revolver?” Neil asked in return.

  I held the phone between ear and shoulder, gathered my books, and stood. “Good morning to you too. Are you in the Cash Cab or something?”

  “This is a serious question.”

  “No doubt.” I made my way toward the open door.

  Neil sighed, long and hard. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Neil.”

  “Can you answer a question for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you familiar with the Colt Walker revolver?”

  “A bit.”

  “I need your… professional opinion.”

  I stopped just outside the restaurant. “Why not ask a firearms specialist?”

  “Because this is a weapon of American origin from 1846, and that’s your area of expertise.”

  “1847,” I corrected in a polite tone.

  “Fine, 1847. I need a qualified individual to confirm the value of such an item,” Neil continued.

  “Over the phone? Without seeing it? That’s not how it works,” I answered.

  “Sebastian, please—just—” He struggled to sound civil. “Guess.”

  I walked to the curb, juggled my books, and managed to flag a taxi down without looking like a complete moron. I climbed into the back seat, gave the driver the street address for one of NYU’s East Side buildings, and sat back as he merged into traffic.

  “Did you find the gun that shot up the Emporium?” I asked. “You wouldn’t be calling about an antique lead-ball-shooting, black-powder-using, single-action revolver otherwise.”

  “I did some checking of my own,” Neil replied. “To see if any weapons old enough to shoot lead balls had been reported
as missing or stolen this year.”

  “James Robert?” I guessed.

  “No. An antique dealer reported one as stolen late last week.”

  “What? Really? Who?”

  “That guy you don’t get along with,” Neil answered.

  “Wow. You’re going to have to be more specific,” I replied. “Wait—are you talking about Marshall’s Oddities? Gregory Thompson?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Huh.”

  “So again. Can you confirm the value of this item? He’s looking to have the theft registered with the FBI’s NSAF.”

  I caught the driver taking a few too many glances at me in his rearview mirror. “Ah… well, it had a very limited production run. Just over a thousand revolvers were made, mostly to fulfill a military contract. There was one that sold at auction a while back… if I remember correctly, it went for nearly a million dollars. But, Neil, you have to take into consideration the history of the item, as well as its current state. That particular revolver, I believe, had seen action in the Mexican-American War.”

  “Regardless, it’s still worth a shit-ton of money,” Neil replied.

  “Shit-ton isn’t a unit of measurement I use in my professional life, but yes.”

  Lee had been to Marshall’s Oddities.

  “Neil,” I said with a sort of dazed realization. That last clue suddenly fell into place and it was as if Lee was Colonel Mustard in the library with the wrench. “It’s Lee Straus.”

  “Who?”

  “Calvin’s ex-military-boyfriend-person,” I said. I lifted my hips up to dig my wallet from my back pocket. I hurriedly took out a few bills as the driver parked outside of a tall building waving the NYU flag from the second story. I passed the cash through the window between us, grabbed my books, and climbed out of the taxi.

  “What do you mean, it’s him?” Neil asked.

  “I think he’s behind all this,” I whispered as a few students walked by me. “He’s a teacher at the academy Casey Robert attended. He was at the Emporium when the grandfather called me. He admitted to going to Marshall’s Oddities just last week—the same time Greg’s revolver goes missing—and then my place gets shot up with lead balls?”

  “Seb….”

  “And he’s retired Army,” I finished.