By Jacob Pelow
Jacob Pelow grew up in Greece, NY, and graduated from SUNY Brockport with a degree in Creative Writing. He recently moved to Miami, FL, where he is pursuing publication for his first novel and beginning the early stages of a book for young adults. He enjoys reading and writing in just about every genre, but tends toward science fiction and fantasy. His favorite authors include Neil Gaiman, Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, J.K. Rowling, and Stephen King. This is his first publication.
Imaging and Rochester go together like hot sauce on a Garbage Plate. In “Polaroid,” Jacob takes our history of imaging innovation in a radically different direction, while adding a noir twist to create a tale of mystery, intrigue, and suspense.
—
The scrape and sizzle of a lighting match caused his teeth to grate. The group across the street was huddled close outside the Geva Theatre, hands thrust deep into pockets to ward off the cold November air. His focus quickly homed in on the smoker as she attempted to set the cigarette asmolder. The cigarette tip pulsed, an orange beacon in the deepening night, as the woman puffed to get the thing lit. Her first exhalation of rancid smoke set his heel to grinding the frozen leaves littering the gutter in which he stood. An old Zweigle’s Hots wrapper tumbled in the wind before becoming pinned to his shin. He kicked the garbage away in disgust. With sly precision, he pulled a Polaroid photo from his black trench coat’s pocket, pushed a button on its face, and began thwapping the emulsion against the palm of his hand.
The group had been exchanging reviews of the play the friends had just seen, but the smoker finally said her goodbyes and departed with one of her female companions. They walked arm in arm to warm each other in the bitter cold. He followed at a safe distance, calculating the perfect time to make the “kill drop.” The excitement was starting to get to him. His left fingers drummed across the back of the Polaroid as his steps quickened. Everything had to be timed perfectly. He couldn’t risk killing the wrong person. And the women had to remain oblivious to his presence until it was too late.
As his target giggled her way along South Clinton Avenue, he was gaining ground a foot at a time. By the time they were crossing Court Street, he was practically at their heels. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the man sent the Polaroid spinning into the air. Like a Frisbee, it floated through its flight, eventually grazing the exposed ankle of the smoker, and then … she was gone.
The stalker withdrew to the shadows of a nearby doorway. He watched the smoker’s friend tumble sideways at the sudden disappearance of her warm-bodied crutch, but she caught herself before crashing to the pavement. The friend turned slightly, nearly spotting the stalker before echoing screams grabbed her attention. Her head snapped around, looking toward the black Xerox building looming across the street. She looked for the yells’ source, but they ended in the sickening thud of the smoker’s body crashing upon the tall, red “X” at the foot of the Xerox tower. Grimacing, the man watched the friend lift her hands to her mouth and let out bellowing screams of her own. He made his escape as a small crowd of horrified onlookers gathered by the scene. Police sirens’ wails joined the screams in Xerox Square. When at last the police arrived, all that remained of his presence was a Polaroid burning on the icy sidewalk.
Omar Torres and his new partner, John Corbitt, had nearly finished their shift and were heading to the station across from Kodak Office to check out. It was just before ten, so there was a chance that Sonia would still be awake when Omar got home.
“I can’t believe you moved here just because your wife got that job at the university,” Corbitt said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Madison had nothing for us,” Torres replied. “Besides, her job pays really well.”
“She your Sugar Momma?”
Torres couldn’t ignore the jibe, but was saved from answering by their radios bleating of trouble outside the Xerox building. Corbitt groaned loudly at the dispatch operator’s description of the tragedy.
“Is this another G.E.?” Corbitt asked into the two-way radio.
“Appears so,” a garbled voice replied from the other end.
Corbitt sighed before saying, “Come on, Detective, it’s time to introduce you to another lovely facet of Rochester, New York.”
The two men had barely taken two paces down the street before Omar asked, “What’s a G.E.?”
“You’ll see soon enough,” said Corbitt as he led Torres toward a nearby Polaroid Station. “We gotta catch a jump to Court Street.”
“The Polaroid Station?” Torres asked, his voice rising through at least an octave.
“Please tell me you have used a Polaroid station before.” When Torres remained silent, Corbitt shook his head and said, “Didn’t you have Polaroid Stations in Madison?”
“Madison isn’t exactly the Polaroid Station hotbed that Rochester is. We had a few around the city, but I never liked the idea of being murdered and resurrected just to go get a few groceries.”
“Where did you learn that bullshit?” Corbitt asked, waving his badge at the civvies waiting for transport. As the crowd parted, he said, “Are they still spewing that garbage at church? I’m sure they also said we’re messing with God’s precious work and it’s a blasphemy to all creation, blah, blah, blah.”
Torres approached a line of transit booths, but they were much larger than the ones in Madison. They looked like enclosed bus stops from the outside. Omar thought the larger size must have been Rochester showing off as the home of the technology. Once Corbitt shoved him inside, he noticed a podium of sorts with a card reader running down its side. A screen built into the kiosk displayed a message.
Welcome to the Polaroid Transit Network
High Falls Station
Most of the podium was transparent, and Torres could see rows of Polaroid photos stacked within, each bearing an image of the place to which it would send a traveler.
“So, what exactly am I supposed to do?” asked Torres.
“Hold your badge in front of the reader and say, ‘Police business,’” Corbitt said over Torres’ shoulder.
Torres followed Corbitt’s instructions, and the message on the display changed.
Identity confirmed – no charge – law enforcement transit
A feminine voice greeted him, saying, “Welcome, Officer Torres. The Polaroid Transit Network hopes you enjoy your free trip!”
The display then flashed a question.
Where would you like to go?
There was a keypad below the screen, and Corbitt reached around Torres to punch in their desired destination. The machine began to whir as the Polaroids shuffled within the podium. After a moment, a picture of the Xerox tower was presented in a small window by the display. A hole in the window allowed the passenger to touch the image and the activation button just below the image, but held the Polaroid securely. The design prevented passengers from stealing the photographs, despite the innocuous nature of the Polaroids in the booth. All aspects of the technology were under strict regulation and regarded by the government as dangerous in the wrong hands. Omar agreed, which was why he’d never used the system back home.
“Push the button on the picture in the window, then, when I say go, touch the image,” said Corbitt as he headed into the neighboring booth. Torres heard the feminine voice greet Corbitt, then heard shuffling Polaroids. “Go!” said Corbitt. He followed up with, “See you on the other side!” as Torres touched his photograph.
Torres later described what followed as feeling “like you are taking a prolonged blink without ever closing your eyes.” Once the flash of darkness dissolved, Omar was standing on Court Street. Corbitt peered at him, his brow furrowed. Apparently satisfied that Omar was okay, Corbitt grimaced and clapped Torres on the shoulder.
“Took you long enough,” Corbitt jibed. “Come on, it’s this way.”
As they began walking, Torres said, “You know, I may be new to the city, but the giant throng of people up ahead was a good indicator of where we needed to go.”
Corbitt chuckled and began edging through the masses to get to the crime scene. A uniform nodded to Corbitt, muttering, “Detectives,” and Omar and Corbitt ducked under the yellow crime scene tape he guarded.
Corbitt led Omar toward the giant “X” logo, its red enhanced by gore from the female corpse it … supported. More blood and body parts were splattered … everywhere. Torres spun away from the scene and bent, putting his hands on his knees. With deep breaths, Torres tried to calm his roiling stomach, to subdue the bile that crept up the back of his throat.
“You okay?” Corbitt asked from behind.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Omar replied. He was determined that Corbitt would not be able to use this as fodder for more harassment.
“Jesus, at least stand upright and straighten out those jellyrolls before you lie like that.”
Omar wasn’t sure which was more irritating: the dig at his weight, or the ease with which Corbitt saw through his attempt to hide his squeamishness. He straightened and insisted, “I’ll be all right. I just … I’ve never seen a suicide like this before.”
“And you still haven’t seen a suicide like this. Because this, my friend … this was no suicide. This was a murder.” Corbitt then began running the tip of his index finger over his graying moustache, as if anticipating a shocked reaction.
“This doesn’t exactly scream murder,” Torres countered.
“Oh really?” Corbitt said with a hint of amusement. “And how exactly did you come to that conclusion?”
“For one, there’s no glass around the body and the windows on the building don’t open, so the victim would have to have fallen from the roof. Normally, the roof on a tall building like this would have a high ledge or fence around it, so pushing someone off wouldn’t exactly be an easy task. That means this woman would have to have jumped of her own accord.”
“All of that would make perfect sense in most cities. Unfortunately, not much makes sense in good ole Ra-cha-cha.”
“Then what the Hell happened here?”
Corbitt gave a sly smile. “I can’t believe they haven’t briefed you on this, yet. I guess it’s not too surprising, though. These incidents don’t normally happen so close together.”
“Does this have anything to do with that G.E. thing?”
“Putting two and two together … maybe there is a reason they hired you. It’s actually a codename we’ve given to a long-running series of murders involving the use of Polaroids.”
“But I thought Polaroids could only be created by sanctioned officials.”
“That’s right, but we’re dealing with someone who pre-dates any sanctioned official and who’s far more clever. Instead of a normal, safe travel destination, this guy took a picture of the space just outside a window up there in the Xerox building,” Corbitt said, pointing at the tower. “The woman ended up touching the picture somehow. Next thing she knows, she’s transported to nothing but air ten stories up and tumbles to her death. We’ve had killings like this for years, always with the same M.O.”
Omar blinked wide and asked, “A serial killer? Based on a bunch of apparent suicides who landed near Polaroids?”
Corbitt sighed and said, “Newbies.” After a pause, he continued with, “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Omar hustled after his new partner. Nearby cop cars bathed the pavement in rhythmic red and blue flashes, casting eerie shadows that danced over the entire scene. When the detectives made it to the opposite sidewalk, Corbitt pulled a small flashlight from a pocket and shone it on a small pile of ash marked as evidence.
“And how is a little ash significant?” Omar asked.
“You’re looking at the murder weapon,” Corbitt replied. “Or what’s left of it, at least.”
“A burned Polaroid?”
“Yep. They’ve appeared at every one of the crime scenes involving this serial killer. We’ve run tests on the ash and confirmed that the chemical composition is an exact match for Polaroids. The killer uses the photos to make the kills. We think he uses another to escape, but no luck finding any of those, yet.”
“Maybe he’ll mix the two up one day and take care of this problem once and for all,” Omar joked.
Corbitt chuckled and said, “Let’s hope.”
“But why are they burned up?”
Corbitt shook his head. “Our best guess is that our suspect has found a way to make the photos destroy themselves after a single use. You know, like in Mission: Impossible. ‘This message will self-destruct in five seconds.’”
“Yeah, but who would know how to do that? The perp would have to have a lot of knowledge of the technology to even hope to achieve such a thing. Have you considered that someone working for Kodak could be involved? A Kodaker might have the know-how.”
Corbitt grimaced and issued a short laugh. “I appreciate your gusto, but we already know who the suspect is. He’s been spotted in the vicinity of several of the killings. We have positive identification of the same suspect in each case. We’ve even caught him on surveillance cameras a few times.”
“And he’s not behind bars because …” Torres trailed off.
“Because by the time we get to his location he’s already gone through another Polaroid. After a while, we realized that without knowing where he’s going next, it’s a lost cause.”
“God, who is this guy?”
“Do you know who created the Polaroid system?”
“Well, if grade school taught me anything, it was that Edwin Land invented Polaroid photography, but George Eastman discovered how to use it for teleportation.”
Corbitt nodded, but remained silent.
Omar gasped. “Wait, you’re not saying George Eastman is … he’s been dead for eighty years!”
Corbitt didn’t even blink.
“He is dead, isn’t he?” Omar asked, as Corbitt simply walked away. “Isn’t he?”
The wind howled as it snaked between the gravestones of Mount Hope Cemetery. George Eastman sucked in the cold night air, then exhaled a white plume, the ghostly swirls dissipating in the moonlight. But the mist looked far too much like smoke, so he waved his hands to dispel it completely.
George stood just outside of a large marble mausoleum. For several minutes, he mindlessly stared at two pillars in front of the bronze door. The door had been weathered to a dappled turquoise over the many years since its installation. George was mesmerized by patterns in the turquoise oxide that came alive in the moonshine. He was snapped from his stupor by a fox’s startled bark. The animal stared warily at George for a moment, then ran off.
Reawakened, George set to his work, going to a nearby stone wall. He bent low and began scraping at a pile of leaves. Before long, George hefted a muck-encrusted package wrapped in several Wegmans grocery bags. He sat and carefully untied the knots in the bags’ handles. From the combined mouth of the bags, George pulled a small tripod topped with a large bag clip, a battery-operated blacklight, and, finally, a Polaroid camera, placing each on the ground in a neat row. George stood and picked up the tripod, casting about for the perfect spot for the photo he had to take. After a few moments, he walked a small distance, extended the legs of the tripod, and set the tripod down facing the mausoleum.
George returned to his equipment and grabbed the blacklight. He walked to the foot of the mausoleum’s steps and set the light on the lowest riser. George switched the light on, bathing the graveyard in rhythmic purple flashes. Satisfied that the light and tripod were ready, he picked up the camera, lined up his pristine shot of the mausoleum, and pushed the shutter button. The camera hummed as it ejected a white rectangle framing a smaller, grey rectangle bearing a cloudy image. George ripped the photo from the machine’s grasp and vigorously shook it until the image became sharper and more colorful.
Approving of the photograph, George stepped to the tripod, opened the clip at its top, and placed the newly formed Polaroid into its grasp. When the image was lined up perfectly, it looked like a little window that had miniaturized the mausoleum scene just behind it.
Then he waited.
He stared at the image, his thumbs twiddling in nervous anticipation. Nearly ten minutes passed before the Polaroid began to grow translucent, allowing the blinking ultraviolet light to seep through ever so slightly. The light glowed as a mere blob at first, but slowly organized itself into a recognizable image. Before long, a woman could be seen gliding closer, her lanky hair and nightgown looking like wafting lilac smoke.
“Hello, my love,” George whispered to the image.
The translucent bits shifted, changing the image, moving with the woman. She slid down the mausoleum steps. George took his eyes off the Polaroid for just a moment, hoping to see her gracefully strolling up to him. His heart sank when he realized she only appeared in the photograph. As the woman drew closer, George could see her furrowed brows. She looked angry. She always looked angry.
“I’ve missed you,” George said, hoping to calm her.
The woman spoke, but George only heard incomprehensible whispers. Luckily, his years of stalking victims and remaining in the shadows had taught him a very handy skill: lip reading. He paid special attention to her mouth’s movements, analyzing them until a sentence formed.
“I know you’re mad,” he responded, once he understood her. “But it’s your fault I’m doing this.”
Her lips moved again.
“No! You left me! I gave up everything for you, and then you left me! I had the technology to save you!”
Again, she attempted to communicate.
George translated the lips as saying, “Nobody should have the power you have.”
That was the last straw. George grabbed the Polaroid from the clip, crumpled it into a tiny ball, and tossed it as far as he could. He then kicked over the tripod and yelled at the top of his lungs.
It always ended this way. The Polaroid was always destroyed, and he’d have to take another one upon his next visit. That was for later, though. For now, he nestled up to a gravestone, his knees tucked to his chest, and sobbed until sunup.
Torres had been bothered by the whole G.E. situation and had pressed Corbitt for more information. Corbitt had shrugged, and said, “Look, the sooner you forget about these cases, the better it is for your sanity.”
So, of course, Omar spent most of a Saturday in the Rochester Public Library, thumbing through old newspaper articles and George Eastman biographies. After his long day of research, he headed home. Sonia sat before her laptop at the kitchen table, working on her novel. He bent to kiss her cheek.
“Hey, Babe,” Omar said, straightening and heading for the pot of coffee on the counter. It was cold. As he poured, he shared his new knowledge. “Did you know George Eastman developed the first practical roll film before inventing the Polaroid System?”
“No, hun, I did not know that,” his wife responded with feigned not-quite-enthusiasm. “Coffee? You sure that’s a good idea at this hour?”
Omar waved off the question as he put his mug in the microwave. “Profits from the roll film funded the Polaroid program,” Torres mused over beeps as he set the oven timer. “Edwin Land invented the instant photo tech and the name when he was still a kid.” Torres raised his voice as the microwave roared to life. “Eastman bought him out, they figured out the teleportation. Polaroid took off, and they both got richer than God.” Torres waited for his coffee to finish heating, took it from the microwave, and turned, meeting his wife’s bored eyes. He sipped his coffee. “But then Eastman committed suicide in 1932. Shot himself right in the heart. Dead over eighty years, but Corbitt and the guys insist Eastman’s our perp. How could he still be doing anything, let alone committing murders? It doesn’t make any sense.”
Sonia rolled her eyes and asked, “You ever think the guys at the station are just ribbing you? You’re new after all.”
It only took Omar one second to recollect Corbitt’s personality before he groaned loudly at his own gullibility. He then put all of his George Eastman thoughts to the side until the following Monday.
“You know, you guys almost had me,” Omar said to Corbitt when they next came face to face.
“Huh?” was Corbitt’s only response.
“The George Eastman thing. It was a pretty good gag. I get it, though. Messing with the new guy.”
Corbitt gave Omar a queer look, turned away, walked over to his desk, and opened a file drawer. He returned with a thick manila folder, papers spilling from the edges. After slapping the folder on Torres’ desk, he said, “This is all the information we have on George Eastman. It includes a lot of information the general public will never get to lay their eyes on. If you think I put together this entire file as a joke, then you have some serious trust issues, partner.”
Omar scoffed, still unbelieving. He was still chuckling at the situation as he began skimming through the documents. His smile weakened with every page. Every document mentioned George Eastman, and about ninety percent referred to dates after his supposed suicide. “How is this possible? These documents talk about events in the 1940s, and yet he should have been dead by then.”
Corbitt sat down in a nearby chair, and said, “We gathered most of this information from one of George’s close friends. He was the only one who seemed to know what was really going on … and even that wasn’t much. The information only goes so far. What I can tell you is this: Georgie-boy faked his own death.”
“Fake death or no, old age should’ve caught up to him by now.”
“The answers are all in the file. Clock’s ticking, though; we’ve got patrol in an hour.” As Corbitt walked away, he said, “Check out the part at the bright red tab. It’s some interesting reading.”
Torres rustled his way to the recommended section and began skimming the document. It was an old transcript of a conversation between one Officer Nordick and a tipster simply going by the name of Frank. It was dated April 17th, 1943.
Officer Nordick: So you are good friends with George Eastman, you say?
Frank: I am his best friend, yes.
Officer Nordick: And you are concerned about what he might do?
Frank: Yes sir, he’s become rather unstable.
Officer Nordick: You speak as if he’s still alive. The man’s been dead for over ten years.
Frank: He wants you to think that. I know it sounds absurd, but he is very much alive.
Officer Nordick: Are you sure of that? After all, you are getting on in age, yourself. Maybe—
Frank: Yes, I am sure. I have all my wits about me.
Officer Nordick: Very well, why don’t you just explain why you’ve come here today. What’s your concern?
Frank: George’s wife has passed away, and I think it has driven him a bit insane.
Officer Nordick: Wife? The record clearly shows that Mr. Eastman never married.
Frank: This is true in a sense. He was never married in his normal lifetime, but he was seeing a woman shortly before his supposed death. In fact, he faked his own death just so he could spend all of his time with her. He didn’t want the responsibility of running a company or being a public figure anymore. He gave up everything for her … and now … well … she’s gone.
Officer Nordick: I see. And why exactly is her death a matter for the police?
Frank: Well, after she passed, George came to me in a blind rage. He told me that since he couldn’t save her, he’d save everyone else, whether they wanted his help or not. I’m not sure what he meant by that, but it sounded rather grim.
Officer Nordick: Is that all?
Frank: Yes, sir.
Officer Nordick: You have nothing else for us to go on here? Do you maybe have the wife’s name?
Frank: Ah, yes, of course I do. Do you know of Dolores Canton?
Dolores sat up slightly, releasing vicious hacks into her white silken handkerchief. Her frizzy hair shook wildly with every rattling outburst. When her head flopped back to her pillow, her chest continued to heave with wheezing breaths. Through watery eyes she could make out the wobbling form of a man entering the room.
“How’s she doing?” the man whispered to the nearby doctor.
“Not well, I’m afraid,” the doctor replied. “Her condition is worsening by the hour. I can’t imagine she’ll make it more than a few days.”
The man then put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder, and said, “Well, you’ve tried your best. But now it’s my turn.”
As the two men parted, Dolores’ vision cleared just enough to recognize George gliding to her bedside. “Oh, dear, how are you?” she asked him in a voice devoid of energy.
“How am I? How are you?” he replied. “That’s the more important question.”
“I’m at peace,” she muttered, suddenly clutching at the gold cross necklace hanging from her neck.
George sighed. “You touch that necklace as if you think it will do you any good. It can’t save you … but I can. You know this.”
Dolores shook her head with a dazed smile.
“Maybe if I show you firsthand … ” George began. “Maybe then you’ll understand.”
She continued to smile as George dipped his hand into his back pocket and pulled out a Polaroid photograph. He tilted the image toward his wife in order to give her a better view of the picture. The photograph was of a younger George Eastman, aged only thirty years. Wasting little time, he flicked a switch at the photo’s base, causing the thin square to vibrate between his fingertips. The next instant he was touching the Polaroid’s surface.
At first, Dolores thought her weak eyes were playing tricks on her. George’s white hair developed dark splotches, tiny at first, then growing, like mud seeping through freshly fallen snow. The skin upon his face grew taut, slightly smoothing the wrinkles and minor imperfections at the corners of his mouth and eyes. His skin, once a ghostly translucent hue, began to regain its color. By the time the transformation was complete, he was an exact replica of the man in the Polaroid.
“You are a very handsome man,” Dolores said.
“And you can follow in my footsteps. Become young again. Become healthy again.”
Dolores shook her head. “When He calls you, you go.”
She could see George quivering with barely contained rage as he pulled a photograph of Dolores from his pocket. Through firmly clenched teeth, George said, “If that’s your final answer, then so be it,” and began tearing it to shreds with forceful jerks. When the destruction was complete, he threw every flake of it high into the air, letting the last chance he had to save his wife rain down around him.
Dolores Canton never saw the morning.
Omar lifted his gaze from the file and stared at the wall. Then he saw the clock on the wall and gave a start. 10:15. Crap. He closed the file and bolted out of the station, leaving his coat behind.
Corbitt was waiting outside, tapping his foot. When he saw Omar coming toward him, he couldn’t help saying, “Nice of you to join me.”
“Sorry,” Omar apologized. “Kind of got hooked on that report and lost track of time.”
“I thought you might,” Corbitt said, waving for Omar to follow.
By the time they were at the Polaroid Station, Torres was breathing hot air into his hands and rubbing them on his biceps.
“A jacket would have been a good idea,” Corbitt jabbed. “Rochester has two seasons, after all: three months of summer and nine months of winter.”
“I see that.”
After a quick jump to the High Falls District, the two officers began walking their beat on State Street. It was only a few minutes before Omar brought up the George Eastman case once again. “So, I had no idea Eastman actually ended up getting married.”
Corbitt sighed. “This again?”
“Well, it’s just … how did this fact never get documented? Even if he faked his own death, there would have to be some kind of record of an official marriage.”
“There is. It’s just not where you’d think to look.”
“What do you mean?”
“You would have read this in the file eventually, but, basically, our pal Eastman created a phony identity. He ended up getting married under the name John Westman.”
“Westman? Real funny. He was pretty much rubbing his faked death in all of our faces.”
“Pretty much.”
“What about his wife? Any information on her?”
“Died of lung cancer. She was an avid smoker.”
Omar paused mid-stride and pulled on Corbitt’s shoulder, forcing him to a halt. “Do you think George’s reason to kill has something to do with his wife? I mean he only targets women, right? Has anybody ever looked into her a bit more?”
“Look, it’s great that you’re so interested in this, but you need to realize something. We know who the killer is. We know he targets women. We know he can’t be caught. Why would anyone put more money and manpower into a case that has already been solved, but can’t be stopped? The Chief has us go to the crime scenes as a formality. Nobody researches it, because there’s no point. Everyone simply realizes that we are facing someone who is always ten steps ahead of us. Sometimes you just have to accept defeat.”
Omar’s brows furrowed. “You can’t honestly feel that way. Aren’t we supposed to protect these people?”
“I understand where you are coming from. I really do. I was just like you when I first heard of these cases. But, in all honesty, he doesn’t really kill that often, and it is completely at random. I’m sure he’ll make a misstep some day, but until then …” Corbitt shrugged.
Omar disregarded everything Corbitt said and asked, “Is there a way I can get the autopsy reports on all of the victims?”
“This is an FBI matter, now. They took over years ago. We don’t have access to all of that information anymore.”
Torres’ shoulders drooped in defeat.
Corbitt stared at him for a good minute before pity won out. “Well, I might have some friends that can help us out. I’ll see what I can do.”
On an unseasonably warm December day a few weeks later, Omar let his dappled dachshund ride shotgun on the way to their weekend walk. Corbitt had lived up to his promise and had provided Omar with the autopsy reports a few days before. He wasn’t shocked to find that all the victims had been smokers. It confirmed his suspicions regarding George’s targets. Everything was linked to Dolores Canton, and Omar figured he could do a little more research on his days off. So, when it came time to take his dog for a walk, he specifically selected Mount Hope Cemetery for their little stroll.
The cemetery was caked in slush from the previous day’s drastic snowfall, making the trek between the gravestones and obelisks perilous. Eventually, his small dog could go no further, and Torres had to lift the pooch into his arms to keep trudging forward.
“It’s warm, but the walking conditions are horrible,” he said to the small dachshund. The dog pressed its lower jaw onto Torres’ arm and peered up at him. “I know you’re miserable, but I have to check out one thing before we go home.”
It took some searching, but, before long, Omar found what he was looking for. “Ah, here it is!” he said, letting the dachshund down before staring up at the mausoleum. He admired the pillars out front and ran his fingers over the rough surface. Above the green door a name was etched into the gray marble. “Dolores Westman,” Omar read aloud.
He wasn’t all that sure why he wanted to come to this place. He just had a hunch that he’d receive some sort of inspiration on how to stop Eastman. Omar knew it was a long shot, but he would take what he could get. It was quiet, after all, and at the very least it provided a peaceful place to think.
Ten minutes passed, and all Torres could think about was what he wanted for dinner. Dusk was settling and the air became tinged with cold. It was clearly time to go. That’s when he heard rustling off to his right. Turning, Omar noticed his dog digging away at a nearby stone wall. Upon closer inspection, he could see a brown plastic bag slowly being unearthed.
“Ruffles!” Omar yelled at the dachshund. “Get away from there!” Kneeling, he managed to get a better look at what was uncovered. The object seemed larger than he had expected. Growing more intrigued, Omar began digging at it himself, eventually managing to claw out a sizable plastic-wrapped bundle.
Having revealed the package he surmised Eastman had buried here, Omar tried untying the bag’s twisted knots. His small fingers only served to tighten the tangle, and before long he was tearing the plastic completely to shreds. Once a large enough hole had been made, he began pulling out the objects within: a tripod, a camera, and a blacklight. Leaving the other trinkets behind, Omar stood up with the camera in his hands. He examined the lens, then turned the camera around to peer through the viewfinder.
“Don’t touch that!” a voice rasped behind him. Omar jumped slightly, his finger slipping over a button on the camera. There was a flash, followed by a buzz as a Polaroid slipped out of the camera’s front. He had unintentionally snapped a picture of the graveyard’s slushy ground.
When Omar turned around, he saw a man standing ten feet away from him. The man’s hair was short, black, and parted down the middle. He scowled, and a pair of glasses glimmered in front of his dark eyes. It only took Omar a brief moment to realize who was standing before him.
Not knowing what to say, Omar muttered, “I know who you are.”
George Eastman’s right eyebrow rose slightly before he responded with a simple “Oh?”
“And I know why you’ve been killing those women,” Omar continued, while he internally shouted at himself to shut up before it was too late.
George’s posture loosened, suddenly, a smile creeping onto his face. He began pacing around nearby gravestones, swinging his arms in an amused fashion. “Do you now?”
“Your wife. Dolores Canton, or Dolores Westman. She died of lung cancer, right? And you couldn’t stand this, so you went and started some insane anti-smoking campaign, trying to scare the world straight. You want people to fear the whole concept of smoking, and to be rid of it once and for all. Isn’t that right?”
Omar’s confidence had grown with each word, but deflated quickly at George’s response.
“You really have no clue, do you?” Eastman began to laugh. “Do you even know what you are holding in your hands?”
Omar looked down at the camera. “Yeah, it’s a Polaroid camera.”
George shook his head. “That’s not just any Polaroid camera! That is a one-of-a-kind beauty. It was designed with an … extra feature. It allows me to take a glimpse into the spirit world. With that, I can literally see the dead.”
Omar looked back down at the camera. “But how—?”
“Shut up!” George interrupted, his demeanor souring in a second. “You speak of my wife? You are not worthy even to utter her name!” He paused, gripping the side of a gravestone.
Looks like George has jumped the shark, thought Omar, watching Eastman struggle to hold back tears.
“When she was gone … I wanted to see her again. That’s when I invented that camera. I came here as soon as I had it working. And do you know what she told me?”
Omar was about to respond, but Eastman barreled on.
“She said smoking those cigarettes was like a long-term suicide, which God did not accept. She was as religious as they come, and yet she was denied entrance into Heaven. How the Hell is that fair?”
Omar stood in silence for maybe a bit too long before stammering, “I-I agree with you. It’s not fair.”
George began stumbling closer, as he said, “So, you see, I’m not killing those people to hurt them. I do not murder, but kill to save them. If they die by my hand, God will have no choice but to accept them, right? Right?”
George was now uncomfortably close. Omar stepped back until his butt was flush against the stone wall. “I just don’t think that’s very logical,” Omar replied, while frantically looking for a place to run.
“You don’t get it. Nobody does …”
Omar didn’t understand what Eastman was doing until it was too late. All he saw was a flash of white paper as Eastman slapped a Polaroid toward him. It was such a quick movement that he had no chance to dodge. All he could do was throw his hands up in defense. It wasn’t enough. The Polaroid touched down upon his wrist, and the cemetery vanished.
The next moment, Omar’s clothes were fluttering in the wind. He could see glowing red letters shrinking into the night above. KODAK. Falling beside the Kodak building. Omar closed his eyes and thought of his wife and dog, preparing for death.
Then the camera strap slapped him in the face and his eyes snapped open, hope returning. He still gripped the machine tight in his right hand. The camera still held the accidental Polaroid. Eastman had said its photographs allowed him to see the dead. Omar prayed they could still teleport as he snatched the photo and touched its activation button.
The ground grew ever closer, but, in a flash of inspiration, Omar twisted and snapped a Polaroid of the sky above him. Then, closing his eyes, Omar pressed his fingers against the activated cemetery image.
When he realized that he hadn’t hit pavement, Omar opened his eyes. He was resting peacefully on the graveyard’s wet ground. Quickly, he turned his head to inspect his surroundings. Eastman was nearby, facing the mausoleum, apparently unaware of Omar’s reappearance.
As quietly as he could, Omar stood and removed the Polaroid of the sky from the camera. With great caution, he pressed the button on the photo’s frame. Tiny vibrations scuttled through his hands as the photo became active. Finally, with a flick of his wrist, Omar spun the Polaroid at Eastman’s back, wincing at the noise of his cuff slapping against the back of his hand. Eastman’s spine straightened, and he turned, but realized too late what was happening. And then … he was gone.
Torres’ knees buckled, causing him to topple backwards into a sitting position. He let out a deep sigh of relief and wiped sweat from his brow, eventually succumbing to hysterical fits of nervous laughter.
Ruffles greeted him with a bevy of licks on the hand, calming him. Omar gathered the dog into his arms, planted a kiss atop his speckled head, and headed home.
Omar expected a call regarding a new death just outside the Kodak building. Most likely the call would be from Corbitt. Omar would play dumb, pretending not to know anything about the death. Corbitt would never believe his story. No point in giving him even more harassment material. The call never came, though; no death at Kodak was reported. But from that day forward, there were no more G.E. incidents. If Eastman had met a messy end, where was the body? Just where had Omar sent the man?
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