its obligatory gasp.
âCome on, man! Iâm missing the show!â
The cop jerks his head toward the building, and Iâm past him in a flash, moving along the perimeter of the crowd, shooting as I go. No one seems to notice that Iâm shooting the crowd and not the fire. Every now and then I point the camera up at the burning building, but I donât waste any exposures on it.
The expressions on the faces are all the same: primitive fascination bordering on glee. A couple of female faces show empathy, a sense that this destruction is a tragedy, but with no shrieking mothers with infants leaping from windows, no teenagers trying to climb down burning bedsheets, the mood is more like a party.
If the guy in the alley didnât set this fire, the person who did is probably in this crowd. Arsonists love to watch their fires burn, they almost have to do it. But what are the odds that this blaze was set by a firebug? Twenty-four hours after I discover a link between the Sleeping Women and the New Orleans victims, the only human connection to the artist is burned alive? The timing is too perfect. This fire was set to silence Christopher Wingate. And the man who did it could be standing within yards of me right now. I may already have his face on film.
From the reading I did after Jane was taken, I learned that serial killers often return to the scenes of their crimes, to revel in their success, to relive their dreadful acts, even to masturbate where they listened to their victimsâ pleas. Killing Wingate would be nothing like killing the women in the paintings; it would be a utilitarian crime, an act of survival. But the murderer might well wait to be sure he accomplished his goal. And who knows what twisted history the two men might have shared? What did Wingate say to me? You wouldnât believe some of the things Iâve seen.
As I turn back from the burning building, a furtive movement registers in my peripheral vision. Wide eyes dropping below the back edge of the crowd, off to my right. People are standing five deep at the tape now, and I canât see the eyes anymore. But as I watch, a sock cap begins to move along the back of the crowd, coming in my direction. Throwing up my camera arm, I pop off a shot over the heads of the crowd. The head disappears, then reappears still closer. I squeeze the shutter release again, but it wonât depress, and then I feel the vibration of the rewind motor in my hand; the crowd noise prevented my hearing it.
Iâm out of film.
The sock cap moves forward now, pushing slowly toward me through the crowd. Iâm tempted to wait for a good look at his face, but what if heâs carrying a gun? Close enough to see is close enough to shoot, and I donât want to die here. âJordan Glass, Noted War Photographer, Shot Dead on Fifteenth Street in Chelsea.â That headline has the ironic ring of truth, and Iâm not waiting for it to be borne out by events. Glancing around, I rush up to the fire captain, whoâs standing by the one of the engines, talking to a cop.
âCaptain!â
He gives me an annoyed look.
âJane Adams, from the Post. I was shooting the crowd back there, and I passed a guy who smelled like gasoline. When I said something about it, he started following me through the crowd. He was wearing a sock cap.â
The firemanâs eyes go wide. âWhere?â
I turn and point back to the spot I left moments ago. There, for an instant, I see a pale bearded face and blazing eyes beneath the sock cap. It vanishes so quickly, I wonder if it was there at all.
âThere! Did you see him?â
The fire captain races toward the tape, followed by the cop who was standing beside him.
âWhat was that?â asks another cop who suddenly appears at my side.
âI smelled gas on a guy over there. They went to check it out.â
âNo shit? Good work. You with the Times ?â
âThe Post. I just hope they
âCome on, man! Iâm missing the show!â
The cop jerks his head toward the building, and Iâm past him in a flash, moving along the perimeter of the crowd, shooting as I go. No one seems to notice that Iâm shooting the crowd and not the fire. Every now and then I point the camera up at the burning building, but I donât waste any exposures on it.
The expressions on the faces are all the same: primitive fascination bordering on glee. A couple of female faces show empathy, a sense that this destruction is a tragedy, but with no shrieking mothers with infants leaping from windows, no teenagers trying to climb down burning bedsheets, the mood is more like a party.
If the guy in the alley didnât set this fire, the person who did is probably in this crowd. Arsonists love to watch their fires burn, they almost have to do it. But what are the odds that this blaze was set by a firebug? Twenty-four hours after I discover a link between the Sleeping Women and the New Orleans victims, the only human connection to the artist is burned alive? The timing is too perfect. This fire was set to silence Christopher Wingate. And the man who did it could be standing within yards of me right now. I may already have his face on film.
From the reading I did after Jane was taken, I learned that serial killers often return to the scenes of their crimes, to revel in their success, to relive their dreadful acts, even to masturbate where they listened to their victimsâ pleas. Killing Wingate would be nothing like killing the women in the paintings; it would be a utilitarian crime, an act of survival. But the murderer might well wait to be sure he accomplished his goal. And who knows what twisted history the two men might have shared? What did Wingate say to me? You wouldnât believe some of the things Iâve seen.
As I turn back from the burning building, a furtive movement registers in my peripheral vision. Wide eyes dropping below the back edge of the crowd, off to my right. People are standing five deep at the tape now, and I canât see the eyes anymore. But as I watch, a sock cap begins to move along the back of the crowd, coming in my direction. Throwing up my camera arm, I pop off a shot over the heads of the crowd. The head disappears, then reappears still closer. I squeeze the shutter release again, but it wonât depress, and then I feel the vibration of the rewind motor in my hand; the crowd noise prevented my hearing it.
Iâm out of film.
The sock cap moves forward now, pushing slowly toward me through the crowd. Iâm tempted to wait for a good look at his face, but what if heâs carrying a gun? Close enough to see is close enough to shoot, and I donât want to die here. âJordan Glass, Noted War Photographer, Shot Dead on Fifteenth Street in Chelsea.â That headline has the ironic ring of truth, and Iâm not waiting for it to be borne out by events. Glancing around, I rush up to the fire captain, whoâs standing by the one of the engines, talking to a cop.
âCaptain!â
He gives me an annoyed look.
âJane Adams, from the Post. I was shooting the crowd back there, and I passed a guy who smelled like gasoline. When I said something about it, he started following me through the crowd. He was wearing a sock cap.â
The firemanâs eyes go wide. âWhere?â
I turn and point back to the spot I left moments ago. There, for an instant, I see a pale bearded face and blazing eyes beneath the sock cap. It vanishes so quickly, I wonder if it was there at all.
âThere! Did you see him?â
The fire captain races toward the tape, followed by the cop who was standing beside him.
âWhat was that?â asks another cop who suddenly appears at my side.
âI smelled gas on a guy over there. They went to check it out.â
âNo shit? Good work. You with the Times ?â
âThe Post. I just hope they
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