Read Online The Skeleton's Knee by Archer Mayor - Free Book Online
Authors: Archer Mayor
Tags: USA
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Angelis. None of them is particularly graceful, inspiring, or even fanciful. Reflecting the era and the mentality that gave them birth, they are for the most part solid, practical, and businesslike. With the exception of the Brooks House and its Second Empire fifth-floor tower, the heavy, smudged brick and granite buildings standing shoulder-to-shoulder are a perfect reflection of the serious, dogmatic, slightly vainglorious New England industrial spirit.
I headed for Photo 101, a hole-in-the-wall photography store owned by a tall, stooped, skinny chemist named Allen Rogers, whose years of exposure to darkroom fumes and chemicals had stained his hands, affected his eyesight, and damaged his lungs. As the police department didn’t have a darkroom, much to J.P.’s distress, Allen had become our primary film processor.
The store, just opposite the Vermont National Bank, was on the first floor of what looked like a brownstone walk-up. Its front room was narrow and high, its ornamental tin ceiling smudged with ancient leaks from the floor above, and its shelves and counters cluttered with archaic photographic paraphernalia so old and dusty it looked more like a bankrupt museum than a store. The old-fashioned bell above the door tinkled feebly as I entered.
“Be right with you.” The voice came from the gloomy rear of the building, beyond a wall partition decorated with photographs of airbrushed prom-night girls with bouffant hairdos, all of whom were well into middle age by now.
“Take your time, Al. It’s Joe Gunther.”
“Hey, Joe. Come on back.”
I began picking my way carefully toward the disembodied voice. Despite appearances, Allen Rogers made a good living. As a darkroom technician, he was a near genius, capable not only of producing beautiful prints from standard negatives but also of salvaging decent results from negatives so poor that most people would have thrown them out. It was a talent he marketed well.
I reached the partition and edged around its side, entering a back room that was half stock area, lined with freestanding metal shelf units, and half closed-off darkroom, the door of which had a red light burning brightly above it. My eyes instinctively scanned the contents of the shelves as I passed them to approach the darkroom door. The other strength of Allen’s business was that he mostly served the highbrows of his profession; stacked in neat and orderly piles were papers, chemicals, and films I’d never even heard of, reserved for those whose forays into the darkroom were truly artistic. Indeed, Al had once told me that he kept the front part of his shop in such musty chaos to politely discourage weekend snapshooters.
I knocked on the door. “You want me to come in?”
“Sure; I’m just racking some prints.”
I twisted the knob and walked into a brightly lit laboratory as pristine and orderly as an operating room. The shiny steel surfaces of long, deep sinks and circulating equipment contrasted with several looming dark enlargers, the softly glowing eyes of digital timers and thermometers, and the light-absorbing black paint covering the walls and ceiling.
“Never been in here before?” Rogers glanced at me over his shoulder. He was slipping damp oversized prints onto wire mesh racks so they could dry.
“No. Looks like something out of NASA.”
“Well, don’t tell the IRS; I only tell them about the front. What’s on your mind? You usually send J.P. down here.”
“Now I know why he takes so long getting back to the office.”
Allen laughed as he placed his last print in place. “Yeah—he’s got a mind like a vacuum cleaner, always full of questions.”
I pulled the rolls of film out of my pocket and held them out to him.
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?”
“It’s a little special. On this one roll, I photographed a piece of evidence that was stolen immediately afterward—a chart hanging on a wall. This is the only copy I’ve got of it.”
He took the roll
I headed for Photo 101, a hole-in-the-wall photography store owned by a tall, stooped, skinny chemist named Allen Rogers, whose years of exposure to darkroom fumes and chemicals had stained his hands, affected his eyesight, and damaged his lungs. As the police department didn’t have a darkroom, much to J.P.’s distress, Allen had become our primary film processor.
The store, just opposite the Vermont National Bank, was on the first floor of what looked like a brownstone walk-up. Its front room was narrow and high, its ornamental tin ceiling smudged with ancient leaks from the floor above, and its shelves and counters cluttered with archaic photographic paraphernalia so old and dusty it looked more like a bankrupt museum than a store. The old-fashioned bell above the door tinkled feebly as I entered.
“Be right with you.” The voice came from the gloomy rear of the building, beyond a wall partition decorated with photographs of airbrushed prom-night girls with bouffant hairdos, all of whom were well into middle age by now.
“Take your time, Al. It’s Joe Gunther.”
“Hey, Joe. Come on back.”
I began picking my way carefully toward the disembodied voice. Despite appearances, Allen Rogers made a good living. As a darkroom technician, he was a near genius, capable not only of producing beautiful prints from standard negatives but also of salvaging decent results from negatives so poor that most people would have thrown them out. It was a talent he marketed well.
I reached the partition and edged around its side, entering a back room that was half stock area, lined with freestanding metal shelf units, and half closed-off darkroom, the door of which had a red light burning brightly above it. My eyes instinctively scanned the contents of the shelves as I passed them to approach the darkroom door. The other strength of Allen’s business was that he mostly served the highbrows of his profession; stacked in neat and orderly piles were papers, chemicals, and films I’d never even heard of, reserved for those whose forays into the darkroom were truly artistic. Indeed, Al had once told me that he kept the front part of his shop in such musty chaos to politely discourage weekend snapshooters.
I knocked on the door. “You want me to come in?”
“Sure; I’m just racking some prints.”
I twisted the knob and walked into a brightly lit laboratory as pristine and orderly as an operating room. The shiny steel surfaces of long, deep sinks and circulating equipment contrasted with several looming dark enlargers, the softly glowing eyes of digital timers and thermometers, and the light-absorbing black paint covering the walls and ceiling.
“Never been in here before?” Rogers glanced at me over his shoulder. He was slipping damp oversized prints onto wire mesh racks so they could dry.
“No. Looks like something out of NASA.”
“Well, don’t tell the IRS; I only tell them about the front. What’s on your mind? You usually send J.P. down here.”
“Now I know why he takes so long getting back to the office.”
Allen laughed as he placed his last print in place. “Yeah—he’s got a mind like a vacuum cleaner, always full of questions.”
I pulled the rolls of film out of my pocket and held them out to him.
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?”
“It’s a little special. On this one roll, I photographed a piece of evidence that was stolen immediately afterward—a chart hanging on a wall. This is the only copy I’ve got of it.”
He took the roll
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