Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell (best book reader .TXT) 📕

to Larry Unger. He let out a sigh of resignation and nodded slowly. “Okay. First thing. I’d better talk to F.K.”

F.K. was John F.K. Parenteau, Titanic Productions’s long-standing director of photography and main camera operator. He’d dropped the John because he was sick of being called J.F.K, another link to Zapruder if you believed in conspiracy theories. McNulty didn’t believe in conspiracies. Not even coincidences. So the first assistant cameraman disappearing along with his camera was a fair indication that he was involved in some way. McNulty waited until they were between setups, then guided Parenteau into a secluded glade.

“The new kid didn’t show up this morning?”

Parenteau understood where this was going. “About the Arriflex, you’re asking?”

McNulty leaned back against a tree. “When did you see him last?”

Parenteau rubbed his chin, as if that would aid his memory. “In the courtroom. He was doing reverse coverage.”

“What about after?”

This time he scratched the back of his neck, paused, then shook his head. “Everything was madness. After. Was he taken to give a statement?”

McNulty raised his eyebrows but didn’t answer. That would be a question for Jon Harris if it came to that. McNulty reckoned it would come to that. Just not yet. He looked at the director of photography. “What was he filming?”

Parenteau’s face brightened. This was one he could answer. “Reverse angles of the room. Some close-ups of the extras. Reaction shots.”

There’d certainly be some reaction shots, that was for sure. Evidence as crucial as the Zapruder film, only this time including the lone gunman. This wasn’t a grassy knoll situation where the camera was pointing the other way. Severino had been filming reverse angles, pointing the camera toward the double doors at the back of the courtroom, and the glass doors at the main entrance to the orphanage were in the deep background.

“What happened when the shooting started?”

Parenteau laughed as if that were obvious, but he answered anyway. “There was a stampede. To the only way out.”

McNulty lowered his head. “The door behind the judge’s bench.”

Parenteau nodded. His voice trembled. “It was a bottleneck. We all thought we would be next. In that room.”

McNulty remembered seeing the Arriflex on the floor. “And he dropped the camera.”

Parenteau looked embarrassed. “We dropped everything. I’m sorry.”

McNulty pushed off from the tree and patted F.K. gently on the shoulder. “No need to be sorry.” He stood up straight. “You didn’t see him after that?”

Parenteau shook his head. This time he was close to tears. “We should not be filming. We should have shut down.”

McNulty shrugged. “It’s a no-win situation. Life goes on. Shut down and we’re all out of a job.”

Parenteau wiped his eyes and straightened his shoulders. “And now?”

McNulty hardened his eyes. Not at the cameraman but at what he had to do next.

“Now? Room service.”

TEN

McNulty stood on the south bank of the Charles River and looked at the motel’s rear aspect. The gentle curve of Crescent Street around the front not only dictated the building’s shape but also gave the Crescent Motel its name. The curve of the street was determined by the sweep of the Charles River. Randy Severino’s room was upstairs, overlooking the river.

A pleasure boat sounded its horn and McNulty glanced toward the bridge as the captain prepared to turn the boat around. Tourists snapped photographs of the river flowing down the weir with the Francis Cabot Lowell Mill in the background. Pedestrians on the bridge took photos of the pleasure boat. Reverse angle shots were the theme of the day. McNulty looked up at the first assistant cameraman’s window and plotted his route. Middle stairwell. Along the walkway. Third room from the end. Knock on the door. Cops always knock on the door before they decide to break in. He’d taught Alfonse that on his first day. Just after stopping him from walking like a duck.

The middle stairwell was concrete and rendered brick. It doglegged back on itself halfway up, bringing him out on the rear walkway. McNulty paused at the top of the stairs and reassessed his approach. Nothing had changed since he’d lost sight of the room on his way up. The drapes were still drawn. The window was still shut. The door was still closed. There was only one way in or out.

He stood on the balcony for another minute, listening to make sure nobody else was coming up the stairs. He checked both ways along the balcony walkway then looked down at the riverside gardens. Nobody was down there looking up. McNulty was invisible. He strode along the walkway with a strong, confident walk. Easy movement. Relaxed hands. Like he belonged there, which he did. His room was just at the other end. He ticked the room numbers off as he passed and slowed when he neared the third from the end.

The window was still shut.

He listened for footsteps behind him. Nothing.

The drapes were still drawn.

He glanced over the balcony. Nothing.

The door was still closed.

He checked the far stairwell. Nothing.

The room came up on his left and he stopped at the door. He listened for any sound inside but the room was quiet. There was no sign of movement behind the flimsy drapes. There were no smells to indicate anything untoward had happened. Dead people smell, even after one day. There was nobody dead inside.

McNulty raised his fist and knocked on the door. His copper’s knock. The don’t-mess-with-me-it’s-the-police knock. There was no response. There was still no movement behind the drapes. He knocked again for completeness and got the same result. Alfonse would have been impressed. He tried the handle but this was a budget motel, the doors latched automatically when they closed. The card-reader slot was above the handle. He tried his room key in the reader. It didn’t open. He let out a sigh then looked both ways again.

Still nobody coming.

He nodded and pushed the door gently but firmly. It wasn’t a good fit. It moved a quarter inch and stopped but didn’t feel very solid.