A Golden Opportunity

 

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write a story that’s told through a camera. It can be any type of camera in any circumstance. This week’s story comes from the pen of Phil Yeats.

In April 2024, Phil published The Body on Karli’s Beach, the third book in his Barrettsport Mysteries, a series of soft-boiled mysteries set in a fictional South Shore, Nova Scotia town. For information about these books, The Road to Environmental Armageddon, his trilogy about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change, and his latest, a novella titled Starting Over Again: A Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy visit his website: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/.

 

 

A Golden Opportunity

Phil Yeats

 

The victim’s condo was elegant, sparsely furnished with high-end furniture and devoid of keepsakes. The sole exception was a photograph in an exotic-looking wooden frame of three young men, none of them the victim, in a forest setting.

“Anything on the identity of our victim?” asked Max Beech, the senior detective who’d been called in from vacation to take on the case.

“Nothing on the body, and nothing personal in the condo except a single photo. The place is sterile, like an upscale Airbnb,” said Samantha Taylor, the officer in charge until the chief intervened. “We showed a tidied-up mugshot of the victim to the condo manager, who identified him as Percival Smythe-Jones, listed as the owner since the building opened four years ago.”

“Smythe-Jones. Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Reginald Smythe-Jones, Minister of Transport in the federal government.”

“Could he be the victim’s father?”

Sam nodded. “According to Reginald’s official government bio, he’s a widower with three daughters and a son named Percival. The chief said I was to leave contacting him to you.”

Max scowled, wondering why the chief wouldn’t let Sam contact Smythe-Jones. It was such an obvious first step. “Anything else I should know?”

“The photo. Here’s a shot I took with my phone before the crime scene squad shooed us out. Two things. Trees beside the figures and in the immediate background suggest a forest scene, but farther back the scene is barren. Could be a quarry or a strip-mining site.”

“And the second thing?”

“The lab guys say there’s a handwritten date on the back that suggests it was taken five years ago, and three names. Mike Brown, Chris Martin, and Matt McDonald. No prints other than the deceased’s.”

“While I’m chasing Smythe-Jones around Ottawa, you can continue looking after the crime scene investigation and then locate those three. I have a feeling that the solution to this investigation may revolve around this photo.”

Sam laughed. Everyone on the force knew Max’s hunches often contributed to his stellar success rate.

“A crime solved through the lens of a camera,” she said.

Max sighed as he left the crime scene. He’d much prefer sifting through the meagre debris at the scene than phoning the Right Honourable Reginald Percy-Jones, but orders were orders. Outside the condo building, he placed a call to Smythe-Jones’s office in Ottawa. No one answered, so he left a text message and copied the message to an email. His next stop; the crime lab for a look at the photograph and picture frame.

His phone rang outside the crime lab. Smythe-Jones got right to the point. “Busy, on my way to an important meeting. I can give you ten minutes, no more.” After Max explained the reason for his call, Smythe Jones said, “The lad is a great disappointment. Haven’t seen him for five years, and you’re calling me from Halifax, right?”

“That’s correct. We need someone, preferably a family member, to identify the body.”

“I don’t have time. Call my daughter, Emily Smythe-Jones. She lives in Nova Scotia.” He gave Max a phone number and broke off the call.

“Jerk,” Max said to the empty hallway before dialling the number.

“What a jerk,” Emily said after Max explained the purpose of his call. “I’ll never understand why voters in Toronto support him. He thinks because I work from home with two small kids, I can drop everything and run his bloody errands anywhere on the east coast at the drop of a hat.” She paused for a breath. “Tell me where to meet you. I can be there in an hour.”

 

After Emily identified the body, Max asked her a few questions, starting with, “Your brother was estranged from his father?”

“You could say that, but the reality was much worse. Father hated Percy, his youngest child and only son, for as long as I can remember.”

“Any explanation for why he felt like that?”

“He longed for a son, someone who’d take over his property development empire when Father went into politics.”

“It didn’t work out that way.”

“No. Percy is, sorry, was, a gentle soul, not someone who’d be successful in the cutthroat worlds of property development and property management.”

Max switched topics. “Have you ever been to his apartment?”

“Many times, the most recent was about a month ago.”

“Would you describe it as austere?”

Emily’s furrowed brow and silence for a few seconds suggested trouble processing the question. “Not a lot of knick-knacks because he had few friends and little social life, but his computer was always on his coffee table with papers strewn all over the place.”

“Cell phone?”

“Usually on its charger on the equally cluttered kitchen counter. He never seemed to wash his dishes.”

 

At the station, Max typed up his notes while he waited for Samantha. She arrived and plunked herself down in his visitor’s chair. “Had a conversation with Mike Brown in Vancouver. He, Chris Martin, Matt McDonald, and Perry Jones, as he called our victim, were students at a small college in Squamish. That’s near Vancouver. He, Chris, and Matt were friends. Perry, to use Mike’s words, was a pain in the butt, always poking his ugly mug in where he wasn’t wanted.”

“And.”

“They were talking about a recent landslide when Perry arrived. Chris, who was a geology buff, had just said something about wishing he could visit the scene, and Perry must have overheard him. The next morning, when Perry arrived outside their dorm wing with a Hummer, they had little choice. They climbed in and headed for the slide location not too far from Squamish. It wasn’t visible from the road, but Perry seemed to know the logging roads and other tracks in the area, and they were soon across a little valley from the slide.”

“What about the photo?”

“Mike recognized it, confirmed it was a photo of hm and his two buddies. Said Perry had a camera with an enormous telephoto lens. He took many photos, sent about fifteen to Mike and his friends a few days later.”

“Does he still have them?”

Sam shook her head. “Mike said he’d look, but he wasn’t optimistic. He said he deletes photos that don’t interest him. But he told me, Chris may have kept them.”

“Can we contact Chris?”

Sam nodded. “He lives in Australia, but Mike gave me his email address. Already sent him a message.”

“And the third guy, Matt?”

“Mike didn’t have a contact for him.”

“Check with the college. We need those photos. We’re looking at a landslide, not a quarry or a strip mine. If we can stare through the lens of that camera, we’ll learn something important.”

 

to be continued

 

 

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/