Those Who Live in Grass Houses

Snapper and the Ghost

Snapper and the Ghost

"I'm a photographer. I take pictures of dead people."

I rubbed my eyes to hasten their clearing from the flash of the camera. When I opened them again, I could see the photographer preparing for another shot. A slight figure with tousled, ginger hair sprouting haphazardly from his scalp, his clothing shabby and worn, he appeared quite harmless. I held up my hand to prevent another photo.

“That’ll be enough, I think. Are you saying you’re the official crime scene photographer?”

He nodded several times. “Yes, that’s me.”

“And how long have you been doing the job?”

“Umm, two weeks.” His foot traced vague circles in the dust as though he wanted to avoid my questions. I asked the inevitable.

“Is this your first body?”

He nodded reluctantly.

“Your name?” I asked.

“Arnold Snapper.”

I grinned. “Your real name.”

“It’s true,” he protested. “I know it’s funny but Snapper really is my name.”

For a few moments I stared at him. He shifted again under my gaze, obviously uncomfortable. Then I let him have it.

“Snapper, you’re supposed to take photos of the body, not the chief detective.”

It was now his turn to rub his eyes. He did so, had another look at me, and stepped backward. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and cracked before he got control of it. “Well, sir… Have you looked at yourself in a mirror recently?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” This was becoming annoying. I glared at him in the way that usually reduced underlings to tears. He took another step back and began to fiddle with his camera.

“Hang on - I can show you.” He found what he was looking for, advanced towards me and turned the camera so that I could see the view screen.

Staring back at me was a face mutilated beyond recognition. One side of the face was a sticky mess of blood, flesh and bone, the result of a shotgun blast at close range, I’d guess. The other was so obscured by gore that it was completely unidentifiable, but the remaining eye was open and fixed on me. Snapper’s voice intruded as I took in the horrific details.

“That’s the photo I just took, sir.”

I looked up at his scared face. “You saying that’s me?”

He nodded.

“And I’m still alive?” The injuries made this seem impossible.

“Look again, sir. The blood has congealed. You’re not bleeding.”

Another glance was enough to tell me he was correct. The blood was not even oozing from the hideous wound. In desperation, I turned away and searched the ground for a real body. There was none within the yellow police tape surrounding us. I was alone with Snapper.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “It’s a crime scene, I can see that. But where is everyone? The place should be crawling with uniforms and the M.E.”

“They ran when you got up, sir.”

“And you stayed?” It seemed unlikely that the only one with any guts would be this half-baked young photographer.

“I couldn’t ignore the chance. I was the only one with a camera and how could I miss an opportunity like this? Any photographer would do the same.”

He had a point. I grunted as indication of agreement with his choice. No doubt the first photograph of… What was I? A zombie? A ghost? Most like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, really. Not that it mattered. My photo should make Snapper a millionaire. No doubt my young friend would happily share his good fortune with me too. I wondered if I would have any use for such wealth.

Snapper’s voice brought me back to reality. “What happened? How did you get killed?”

Good question, I thought. Very quickly, I realised that I had no memory of how I’d reached my present circumstances. Memory was still there with all the usual faces and events but those few hours leading up to my death were gone. I remembered going to bed the night before and then, zap, I’m struggling to my feet and Snapper was firing his flash in my face.

“I don’t remember,” I confessed. “Is it important?”

As soon as I asked the question, I realised that it was a strange thing for a detective to ask. It seemed I’d lost my interest in solving crimes. Death does unexpected things to the mind, apparently.

“Well, I was kinda hoping we could work together to catch the murderer,” said Snapper.

“Oh, good idea. That would get you almost as much fame as selling my photo to the media.” It was a brutal way to pop Snapper’s bubble but I had to figure out quickly what I did from that point.

Snapper came back without hesitation. “Thought of that. But I can do it anytime. Solving the crime has to be done now or not at all. When the others come creeping back, our chance to work it out goes up in smoke. You sure you remember nothing?”

There was some sense in what he was saying. It gave me something to do while I found out what was next on my agenda. “A total blank, Arnold. Sorry. But I can give you some advice. Have a good look round the crime scene. Anything within the tape could have a bearing on the matter. Forensics…”

That was the moment I had my first stirring of ambition in death. I could see it all - the famous crime fighters extraordinaire, Snapper and the Ghost. There might be a good side to this mess after all.


House Martell

Line count: 929
For {item::got} The North Remembers, New Orleans Prompt 1
Prompt: You and your ghost best friend are an infamous crime-solving team.