“I knew there was a reason I asked for your help,” Emert dead-panned.
“There’s some interesting reading material on the desk,” I said. “Soviet spies and such. Did you see that?”
“I did,” he said. “We took pictures of the notepad and the book titles. Novak checked the books out of the library pretty recently. Thornton was very interested in those. I’m guessing his cohorts up at Bureau headquarters will be, too, since they’re already spun up about terrorists and the gamma source.”
“Hey, guys?” It was Thornton, calling from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” yelled Emert. “Whatcha got?”
“Spoiled milk and rotten vegetables in the fridge,” said the agent. “Healthy Choice entrées in the freezer. And Prince Albert in a can, hiding behind the Healthy Choice.”
Emert and I looked at each other. “Shit,” he said softly, then—louder, to Thornton and whoever was with him in the kitchen—“don’t touch it. Let me come check it out with my chirper.” The detective reached down to his belt and removed a small, pagerlike device. “Personal radiation monitor,” he said, checking a small display to be sure the gadget was on. “An active dosimeter, like Duane and Hank wear. That day in the morgue spooked me bad. I don’t even let my wife near me without switching this on.”
“I bet she really likes it,” said Art, “when you tell her she’s not hot.”
“I might oughta choose my words carefully,” he conceded, disappearing around the chimney. A moment later, he said, “It’s okay. Let’s see if there’s anything besides pipe tobacco inside.”
Art and I wandered in to see. With five of us in there, the kitchen was getting crowded. The forensic tech was holding a painted tin can bearing the scuffed image of Queen Victoria’s bewhiskered, pipe-smoking husband. A small metal key was affixed to the can’s rim—a built-in lever to pry the lid off. The tech set the can on the counter and raised the key. The lid seemed stuck. The technician pressed harder and the key began to bend. Finally, just as it seemed that the key would break, the lid popped from the can, cartwheeled through the air, and clattered to the floor. “Smooth,” said Emert. “That’s good for the evidence.”
“Sorry,” said the tech.
Emert peered into the can, then picked it up and tilted it toward Art and me. Tucked into the can was what appeared to be a roll of photographic film. “Looks like 35-millimeter, right?”
“Almost, but not quite,” I said. “Look at the ends of the canister.”
He looked. “What about them?”
“There’s no spindle,” I said. “I use a 35-millimeter camera to shoot slides at death scenes, so I’ve loaded lots of film. If you look at the top or the bottom of the film canister, there’s this spindle—like an axle—that the film is wound around. When you’ve finished shooting the roll, a little crank turns the spindle to rewind the film.”
He looked puzzled. “So it’s not film?”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure it is,” I said. “See that slit, in the edge of the canister? It’s lined with black felt. That’s the opening for the film. The black felt keeps light from leaking in. I think maybe it’s just really old film—like, forty or fifty years old.”
“So if it is film,” Emert said, “is it exposed film or unexposed film? Are there pictures on here, or was he just trying to keep the film from going bad till he got around to using it?”
“It must’ve been shot,” said Art. “If it weren’t, there’d be a little tab of film sticking out—the leader, it’s called, right?” I nodded.
“So what the hell’s he doing keeping it in his freezer all these years,” Emert said, “if he’s got pictures on there?”
“Dunno,” I said. “Maybe if we develop the pictures, we’ll have a better idea. You guys got a darkroom?”
He shook his head. “We send things to the TBI lab. But with everything going to digital, they’ve cut back their photography unit. It might take weeks to get this processed. And if it’s some weird old film, I’m not sure they could even do it.”
“The Bureau has a pretty good photo lab,” said Thornton.
“You know who’s great with old photos and film,” I said, “is Thompson Photo Products, in Knoxville. Those guys practically eat, sleep, and breathe in black-and-white. If you want me to, I’ll drop it by Thompson’s on my way back to UT.”
“He’s right,” said Art, “they’re the best. Anytime we get in over our heads at KPD on photography stuff, we go to them.”
Thornton shrugged. “Fine with me,” he said. “It’s probably just pictures of the Physics Department picnic back in 1955, but who knows—we might get lucky.” Emert sealed the film canister in an evidence bag and handed it to me, then went to the living room and pulled an evidence receipt from the depths of a battered leather briefcase.