Free Murder in the Collective by Barbara Wilson Page A

USED in the darkroom so that you can see to develop your film without exposing it. Jeremy had apparently been developing negatives, for the pans of different chemicals stood in the broad sink, the water was still running, and square and rectangular pieces of film had been hung like tiny negative laundry on a clothesline to dry; some pieces still had droplets of water clinging to them.
    The red lightbulb gave an extra dimension and feel to the small room, making it seem both warmer and more sinister. Jeremy, lying cross-angled on the floor, his eyes open blankly and his mouth twisted in a deplorably silly grimace, was as if bathed in red blood, though there was only a small sticky hole in his temple.
    Hadley and I stood clenching each other’s arms without saying anything at first. Then I started to sob. He looked so young lying there, with his angelic blond curls and empty wide eyes, skinny as an orphan. His Sony Walkman was still attached to his belt, but the earphones had fallen, loose and soundless, to the side.
    “Why did he do it?” I cried.
    “I don’t think he did,” said Hadley.
    Her normally relaxed voice came out dry and breathless. We clutched at each other again. The shop suddenly seemed to vibrate with our fear. We were all nerves, in the state when any noise will make you jump a mile.
    The office door in front swung open with a bang and Hadley and I both bit down hysteric screams.
    “Who’s there?” I shouted.
    “I saw your truck, Hadley, and I wanted…” The voice walked unsteadily towards us. It was a loud, shaky, deep voice that I almost recognized, but not quite. Hadley knew it, however; she turned as if to protect a view of Jeremy, but she wasn’t quick enough.
    Fran came barreling through the door screaming, “Elena.”
    She’d thrown herself down by the body’s side before she realized it was Jeremy. “Oh god,” she said, scrambling up heavily again. “I thought…”
    Like Jeremy’s, like ours, Fran’s face now had a softening red glow to it. It seemed like we were all moving in a film where clay models were used. Spatial distance was different and facial expressions dramatic and simple.
    “Did he kill himself or what?” she asked, stupefied.
    “We don’t think so, we think…”
    “…murdered? But who would?”
    “Why did you think he was Elena?” I asked.
    “I don’t know, the hair, I guess. In this weird light.” Fran shrugged me off, gradually preoccupied with another thought. “But that means the cops will be here, and oh, goddamn it. What am I going to do?”
    “What are you talking about, Fran?” Hadley asked sharply.
    “Last night. B. Violet,” she said impatiently. “It was him .”
    “Jeremy trashed the place out?” I said. “Jeremy? No.”
    “I’m telling you, I fucking found the guy there last night. After you and Elena went and left me, I decided to go back down to B. Violet and get something I forgot.”
    “What was he doing, Fran?” Hadley asked. She was calm but worried now, and trying to draw us out of the darkroom’s red light.
    “He was in the back. Most of the damage had already been done. He was cutting the type fonts into little pieces.”
    We’d moved into the other room and I’d switched on the office light. The fluorescent illumination didn’t make the situation any more real. I kept thinking, we have to call the police, we have to call the police, but Hadley was trying to get Fran’s whole story.
    “The little wimp tried to get away; he was terrified. I said I was going beat the shit out of him for what he did to our shop and…then…I think I picked up a piece of glass and…” Fran shook her head. In the cool white light of the office she looked exhausted and old, with bloodshot dazed eyes and a tremulous shake to her hands, one of which had a cut between the index finger and thumb. “I just don’t remember. When I sort of came to myself again, I had some blood on my hand and he was gone. I guess he knocked me out. I