The Photographer
Stephen Mannion
I half-jog the rest of the way down Eastern Avenue. He's a local man. He'll make the papers that way, you know? Local man shot dead in Schenectady. Area man murdered. Only the obituary will have his name in the bolder print, under a grainy photo if he's lucky. Probably poorly lit and badly framed, really poor quality photographs in that section.
The chief is there himself. You're late, Paul, he says. I slow my jog and tug my camera strap. It's chafing my neck.
I'm sorry, Cap, I say. I duck under the tape. I read: Police Line Do Not Cross Police Line Do Not Cross Police-
He's over there, barks the chief. He is tough, the chief, but I know he respects me. I take good photos, efficient but pleasing.
I stoop over the broken form and start snapping photos. I've got a good tool with this camera, I can tell you. It's what the station gives you but I've added a bit here and there myself. Got a bag hanging with another few lenses besides the macro and the small zoom. Gorgeous, some of them. And a shutter speed on this bad boy of 1/4000. Got to admit that latter spec hasn't come in handy much at crime scenes.
The guy on the ground is a nasty sight. Seems he got shot dead in the middle of the street. On the phone the station said a carjacking, shot dead and thrown out onto the street. But it doesn't end there. Poor motherfucker is just lying on the ground in the street, there, and bam!- somebody just creams him, poor fucker, runs the fuck over him with a car, or an SUV maybe, looking at the damage -
I'm getting carried away here, I don't really know if it was an SUV. I've never seen anyone hit by an SUV and I've never seen anyone hit by a car, either, so I can't really say what this guy got hit by. But if it was just a car, then I sure don't want to get hit by an SUV, you know?
I finish snapping all my pictures. It always takes me a bit, because I don't just stick to the book. I get all the angles they'd want, don't get me wrong, but I also take a few of my own. I think it's worth the extra time to get the other angles and all, and whenever I see one of mine used in court or anything like that I get a little proud. I mean the ones that are really mine, where I've decided to take a special angle or something. Obviously they're all mine, but those ones are really mine.
I'm not the only one taking pictures and there's a bit of a commotion at the crime scene tape. I see Jack Rafferty getting hassled by some of our boys in blue. He gets pushed away as he snaps a few last shots. I duck under the Police Line (Do Not Cross) and walk around a patrol car, nodding to some of the officers. One nods back.
I catch up to old Rafferty and put my hand on his back. Rafferty, I say.
He turns and grins. Oh, hey, he says. How are you?
Paul Neri, I remind him, and him interrupting: Yeah, yeah, of course.
I joke: Scooping the Times Union again? Rafferty works for the Gazette.
So what happened here? asks Rafferty.
Hard to say, some sort of carjacking, maybe, I say to him, -what are you toting there?
Any lead on the suspects? Rafferty asks.
I shrug. Is that the new D3? Holy shit. And here I am with the D90.
Yeah - says Rafferty, Yeah it's not bad. I'm going to quote you on the carjacking thing, alright?
Sure, sure, I say. Hey, man, you know if there's an opening at the Gazette-
I dunno, Saul - he says, and Paul, I say - Right, Paul, he says, but I'll sure take a look for you. Rafferty looked down at the display on his Nikon D3 and started flipping through what he'd gotten.
Right, man, well, it's good to see you, I said. Hope my old TU connections won't hurt me. I laugh and he looks up for just a second and says, ha, yeah.
The first place I ever got a picture published was in the Times Union. My parents knew a guy from college who was working sports there, and he wanted a shot of my high school soccer team taking on Albany. This was in a tournament or something so it was a big deal and I got this gorgeous shot of our guy sliding in, his Mohon jersey all flying out all over the place, but clean snapped with my old camera, my EOS 50, which had a pretty good shutter speed. I remember the play, it was great. Our guy came in and kicked the Albany kid's heel before he even hit the ball, so the Albany kid just comes down like a ton of bricks, and then almost in the same movement - bam! Our guy pops up and he's dribbling the ball on downfield. I sent it over to my parents' friend and he got it right into the paper, my name under it and all. Photo credit: Paul Neri. Page D3, that's D, for sports, and 3 for being the third page in the sports section. So I like to rag on the guys from the Schenectady Gazette now and then, though the truth is I got nothing against the Gazette even though I got a history with the Times Union and all.
I duck back under the Police Line do-not-cross and I look around for the Chief because I figure if I ask him a little about the case I can call up the Times Union or the Gazette or something later and give them a bit of info. The scene's still not that crowded and nobody seems to want to get near Mr. Roadkill and all so they're off at the edges near the tape. Walking around the body to get to the other side I suddenly see something, a new angle, which happens sometimes in photography if you have a knack for it. So I back up a bit and try to nail down exactly where I'm seeing this new photo, what the angle will be. I get it lined up and it's gorgeous and I'm thinking I might even want a print made for myself when suddenly there's this commotion. It's behind me. I snap the shot real quick before I look. Someone's yelling my name, though - Neri, Neri.
I turn around and theres this middle-aged lady just bearing down on me like the wrath of God. And someone's shouting Stop her, Stop her Goddamnit Neri but fuck if I'm getting in the way of that. I jump out to the side and turn just in time to see her leap onto the body, screaming, and fuck if she's not lifting up the dead dude's head and bawling. She grabs at his blood-soaked shirt like she's going to rip it off. She lefts his head back down softly and presses her forehead to his and just won't stop screaming. She's sort of kneeling next to the body, or where the body should be, but her knee's right next to where he got all flattened out and splattered by that car. She's down in blood and guts all the same but I guess there would be something about planting your knee between a guy's chest and his legs. She's screaming his name but I can't quite pick it out of her sobbing. Ari, maybe? Area Man.
All the boys in blue are running by me and yelling at me Fuck you Neri, you stupid Fuck and then they're dragging the lady away and it's a big old bloody mess. I'm only getting yelled at anyway so I duck on out of the Police Line again and pace out a ways to a darker part of the street. I pull out my camera phone (3.2 megapixels, what a fucking joke) and I punch in 3, which is the Gazette on speed dial for me. 1 is 911 because I worry sometimes that in a real emergency I might not have time to type out all three numbers, especially on the sly if I was a hostage or something. And 2 is my mom, but 3 is the Gazette and 4 is the Times Union. I know that's kind of funny since the Times Union sort of discovered me but like I said, I don't really have the bias or anything.
When they pick up over at the Gazette I tell them I have them a hell of a story. I don't want to throw Rafferty under the bus here, and I think he has a decent eye and all, but he missed the big event. I tell the Gazette I can show up tonight or send them an email. I look down at the display on my D90 and its gorgeous, the yellow lighting just seeping on down from the top of the frame (that's the streetlamps, and that can be tough lighting) and the murky black flowing in from the edges. And bam! - just perfectly centered, there's the heap that is the local man, red and lumpy, and almost like she's straddling him is this lady, tugging at his shirt, holding his head in her palm, her mouth all open and screaming whatever his name was.
The chief is there himself. You're late, Paul, he says. I slow my jog and tug my camera strap. It's chafing my neck.
I'm sorry, Cap, I say. I duck under the tape. I read: Police Line Do Not Cross Police Line Do Not Cross Police-
He's over there, barks the chief. He is tough, the chief, but I know he respects me. I take good photos, efficient but pleasing.
I stoop over the broken form and start snapping photos. I've got a good tool with this camera, I can tell you. It's what the station gives you but I've added a bit here and there myself. Got a bag hanging with another few lenses besides the macro and the small zoom. Gorgeous, some of them. And a shutter speed on this bad boy of 1/4000. Got to admit that latter spec hasn't come in handy much at crime scenes.
The guy on the ground is a nasty sight. Seems he got shot dead in the middle of the street. On the phone the station said a carjacking, shot dead and thrown out onto the street. But it doesn't end there. Poor motherfucker is just lying on the ground in the street, there, and bam!- somebody just creams him, poor fucker, runs the fuck over him with a car, or an SUV maybe, looking at the damage -
I'm getting carried away here, I don't really know if it was an SUV. I've never seen anyone hit by an SUV and I've never seen anyone hit by a car, either, so I can't really say what this guy got hit by. But if it was just a car, then I sure don't want to get hit by an SUV, you know?
I finish snapping all my pictures. It always takes me a bit, because I don't just stick to the book. I get all the angles they'd want, don't get me wrong, but I also take a few of my own. I think it's worth the extra time to get the other angles and all, and whenever I see one of mine used in court or anything like that I get a little proud. I mean the ones that are really mine, where I've decided to take a special angle or something. Obviously they're all mine, but those ones are really mine.
I'm not the only one taking pictures and there's a bit of a commotion at the crime scene tape. I see Jack Rafferty getting hassled by some of our boys in blue. He gets pushed away as he snaps a few last shots. I duck under the Police Line (Do Not Cross) and walk around a patrol car, nodding to some of the officers. One nods back.
I catch up to old Rafferty and put my hand on his back. Rafferty, I say.
He turns and grins. Oh, hey, he says. How are you?
Paul Neri, I remind him, and him interrupting: Yeah, yeah, of course.
I joke: Scooping the Times Union again? Rafferty works for the Gazette.
So what happened here? asks Rafferty.
Hard to say, some sort of carjacking, maybe, I say to him, -what are you toting there?
Any lead on the suspects? Rafferty asks.
I shrug. Is that the new D3? Holy shit. And here I am with the D90.
Yeah - says Rafferty, Yeah it's not bad. I'm going to quote you on the carjacking thing, alright?
Sure, sure, I say. Hey, man, you know if there's an opening at the Gazette-
I dunno, Saul - he says, and Paul, I say - Right, Paul, he says, but I'll sure take a look for you. Rafferty looked down at the display on his Nikon D3 and started flipping through what he'd gotten.
Right, man, well, it's good to see you, I said. Hope my old TU connections won't hurt me. I laugh and he looks up for just a second and says, ha, yeah.
The first place I ever got a picture published was in the Times Union. My parents knew a guy from college who was working sports there, and he wanted a shot of my high school soccer team taking on Albany. This was in a tournament or something so it was a big deal and I got this gorgeous shot of our guy sliding in, his Mohon jersey all flying out all over the place, but clean snapped with my old camera, my EOS 50, which had a pretty good shutter speed. I remember the play, it was great. Our guy came in and kicked the Albany kid's heel before he even hit the ball, so the Albany kid just comes down like a ton of bricks, and then almost in the same movement - bam! Our guy pops up and he's dribbling the ball on downfield. I sent it over to my parents' friend and he got it right into the paper, my name under it and all. Photo credit: Paul Neri. Page D3, that's D, for sports, and 3 for being the third page in the sports section. So I like to rag on the guys from the Schenectady Gazette now and then, though the truth is I got nothing against the Gazette even though I got a history with the Times Union and all.
I duck back under the Police Line do-not-cross and I look around for the Chief because I figure if I ask him a little about the case I can call up the Times Union or the Gazette or something later and give them a bit of info. The scene's still not that crowded and nobody seems to want to get near Mr. Roadkill and all so they're off at the edges near the tape. Walking around the body to get to the other side I suddenly see something, a new angle, which happens sometimes in photography if you have a knack for it. So I back up a bit and try to nail down exactly where I'm seeing this new photo, what the angle will be. I get it lined up and it's gorgeous and I'm thinking I might even want a print made for myself when suddenly there's this commotion. It's behind me. I snap the shot real quick before I look. Someone's yelling my name, though - Neri, Neri.
I turn around and theres this middle-aged lady just bearing down on me like the wrath of God. And someone's shouting Stop her, Stop her Goddamnit Neri but fuck if I'm getting in the way of that. I jump out to the side and turn just in time to see her leap onto the body, screaming, and fuck if she's not lifting up the dead dude's head and bawling. She grabs at his blood-soaked shirt like she's going to rip it off. She lefts his head back down softly and presses her forehead to his and just won't stop screaming. She's sort of kneeling next to the body, or where the body should be, but her knee's right next to where he got all flattened out and splattered by that car. She's down in blood and guts all the same but I guess there would be something about planting your knee between a guy's chest and his legs. She's screaming his name but I can't quite pick it out of her sobbing. Ari, maybe? Area Man.
All the boys in blue are running by me and yelling at me Fuck you Neri, you stupid Fuck and then they're dragging the lady away and it's a big old bloody mess. I'm only getting yelled at anyway so I duck on out of the Police Line again and pace out a ways to a darker part of the street. I pull out my camera phone (3.2 megapixels, what a fucking joke) and I punch in 3, which is the Gazette on speed dial for me. 1 is 911 because I worry sometimes that in a real emergency I might not have time to type out all three numbers, especially on the sly if I was a hostage or something. And 2 is my mom, but 3 is the Gazette and 4 is the Times Union. I know that's kind of funny since the Times Union sort of discovered me but like I said, I don't really have the bias or anything.
When they pick up over at the Gazette I tell them I have them a hell of a story. I don't want to throw Rafferty under the bus here, and I think he has a decent eye and all, but he missed the big event. I tell the Gazette I can show up tonight or send them an email. I look down at the display on my D90 and its gorgeous, the yellow lighting just seeping on down from the top of the frame (that's the streetlamps, and that can be tough lighting) and the murky black flowing in from the edges. And bam! - just perfectly centered, there's the heap that is the local man, red and lumpy, and almost like she's straddling him is this lady, tugging at his shirt, holding his head in her palm, her mouth all open and screaming whatever his name was.
