What The Camera Doesn’t Capture

I remember the advice the burly Lieutenant gave me before I left the precinct that day, which also happened to be the day I was hired.

“Don’t get drunk on Friday nights and don’t eat anything before your first few call-outs”.

The first part made sense since I figured Friday nights were their busy time, but the second part not so much. At least not at that moment.

“Yes sir” was all I said back.

I doubt he cared that I didn’t drink or felt like explaining his concern for my eating habits.

I was also in a hurry to get out of there as this physically imposing man was not the most comfortable person to be around. The shimmering gold badge, finely pressed uniform and red face seemed to all stare a hole straight through me. 

“Here’s your department cell phone, jacket and identification badge. The phone must be on at all times. If you miss a call, we expect a prompt call back. You were already issued a camera by Sergeant Watkins correct?”

 “Yes sir I was, but it’s missing a few lenses and doesn’t hold a charge well.”

“Welcome to the New York City Police Department kid” he said with an odd smile. “Any more questions?”

“No, I think that’s everything for now. Thank you”

“Good luck kid and remember, no big meals before your first few call-outs”

“I will keep that in mind” I faintly muttered as I watched the door between us close before I finished my sentence.

As I walked down the precinct steps, I tucked my identification badge into the rear pocket of my worn corduroy pants while unfolding the jacket with my other hand.

I looked at the emblazoned “T. Hall” written in bright yellow on the upper left side of the jacket. The T stood for Tristan and I was glad they shortened it. I never liked my first name and usually went by my middle name of Alex.

Putting the less than heart-warming encounter between the fine Lieutenant and I behind me, I was proud to have been hired in my first professional job and couldn’t wait to show my parents the jacket when I got home.

I discovered my love for photography fairly late. After taking photography as an elective my sophomore year of college, I fell in love with it. As it turns out, I also had a knack for it. Particularly when it came to photographing people.

I didn’t spend much time thinking about how I would make a living off of photography before I was hired as a crime scene photographer, but I knew that I could never work the regular job all my classmates were after.

For one, I didn’t want to cut my hair to an acceptable length and second, I had a hard time waking up before 11:00 A.M. Both issues the police department was willing to work with as long as I answered that damn cell phone when it rang.

In fact, I was told that most of my call-outs would be during the late evening and early morning hours which was perfect for me. I rarely go to bed before 3:00 A.M. and have always been a night owl.

One of my major flaws is that I’ve always been shortsighted. I never think about things long term. I live moment by moment, which is why I never thought about getting a call-out that first night.

 As I laid on my bed thumbing through a photography book, I heard my newly issued cell phone start to vibrate loudly on my desk. I popped up and ran over to my desk to answer it.

“Hello?” I answered quickly.

“Is this Hall?” The curt male voice asked on the other end.

“Yes, this is Tristan Hall.”

“We need you on a scene. Apparent suicide. How soon can you get to Suffolk St?”

I looked at the brightly glimmering digital clock next to the head of my bed. 11:30 P.M on a Friday. Some traffic around the bars, but other than that it should be light I thought to myself.

“It would take me about twenty minutes if I leave now” I answered.

“15 would work better. The address is 16 Suffolk St. apartment number 14. Write it down.”

 I do as the mystery caller advises me to and write it down on a near by sticky note.

“16 Suffolk St. apartment number 14. I got it.”

“Roger that. Good luck.”

“Suicide?” I questioned out loud after the phone went dead. This goes back to that whole shortsighted thing I told you about. I never really stopped to think about what I would be taking pictures of. I was just happy to have a job that paid me.

The three servings of my mother’s lasagna I ate earlier suddenly felt heavy in my stomach as I realized I already violated half of the advice given to me earlier in the day. 

 I laced up my worn-out Vans sneakers, grabbed my car keys, camera bag, and rushed out the door. Halfway down the hallway I realized I forgot my official “Crime Scene Photographer Jacket” and had to run back to get it.

It was a cool evening in the Middle of November and the chill in the air was just starting to make its introduction for the season. I could see my breath in the air as I walked through the parking lot to my car.

As I sped through the 5-mile drive to Suffolk St., I had a lot of thoughts rushing through my mind. I started to wish I had thought about this job a little more before I took it.

Suicide? Dead bodies? Violence? Shit. I had only seen one dead body before, and it was at my great uncle’s funeral when I was 12.

How bad could it be? I thought to myself as I pulled down Suffolk St. trying to find number 16. It wasn’t hard to find since there were three patrol cars parked directly in front of the apartment building.

 I parked my car and got out of my vehicle as quick as I could. I threw my jacket and identification badge on as I walked. I walked up to the front door of the apartment building where a uniformed police officer was standing by the door staring at his phone.

He looked up at me as I approached, looking somewhat upset that he had to divert his attention away from whatever he was watching on his phone.

“Do you live here?” he asked me.

“Uh no I work for you guys. I’m here to take pictures.”

 Looking down at the stenciled name and NYPD logo on my jacket, “Sorry I didn’t even see the jacket. It’s been a long night. Go up to the third floor and you’ll find number 14. There will be another cop outside the door. You can’t miss it”.

I told him thanks as he moved aside so I could make my way into the antique building. While it wasn’t the worst apartment building I’ve ever been in, it certainly wasn’t the best. It had that turn of the century look where you were certain there had been no updates made in at least 50 years.

 The elevator door had an “out of service sign” crookedly posted on the front of it. I’m terrified of elevators anyways, so it wasn’t a big loss for me.

 I made my way up the stairs until I got to the third floor. The stale smell of body odor and urine greeted me as I made it to the landing, through the door and into the carpeted hallway. 

As the doorman said, I immediately knew which apartment was number 14 as there was another police officer standing outside of it with a clipboard in his hand.

This officer was more astute than his coworker and immediately noticed my identification badge and jacket.

“Welcome to the party” the smiling officer said.

I quickly glanced at his shining gold name plate that read “Ortiz” on it.

“John Ortiz” he said quickly as he held his hand out.

“Tristan Hall” I said as I grabbed his hand and shook it.

“I don’t think we’ve met, are you new?” he asked.

“Yes I am. Today is actually my first day”

Suddenly he looked a little sad and lost his smile.

“Damn. That’s bad luck then, but it could always be worse. Not a pretty sight in there, but far from the worst I’ve seen”

“What exactly happened?” I asked him cautiously.

“Shotgun blast to the face. Real mess. Definitely looks intentional, but we always have to be cautious just in case his mom pulled the trigger or something crazy like that”

My stomach started to turn a bit as I thought about what I would see inside that apartment.

“This is going to sound stupid, but I’m brand new. I don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to do”, I said after deciding that I better get on with it.

“Go inside and Detective Linares will tell you what to do. Don’t worry. She looks scary, but she won’t bite.” He says laughing as he moves out of the way to let me in.

 I don’t even know how to respond to that without sounding awkward, so I decide it’s best not to say anything. I just smile and keep walking.

 As I enter the apartment, I see a woman sitting on the couch staring off into the distance. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying, but she wasn’t crying at that time. She just looked like she was in shock.

 There was another officer sitting next to her on the couch doing his best to console however, nothing was being said. It looked like he had run out of words.

 “Are you our crime scene photographer?” a woman I hadn’t immediately noticed shouted out at me from the kitchen.

 “Yes, I am” I shyly answered back.

 She walked over the hallway where she motioned for me to follow her.

She stopped in front of a bedroom door a short time later and turned towards me.

I eyed her gold Detective badge as she introduced herself to me.

“Shannon Linares” she said with a smile without holding out her hand.

“Tristan Hall” I said forcing a nervous smile.

“You new?”

“Yes I am. That obvious huh?”

“Painfully” she said as she let out a small smile.

“Look this one is pretty obvious, but we have to cover ourselves and document the scene in case it switches later. I need you to photograph the room, the body and the gun. That’s it.”

“No problem” I try to say confidently.

“This your first one?” She asks.

“Yeah it is.”

“Try to think happy thoughts” she said as she opened the bedroom door and stepped inside.

My eyes immediately went to the figure on the bed. A body without much of a face. Behind him on the wall was a Picasso of brain matter. A shotgun lay on the bed beside the body.

I suddenly began to taste the lasagna I had eaten two hours prior. The more I try to distract myself and look around the room, the more I continue to taste it.

I started to sweat and feel light-headed. My heart started to pound like a bass speaker in a cheap car. My stomach felt like it was holding a gallon of bleach.

Am I going to fucking pass out? I thought to myself.

It must have been obvious because Detective Linares looked at me nervously and asked if I was going to throw up.

“I think so” was all I was able to eek out.

“The bathroom is across the hall I think, don’t you dare throw up in my crime scene” she boomed as she walked towards me.

I turned around and rush out of the room to the bathroom across the hall. The contents of my dinner exploded from my mouth the second I lifted the toilet seat up. I swear that I tasted every single spice my mother had put into that damn lasagna.

After what seemed like an eternity of retching, there was nothing left.

“Are you ok?” Detective Linares asked from the doorway of the bathroom.

“I think so. Sorry. I didn’t think that would happen.”

“Didn’t anyone tell you not to eat before the first few?”

“Uh no. I wish that they had because I would’ve definitely listened” I said feeling dumber than ever.

“It’s ok. Happens to a lot of people on their first one. Do you think you can get through it?”

“Yeah I’ll be ok”, I said as I stood up trying to sort myself out. Although my head and body felt like I had just run a marathon, I was able to stand up and walk.

By the grace of God, I was able to put myself back together and get back into that room. Not having anything left to throw up helped.

 As I took out the camera I had been issued and began snapping photographs of the scene, I tried to focus my mind somewhere else. It didn’t help much, but a few minutes later I was done.

“I got about 20 pictures or so. Is that enough for you?”

“Perfect. As long as they show the scene in its entirety, we’ll be all set. Good job keeping it together” she said.

“Thanks. It gets easier right?”

“Yeah it will. You’ll be able to eat a ham sandwich during one of these a year from now.”

I feel my stomach churn again after thinking about it as I start to walk out of the room.

 As I pass by the desk, I notice a driver’s license on it. I immediately recognize the face and the name, Ernest Sullivan. He was in one of my photography classes last semester and we worked on a project together. He was a quiet guy but seemed to be passionate about photography.

“Know him?” she asked.

“Yeah I do. Well did. He was in one of my classes last semester. Seemed like a nice guy.”

“That’s what his mother said. No note or anything so we don’t know much. Usually how it goes with these. I’m sorry. Do your best not to dwell on it or you won’t last with this job.”

“I will do my best”, I said as I walked out of the room and down the hallway.

As I walked by Ernest’s mother on the couch, she was crying again as the officer did his best to console her. I didn’t even look at her as I rushed out of the apartment.

I nearly knocked Officer Ortiz over as I ran out of the apartment.

“Woah woah where’s the fire?” he said jokingly.

“Sorry. Just had to get out of there”

“First one is always the worst. It’ll get easier. I was a mess after the first one I had. Called out sick for a week after. Just hang in there.”

“I will” I promised him as she shook hands and bid each other farewell.

I know how prisoners feel when they finally get out of jail after experiencing what it felt like to get out of that apartment.

I started to feel better as the cold November air hit my face and entered my lungs. My legs were still a bit wobbly, but I made it to my car without going down.

I sat in the car for at least ten minutes before I started it up. I was in such a daze I didn’t realize that I could see my breath inside of my car.

I had to drive to the precinct downtown to immediately upload the pictures into the evidence file. Luckily nobody was around as I punched the code into the keypad on the side door and made my way to the media room.

As I plugged the camera into the computer and started to upload the pictures I had taken, I had an epiphany of sorts about photography.

Behind every picture, there is another scene that isn’t captured. Nobody, but the photographer and those who were there know what wasn’t captured by the camera.

I had never thought of photography that way and would never look at it the same after that.

They say every picture tells a story, but the ones I took didn’t tell the real story of the scene at Ernest’s house that night.

Those pictures would never capture the feelings and the sadness. They would never capture the grief and the heartbreak.

“Farewell my friend” I said as I turned the lights off in the media room and made my way out to my car to drive home and turn that cell phone off.

One was enough for that night and maybe ever.