The two men, one of them a reporter, stare down
at the body quizzically. One of them scratches his head.
"Looks like he was burning all his negatives."
"His entire life's work, then."
The first scratches his head again.
"Yeah. He lived alone for years, I hear. The office
says he had no survivors."
"So no kin to fight over the inheritance. And no
inheritance, to speak of. Just an empty house and a pile of vile smelling
ashes." The taller of the two scrunches his nose in disgust.
"Carrying them down from the attic must have strained
his heart . . ."
"Funny thing about that camera."
"Really. Whatever he was shooting, he forgot to
spool the film."
"Early-stage Alzheimer's, do you think?"
The other doesn't reply.
"He was strange about not being photographed."
"Odd: the invisible photographer. Well, he got
what he wanted!"
The other looks at him strangely.
"Big time!" he says, and looks down at the strangely
small, crumpled body, still in its bathrobe.
They pause again, awkwardly.
"Any of his pictures saved?"
"A few over here. Ad campaigns mostly. Nothing
"I've heard he was mostly commercial anyway."
"No loss to the art world then. But I hear
he was a nice man, if a little strange."
The reporter's cellphone sounds with a ringtone
based on the Lone Ranger's trumpet fanfare.
"Bob Reese . . . I'm down there now ...Yeah,
tragic ... Okay."