Rubberneckers

The photography exhibit wouldn't open for another thirty minutes, but there was already a crowd. The line was not quite to the corner, but that in itself was pretty good. Bill knew not too many of these got any kind of interest outside of the shutterbug circles. Particularly in a town like this there were not many hip people, so a lot of these folks were here out of curiosity. The story in the newspaper had primed that.

Bill still carried the daily rag folded under his arm. The story was compelling. He speculated that it was the first decent article that had been printed there. It was certainly more interesting than the normal cowtown fare and kitch review. But then, murder always was. The photographer also happened to be a serial killer specializing in prostitutes. After paying for and receiving services, he killed each girl and arranged her for a macabre photo session.

The crowd began buzzing as the someone came to the glass doors, turned the locks, and opened the doors with a flourish. They poured into the hallways searching for the pictures of interest. Bill pushed his way to the back room where he knew the photos were.

The crowd quieted as the realization of what they were seeing came clear. None of the images had any blood. The killer had preferred strangulation or other bloodless means. One picture in particular caught Bill's attention. A girl posed near some kind of concrete structure. Maybe it was under a bridge, sewer, or a dam causeway; hard to tell. The girl was what set the picture from the others though. Face painted white like a geisha and turned sideways to the camera. The grimace on her face was evident through the makeup.