Pictures of a Dead Man

"He's not going to need it now," Jordan thinks, picking up the phone and slipping it into his coat pocket.

He and his friend Marc have been hitting the bars Uptown. Jordan has a few dollars in his wallet but mostly he's freeloading — getting free drinks from jolly, lubed-up friends and acquaintances.

It's what happens when you get older, he tells himself. You come down in the world, though it's hard to identify just when it starts. But you begin to find the jobs fewer, the pay less, and you're not sure why. And then you don't care. You just want to pay the bills and have enough left over for a drink or two. Or three. Or more.

You start freeloading. You don't like it, but you do. Soon, you stop noticing that you're doing it.

He and Marc wander down Princess toward Germain, where they intend to turn. A series of loud bangs sound in the distance.

They pay no attention. They're half-drunk and focused on not falling on their asses because it's winter, it's cold, and there are patches of ice like snipers waiting to take people out.

They turn onto Germain and make their way north toward King. They pass one of those little alleys that leads to dumpsters and parking areas behind old buildings and this is where they see him. Dead and staining the snow with his blood.

He's well-dressed — a suit — and someone has shot him more than once. There are sirens far off.

Jordan doesn't know how many bullets the man has taken but he sees at least two marks on his torso and at least one has hit his temple. A small part of the head is missing. That's where most of the blood seems to be coming from. It spills down the side of his face but most has soaked his hair and run on to the ground, where it pools and spreads.

Neither Jordan nor Marc has ever seen someone who's been shot. They're only familiar with this kind of violence through media voyeurism. To them, it's like seeing a pink monkey quoting Milton.

"Holy shit!" Marc says. "The guy's dead!"

"You think?" Jordan answers, stupidly smart-ass because he doesn't know what to say.

"What do we do?"

"I don't know. Call the cops."

"Sounds like they're coming."

"They are. Call anyway. Otherwise we might be their first suspects."

"Yeah...," Marc agrees and starts scrambling in his jacket for his phone. He finds it quickly and makes the call.

"I need to report a shooting," Jordan hears him say. He misses the rest because his mind has taken an unexpected turn. It has found an idea it hasn't entertained before.

He sees the man's phone on the ground, an iPhone, and he's always wanted one. Later, he'll say his own phone was failing and, "It was on its last legs and there was no way I could afford a new one."

The thought comes to him, "He'll not need it now. Why not take it?"

So he does.

*

The police arrive right after Marc makes his call. They had received several and had already been on their way, as Jordan had guessed. They keep the two men a long time. They ask endless questions but the pair can't tell them anything useful because they didn't see the shooting.

They had heard it though, and while their alcohol influenced memories struggle, they agree it was probably five or six shots. They can't be more specific. But others in the area had heard shots as well and the consensus is five or six.