Chapter Text
In the comfort of the Jersey City Police Department’s makeshift dark room, Adam finally felt at ease. He’d spent the better half of the day trailing FBI agent Peter Strahm’s coattails and photographing the city’s infamous serial killer Jigsaw, pointing his lens at some of America’s most gruesome executions. Now, the familiarity of the red light seemed to be Adam’s saving grace. Pointedly ignoring the graphic contents of the blown up film staring at him from the tub of Photo-Flo, Adam gently fished out the image and clipped it to the line of string hanging just an inch above his head.
Michael Marks, the medical examiners had confirmed, though it wasn’t hard, considering the fact each trap and tape was personalized. Adam wasn’t sure what this guy had done, he’d seen the tape (without proper authorization, of course), and it had been vague at best. And he definitely wasn’t sure if anything was worth the death trap the man was put into. He couldn’t have been much older than Adam was now: twenty-seven years old in a city with nothing to offer him– granted, Adam hadn’t been deemed worthy of execution by Jigsaw or had his head crushed in a venus flytrap-esque mask. Maybe he just was projecting. Maybe thirty-year old Michael Marks had a bright future and a life in front of him; two and a half kids and white picket fence, a loving wife.
Definitely projecting.
Adam sighed and leaned his palms against the table, head falling low, chin touching his chest. This job definitely wasn’t good for his head, but still, money was money, and working, at least in some capacity, towards catching Jigsaw definitely seemed more respectable than any previous shady gig he’d taken for some pocket change.
He felt his eyes close, dark lashes fluttering shut and blocking the all-encompassing red.
Just one moment of peace.
Strahm had been up his ass today, more than usual, if that was even possible. He could sympathize with the man’s desperation, though. After a few too many wandering looks at Strahm’s side profile while they reviewed some evidence (Adam wasn’t sure he had any real jurisdiction in that area, but Strahm seemed to actually listen to the photographer’s input), he could see just the effect this case had on him in the way his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched– not that it was any of Adam’s business anyway. Unfortunately, Strahm’s somewhat admirable lust for justice also meant that Adam, who honestly wasn’t paid enough for this job, bore the brunt of his commands and frustrated remarks whenever the agent got too stressed.
Before he could fall too deep into his self-pity, the sound of the doorknob rattling with energy caught his attention. Shit! Adam’s head sprung up and he whipped around as the door to the dark room burst open. Fuck, he had the light on! There was a fucking sign on the door!
“Close the fucking door!” Adam yelped, trying to cover any remaining photos in their tubs with his body, lifting the hem of his dark gray flannel to increase the coverage. Any semblance of ill-fitting professionalism seemed to evaporate from his body the moment the door swung open and, of course, looking over his shoulder, Adam saw Strahm’s broad frame enter the doorway, engulfing the room in shadow once more. From behind the man, he could see Agent Lindsey Perez peering over his shoulder, trying to get an idea of what the room looked like; neither of them had been in the modified closet before (not past the doorway, at least), and honestly, Adam would’ve loved to keep it that way.
The two agents finally stepped inside, shutting the door behind them, and immediately dwarfing the space with their presence. Adam couldn’t help but feel his irritation rising. He stared down at the slightly faded photos– they wouldn’t be pretty, but they would make do.
“The sign was up—”
“We’re leaving, come on.” Strahm’s voice came steady, leaving no room for argument. Adam bit his tongue; he really didn’t feel like losing this job.
With an irritated huff, the photographer grabbed for his Canon, two extra film rolls, and whatever personal belongings he could find before Strahm’s glaring stare started giving him goosebumps (which just happened to be his wallet for today, Adam already felt on edge without the judgy look). “What happened?” he asked, following closely behind Perez and Strahm while shrugging on his jacket, “who died?”
Perez spoke up this time— Adam liked her. She was kind; not nice all the time, and a bit too blunt to be courteous, but the way she carried herself made you want to believe in her: she could do her job, and do it right. “Nobody died, Adam,” Not yet, hung heavy in the air between the three of them, unspoken. “They found his workplace.”
His eyes widened as they rushed outside and into the parking lot, feet stalling against the pavement. “You’re kidding,” the photographer said dumbly.
Now, Strahm scoffed— never a man for jokes in all the time Adam knew him— and turned to face the photographer as he reached to unlock his car. “Nobody’s joking, Stanheight,” he sighed, turning his attention back to the keys. The ‘99 Ford Victoria clicked politely open and the three of them funneled into the sedan, Adam in the back with Perez situated in the passenger seat. He wasn’t sure when he actually shifted their partnership into a group effort, and he wasn’t sure where he actually stood in their little group, either. Adam really hadn’t expected to be roped into this investigation; he applied for a photography position at Jersey City’s Metropolitan Police Department for cash, nothing more nothing less. After a slightly degrading interview about his “qualifications” (read: personal investigating), Adam found himself titled ‘forensic photographer’ and thrown to the wolves (read: cops) circling around the station. At least he didn’t really have a uniform.
Beyond the walls of Adam’s own head, Strahm and Perez were talking. As Jersey’s ever-gray landscape flew past his window, Adam forced himself to tune into the conversation after deciding the soft hum of whatever radio station Strahm always had on wasn’t playing anything worth listening to.
“...Where even is this place?”
“Wherever this thing is taking me.” Strahm huffed in what Adam could only assume to be frustration as he struggled to read the map Perez had in her hands. Looking out of the window again, the bustling city had faded into a network of interstate highways and dead trees. Adam frowned and decided to turn back to the agents, peeking over Perez’s shoulder to inspect the map.
“This thing is far,” the photographer mumbled. Whatever warehouse Perez had outlined in thick black sharpie was nearly bordering New York, and Adam wasn’t sure if he’d be home in time to feed the stray cat who lingered on his fire escape every night. He spared a glance at the small clock on Strahm’s dashboard. 5:49 pm. He technically wasn’t even supposed to be on the clock right now; nobody had died, technically there was no scene to photograph. Maybe he was being apathetic. People were dying, Adam could spare his Thursday evening. He wouldn’t have been up to much at home, anyways; getting high off his face didn’t sound as appealing when he remembered he’d be smoking alone tonight. His roommate and longtime sort-of-best-friend, Scott Tibbs was in New York until Monday for some reason Adam couldn’t bother remembering. Scott hadn’t made too much of an effort to tell him in the first place.
Perez glanced over at him, still hunched over the map, her curly hair blanketing sections of it and no doubt blocking Strahm’s view even further. Adam shrugged and leaned back in his seat, turning to stare out the window once more. Tree after tree, cloud after cloud, the young man’s fingers fidgeted over his camera, adjusting and readjusting the settings he’d grown familiar with over the years. His own personal rubix cube— he could never solve one of those, maybe this was his second best option.
The car fell into a comfortable silence and a half hour later they rolled to a stop. The engine purred then silenced, and Strahm was ushering them out of the sedan and into a crowd of policemen and news anchors trying to squeeze any bits of information from them. Adam stared down at his feet as they walked, his nicotine-stained fingers clutching the straps of his camera tightly. The gravel under his boots shifted uncomfortably beneath his weight.
No matter how many crime scenes he’d photograph, or how many Jigsaw cases he’d investigate, Adam didn’t think he could ever get used to being on the opposite side of the camera: lights flashing in his eyes, leaving colorful black-holes in his retinas; people shouting anything to get his attention, to have him answer something—anything at all. He hated it. Strahm and Perez walked ahead of him, chins up and chests puffed like they were made for this. They probably were, though— trained in confidence and competence.
A few police officers were barely holding back the onslaught of reporters and Adam quickened his pace, desperate to get away from the overwhelming stares of the lenses pointed at him.
Perez turned back, almost as if to make sure Adam was still there. He met her gaze, mustering up a small grin before turning his attention to the warehouse, finally taking in its appearance.
Two stories tall and ten minutes off the highway, the warehouse surprisingly blended in wonderfully to its surroundings. It was nondescript enough to resemble the rest of the warehouses in the area, but the rust and grime built up on the outside was proof enough that the building had been long abandoned. Adam felt his skin crawl. He’d seen Jigsaw’s traps, developed photos of what remained of the victims, and now he’d be entering into the belly of the beast: Jigsaw Trap Galore. He really wasn’t getting paid enough for this.
Strahm wasted no time entering the warehouse, though he seemed to slow down just a bit to let both Perez and Adam match his pace. “Don’t touch anything,” he said, and Adam knew that comment was directed towards him. He bit back a scoff— why did Strahm insist on inviting him if all he did while at the crime scene was make sure to berate Adam any chance he got.
“Yeah, of course,” is what he decided on saying instead.
The warehouse was large on the outside and huge on the inside. Adam craned his neck to look up at the ceiling, eyes flickering over exposed pipes bathed in an awful green light. The air was dank and steamy, assaulting his senses as he instincually raised a hand to cover his nose. Whatever had been going on here had been sitting and festering. He trailed after the two agents, simultaneously checked out of their conversation and picking up parts of it. The fluttering of his camera turning on brought him back to reality, though, and Adam began scanning the area through the viewfinder.
“How long….”
There was a thick coating of dust over everything, and Adam figured nobody had been here for at least a few months. They were too late. He frowned and adjusted his camera to the dim lighting, focusing in on a collar-type device with barrels surrounding it, resembling some sort of shotgun.
“He’s not here…”
“...can’t have gone far?”
Adam carefully made his way through the warehouse, further and further from Strahm and Perez. He had a job to do, too. Suddenly, Adam was grateful for the extra roll of film he’d grabbed just by looking at the size of the place. Every angle of every trap strewn over the counter tops had to be accounted for, and Adam didn’t mind the repetition. Looking through the viewfinder, he could convince himself he had some sort of disconnect from the world around him— like he was looking in. A voyeur.
A frown spread across his face. When had he started thinking of himself that way?
—
Adam wasn’t sure what time it was now— dark, for sure. Now, everyone was filtering out of the warehouse to leave whatever security was assigned to tape up the entrances and guard the place from any curious teenagers, probably.
He was one of the last few exiting, once again trailing after Strahm and Perez, before he spotted something shining bright white compared to the dull green hue of the rest of the building. “Hold on,” Adam called out to the agents. The two turned around, eyebrows cocked in mirroring form, and waited for him to explain. “I see something,” he offered before dipping around the corner to investigate.
Strahm was following him first, face scrunched in a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. “What is it?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves had ended up rolled over his elbows from the dampness, and his hair had begun sticking to his forehead; Adam couldn’t have looked much better, either. Fifty-plus cops in one disgusting warehouse wasn’t the best for somebody’s appearance. Perez seemed to be doing fine, however.
“I don’t know,” Adam responded truthfully, pointedly ignoring the scoff coming from Strahm’s mouth that same instant. “But look,” the photographer squatted down, careful to not bump anything, “it looks brand new.”
Agent Perez shifted closer and kneeled down beside him. “It’s a pen light,” she observed aloud and turned over her shoulder to gaze up at Strahm before standing up and wiping her pants. “No dust. Somebody’s been here.”
The photographer leaned in closer, squinting to make out the faded letters on the side of the pen light. No luck; the warehouse was too dark now, and he wouldn’t risk getting his prints on the thing and ruining this. They could get the information soon, once the sun rose or the pen could be transported safely with gloves and a baggie. He turned back to the two agents behind him, barely fighting the grin spreading across his features.
Though he tried to push a stoic persona to the rest of the police station, Adam believed he was improving in reading Strahm’s facial expression. This— the slight widening of his eyes, the narrow opening of his lips, the way his eyebrows twitched together—was shock. Disbelief. Surprise. Hope.
Adam had found a proper clue, and now they had a lead.