The Day of Legion by Craig Taylor Page B

They were dull and dry, glazed over. One arm was bent awkwardly behind her body, with the other resting on her stomach. She was naked and lying in a shallow ditch outside somewhere. The officer who took the photo was standing on the ground above, looking down.
    Lying around her were photographs. One was in the crook of her elbow that rested on her body, another between her breasts. Three or four others were scattered around her corpse in the dirt.
    John cried. She looked so terrible. She was a beautiful woman, a beautiful person, taken from the world and discarded in a ditch like rubbish. Someone made an attempt at burying her. One foot and half a leg were covered in freshly thrown dirt. It seemed so unreal that he had just met her, just been with her, just made love to her a few hours ago.
    He looked up at the detective, desperate. “I didn’t have anything to do with this! We met at the bar, came back here and had sex. She must have left in the early hours or something. The last I saw her was in bed next to me, before I fell asleep.”
    The detective read him his rights and asked if he understood. He felt trapped. The cold reality of what they thought he’d done hit home. He understood his rights, but he also understood he was a suspect in a serious crime that he had nothing to do with. He felt the walls closing in, hammers pounding on his temples. He started to hyperventilate. He tried to lower his head between his knees, but lost his balance and fell forward on to the floor at the detective’s feet.
    No helping hands offered him assistance. Instead, the detective merely took a step back.
    “Why’d you do it, John?”
    John gasped for air and had to breathe in between each word. “Fuck...You. I...didn’t...have...anything to do with it. I...want...a...lawyer. No...questions.”
    “I’m sure you do want a lawyer,” the detective said. “Why’d you leave the photographs? You’re either very stupid or you wanted to be caught.”
    “They’re not my fucking photographs!” John shouted.
    The detective motioned for another officer to come into the room. He held several see through plastic evidence bags, each containing a photograph. The detective took them and held each one in front of Johns face momentarily as he sat on the floor. Tears welled up in his eyes and his chest tightened.
    “I don’t understand,” he said quietly, confused and scared.
    Each photograph depicted him and Rachael in various sex positions in his bedroom. The first they were clothed and kissing, the next she was standing in front of him naked, next she had him in her mouth, a few more on he was taking her from behind and the last he was on top, his hand on her neck as he kissed her, thrusting inside her.
    “They were found with her body,” the detective explained. “Along with this.”
    He held up another plastic bag. Inside John could see his business card, covered in dried dirt and blood.
    “This is a mistake,” he said. “I didn’t take those photographs. I’ve never seen them before.”
    The detective looked at him, stone faced. “They look like they’ve been taken from over there,” he said, walking toward the closet. He slid the door across and shook his head. Lying on the floor was a cream dress, a pair of flat women’s shoes and white lace panties, all sitting at the base of a camera tripod.
    “This is wrong!” John shouted, trying to stand up. He was pushed on to the bed by the officer in black, who had not said a word since their arrival.
    “Damn straight it’s wrong!” the detective shouted back. “You are going away for a long time, Johnny boy!”
    He began to cry, feeling hopeless, lost and confused.
    The detective carried on, relentless in exposing the “truth.” “Did you have someone in here, John?” he asked. “Or did you have a remote system set up?”
    “I didn’t have anything set up and I didn’t have anyone in the closet,” he answered. “I’m not like that. Let me think about this for a