詹姆斯·亚历山大·汤姆/JamesAlexanderThom
Itwasearlyinthespringabout15yearsago, , drivingtoasceneIdidn', thepolicedispatcher'sbroadcastsaid, .
AsIparkedamongpolicecarsandTVnewscruisers, Isawastocky, , , , blinkingandchokingup.
', andnearbyapileofdark, richearth.
“Iwasjustbackinguptheretospreadthatgooddirt,”hesaidtome, thoughIhadnotaskedhimanything.“Ididn'tevenknowshewasoutdoors.”Hestretchedhishandtowardtheflowerbed, , andI, likeagoodreporter, wentintothehousetofindsomeonewhocouldprovidearecentphotoofthetoddler.
Afewminuteslater, withallthedetailsinmynotebookandathreebyfivestudioportraitofthecherubicchildtuckedinmyjacketpocket, Iwenttowardthekitchenwherethepolicehadsaidthebodywas.
Ihadbroughtacamerainwithme—thebig, bulkySpeedGraphicwhichusedtobethenewspaperreporter', tighterfamily, police, , Icameuponthisscene.
OnaFormicatoppedtable, backlightedbyafrillycurtainedwindow, laythetinybody, , inprofiletomeandunawareofmypresence, lookinguncomprehendinglyattheswaddledcorpse.
, curvedhisarmslikeparenthesesaroundtheheadandfeetofthelittleform, thenpressedhisfacetotheshroudandremainedmotionless.
, adjustedthelenssettinganddistance, lockedabulbintheflashgun, raisedthecameraandcomposedthesceneintheviewfinder.
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