it’s par for the course. Dead people are sort of the family business. What did you want to know?”
“Your mom filled me in on the basics,” Joe began. “How you discovered these photographs as part of your video project. What I need to know is anything you can tell me about Ben as a human being.”
Rachel thought a moment before responding. “I heard he died from an accident—like a cave-in or something. Are you and mom thinking something else?”
“Not specifically,” Joe answered truthfully. “A couple of details aren’t lining up the way we’d like, but that’s standard for almost every death investigation. I remember once—years ago—looking into a supposed suicide where the man was on the bed and the rifle he used was neatly leaning against the far wall. Pretty unlikely, at first. It turned out fine—the first responder there had just moved the gun without thinking, and forgot to tell anyone. But the question needed to be answered. That’s all we’re doing here with Ben—and also because your mom asked me to.”
She nodded. “Okay. Well, I don’t know. He was a sweet man. I really liked him. I mean, he had problems—that’s why the documentary, of course—but behind the weirdness, he was super nice.”
“Was he ever violent in any way? Even verbally? Not at you, necessarily,” Joe added quickly. “But at anyone or anything?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t call it violent, or even angry. He could get intense. That’s when he’d shut down or retreat. I had to watch out for those times, ’cause I didn’t want to burn any bridges. Once, I drove all the way down there to shoot some footage, and he was in a mood. I just wished him well, turned around, and left.”
“What would set him off?” Joe asked.
“It depended, and I wouldn’t always know. At first, he was just protective of his stuff and shy about my seeing it. Later, it would be other things. I’d move something to get a better shot—that would get him worked up. I’d say something complimentary about one item or another, and he’d think I wanted to steal it. On the flip side, he’d give me things now and then, but I had to be careful about actually taking them, because while they were a gift, he hated to let them go. I’d get caught between looking ungrateful and getting him worked up.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Small. Crazy, too, sometimes. He gave me a broken plate once. I thought it might be a museum piece, the way he handled it, but later, when I looked at it back home, it was like from a deli or something.”
“What else might get him going?”
“He could be pretty paranoid. Planes flying overhead put him on edge—especially small ones, flying low. And I wasn’t allowed to roam around unless he’d set out where I could and couldn’t go. And I never stayed for too long. Maybe three hours, tops. He was kind of a neatnik, in an off-the-wall way. I mean, he was a slob—the place was a mess and it smelled gross, especially in some spots. But he treated it like a sculpture garden, almost. He knew exactly how one stacked-up pile related to everything around it—like the inner working of a living body. That’s why I think he used to photograph it all the time, and why he hated me to move things, even after he gave up taking pictures.
“The most fun,” she then said, changing the subject, “was when he had me join him on rounds. That’s what he called them, like a doctor. He’d drive around the area, visiting people who seemed to know him well—old car graveyards, backwoods mechanics, a building salvage place he especially liked … you name it. He’d even stop at yard sales and pick up stuff that was slated to end up by the curb. It was just the reverse of when he was at home—he was outgoing, funny. People loved him.”
“You must’ve asked him how all this started,” Joe suggested. “As part of the documentary, maybe? Or just cousin-to-cousin?”
“I did, but he only said,