The Fallen

I walked the room slowly, looking at the black-and-white photographs, dodging the weightlifting machines that took up so much of the space. I could hear McKenzie in the next room, opening and closing closets and drawers and talking on her cell phone.

I sat down at the workstation by the window and slid “The Life and Death of Samantha” into the DVD player of Garrett’s home computer. I looked at the beautiful tooling on the custom leather cover, propped it up against the computer tower.

Then I rolled back in the chair, crossed my arms, and watched.

The video opened with pregnant Stella. Garrett slid into view on the couch beside her. It was a sunny living room. Beyond the windows were green hills and scattered homes. He kissed her and put his hand on her middle.

“Well, here we are,” he said. “Two going on three. Three months to go and look at this! How are you feeling, Stell?”

She smiled. “Wonderful, but I’ll be glad to have little Sam on the ground. That camera makes me feel silly, Garrett.”

“Then I’ll turn it off.”

And so on. The next part was Stella closer to birth. Then closer still. Then a countdown of days. There was a nice pace and balance to it, and I could tell that Garrett had the same knack for video that he had for still photography. Stella became more beautiful and Garrett looked fuller and more energetic with each installment. Finally the birth, in which Garrett was presented tiny Samantha while a very pale Stella smiled with exhaustion and accomplishment.

“Oh, gosh,” said Garrett as he smiled down on his newborn daughter. Then he looked up at the camera, his eyes running over with tears. “Look!”

McKenzie stood beside me, folding her cell phone.

“Tough to watch,” she said. “When you know what happens.”

I nodded.

“I just talked to Wasserman,” she said. “He couldn’t match any of the Explorer latents with Ed Placer’s ten-set.”

“I didn’t think he would.”

“No,” said McKenzie. “Big Ed was home with Mom drinking spiked orange soda because his girlfriend got too serious.”

“Found any loosely woven brown wool garments in the closet back there?”

“Not a one, Robbie. I think those brown fibers in the Explorer came from somebody else’s wardrobe.”

On-screen, newborn Samantha was wrapped in blankets and asleep, her head covered by a small pink cap.

“Mind if I watch?” asked McKenzie.

“Pull up a chair.”

Nearly all of the video of Samantha’s life was shot by her father. Garrett’s clear voice described the settings and events, but you didn’t see much of him. Stella was often on-screen with her daughter. There seemed nothing unusual about Samantha’s growing up. She was a dark-haired, fine-featured girl, apparently an even physical mix between mother and father. Like a lot of children, she seemed to consist not only of her parents’ features but also of independent, unrelated ones. There was video of her in the crib. In new outfits. Crawling. Playing with toys. Taking her first steps. Toddling with increasing confidence. Walking, running, laughing, mugging. Birthdays, Christmases, Easters.

Then the Fourth of July party at which she drowned. Garrett and Stella were the hosts, which I remembered from the papers at that time. The party video started with Stella and Samantha setting out Statue of Liberty napkins on a long outdoor picnic table. Garrett set the date and event — “The 2004 Asplundh Fourth of July Pool, Barbecue, and Fireworks Blowout.”

Then a shot of the pool — no guests had arrived yet — with its still-clear water and the red, white, and blue ribbons tied to the trees and shrubs around it. The pool looked truly ominous because I knew what would happen that day. Samantha burst into the picture from behind her cameraman father, who shouted at her to “slow down, honey!” as the girl approached the pool.

Next were short scenes of people arriving, hugging, making drinks. I saw a woman who had to be Stella Asplundh’s mother, and an old Professional Standards lieutenant who had retired later that summer, and John Van Flyke looking uncharacteristically festive in a Hawaiian shirt with a woody and surfboards on it.

Then a long left-to-right pan of adults sitting around the picnic table eating and drinking. Garrett and Stella sat side by side at the middle of the table. Garrett’s brother, Sam, sat at one end with a woman who looked to be his wife. Whoever had picked up the video camera narrated: Great party. Great people. Great country.

The next scene was later — I could tell by the shadows — and it showed a shimmering swimming pool full of children and teenagers. They were yelling and screaming like kids in pools do. Water drops from a boy’s great cannonball dive splashed onto the camera lens. Next it was dark and fireworks fizzed and popped in the middle distance. The video shooter was inside the house, shooting out. A little boy ran with a sparkler. Then, with the sudden speed of an unheard bullet, the scene became a small casket in a chapel with solemn light slanting down from a stained-glass window across which a dove flew with an olive branch. It was one of the most jolting series of images I’d ever seen.