The evidence concealed in my home is not, technically speaking, illicit. The complete inventory is this: One black-and-white contact print showing five friends; its negative; the cardboard mailer that holds them.
I came into possession of these documents by legitimate means, having volunteered to copy and distribute the group portrait to old friends. They showed faith in my ability to comply. I selected the image and settled its shiny negative and matte positive into the protective care of the sturdy envelope.
I would argue, in my defense, that the print is entirely innocuous. Five sets of hands and shoulders linked in a friendly alliance. I would further argue that possession of the negative, which I was to deliver to the photo-finisher months ago, is not prima facie proof of negligence.
Should either negative or positive go astray, it could be regenerated by its other half. But the combination of both entering the land of the lost would have disastrous potential, since there, they would render each other irretrievably irretrievable.
Currently these items are concealed in an undisclosed location. I have endured pointed inquiries about this location from four separate bodies, each of whom happens to be pictured in the negative and positive in question.
And though I have sworn that I am fully aware of their whereabouts, I am, in fact, not.
Which is why a nearly unanimous resolution has called for a team of independent inspectors. The inspectors may show up at any hour and demand access to all sites, including but not limited to the medicine cabinet, linen closet, bedside disarray and refrigerator coils. Visits will be unannounced, thorough and without remorse.
In an effort at appeasement, I have acquiesced to this hostile act, though I dread what other intelligence the inspectors may turn up. I suspect they, like their far-flung counterparts, are likely to come to discouraging and somewhat facile conclusions: The medicine cabinet is stocked with Tylenol and dental floss; the bedside heap is composed of an aging magazine aggregate; the fridge bottom is encrusted with 23 letters of the alphabet in brightly colored magnetic form.
The inspectors also demand the right to extradite members of my household and interrogate them, beyond my reproach, about prevailing storage and retrieval methods.
All of which is entirely unfair. If I could find the envelope I would turn it over, immediately, to the authorities at National Photo. Along with a request to crop, in a flattering manner, the irresponsible party on the far right.
