I could tell the biting tone was a warning. I needed to see better, and faster. I was annoyed but let it go; I must have sensed what I was starting to realize.

“One is a woman. The others are men,” I observed.

I took stock very slowly, as if making a considerable effort to understand. I went on, in no hurry, “She and this guy here both have their eyes open. Unlike the third one.”

The boss made a loud, impatient noise, turned, and started walking away.

I’m not exactly a comedian, I said to myself, and that was enough of that. Because he might decide that was enough, too.

I said, “The two with open eyes seem to be staring into . . .”

The boss stopped. I did, too.

I felt I’d understood something. And that what I understood mattered.

“They’re staring . . . as if they were staring into themselves. But in horror.”

I didn’t need the grunt of approval he threw my way, or his subsequent silence, which gave the impression that one piece was still missing. Yes, there was a signal in my mind, a vague one. Until I declared, “They’re terrified. There’s terror in their eyes. But their mouths are grimacing in somber pleasure.”

I didn’t doubt I’d hit the mark and added something to his perception of the photos. That was done. The one thing I still needed to know, urgently, was my parting question.

“Were they murdered?”

“No. They killed themselves.”

•

This was to be the embryo of a series of articles. A formless embryo.

We talked about the series. A story about the two cases with the terrified eyes. We don’t know the story. Someone, a respectable person, a professional, provided the photos. This person can’t help, won’t tell us who these people are or who took the photos. Two cases aren’t enough for a series. But we need their story. It will have to be investigated. Our own inquiry. The police won’t work with us. We can try, but they won’t. They don’t release information on suicides. Publication can lead to contagion. Copycat suicides, an epidemic of suicides, a plague of suicides.