The desk is the most logical place to start, and I methodically begin to open drawers and examine the contents. There’s not much—a couple of geodes that he’s had since we were kids, a pair of headphones, a worn copy of A Wrinkle in Time.
The closet, dresser, and bedside stand are equally innocuous. If you studied the contents of my brother’s room alone, you’d think he was the most boring person on the planet. Everything is organized and purposeful, from the rolled pairs of socks in his underwear drawer to the careful line of cologne, body spray, and deodorant on his dresser. I roll my eyes, even though there’s no one here to see it.
I’m leaving the room feeling dirty and defeated when I realize his backpack is hanging on a hook screwed into the back of the hardwood door. The zipper is gapped open, and inside I can just glimpse a manila envelope. Not an old notebook left over from the school year or a folder containing his term papers, an envelope that looks like nothing I’ve ever seen my brother with before. Jackpot. My head spins a little, like I’ve stepped to the edge of a cliff.
Easing open the zipper, I slip the envelope from the bag. The outside offers no clues: it’s addressed to Law, and the return label is for our family accountant. Looks like Jonathan lifted it from the recycling bin. When I open the top flap and tip out the contents, I’m left holding a stack of eight-by-ten photographs. I fan them quickly to see if I recognize anything, but they’re grainy and seem hastily snapped. Maybe that’s why it takes me a few minutes to grasp what I’m seeing.
The top photo is of a heap of dead animals. I live in rural Iowa, I’ve seen dead animals before, but it’s still jarring when my mind finally makes it out. There are at least five cows piled on top of one another and bloated from the sun and heat. Stiff legs jut into the sky, lending the grisly scene a darkly comical air. Even though the picture is a bit pixelated, I can see a black cloud of flies hovering over and on the tangle of bodies. I feel bile sting the back of my throat and swallow hard.
It’s disgusting, and I have no desire to examine the photo further, but if Jonathan has this picture, it must be for a reason. I study it again, looking for evidence of where it might have been taken and why. But after combing every square inch, there are only two things I can say for sure: （1） The animals are not by the side of the road to be picked up by the rendering truck, and （2） They’ve been in the sun too long to be properly carted away anyway.
I’ve grown up on a farm; I know what happens when large animals die. They’re dragged to the side of the road and a rendering company is called. A truck removes the carcasses, then processes the dead animals. For what? I don’t want to know. It’s a gruesome undertaking that I’d rather not think about, but the alternative is even worse: dead animals rotting all over the county and polluting the ground and air as they decompose. I think it might even be illegal.
Sliding the gory photograph to the bottom of the pile, I quickly flip through the others. There are several pictures of a tractor in a field. It’s a shiny green John Deere pulling what looks like a disc, and behind that there’s a white tank. I can’t make out the lettering on the side of the tank, but the red and orange warning triangle is familiar enough. I’ve seen these tanks all over the Midwest, and I’d bet a hundred bucks it’s filled with anhydrous ammonia.
I don’t know much of anything about anhydrous ammonia, but I’ve read the warnings on the side of the tankers while waiting at stoplights or for the train to pass through town. I know that it’s caustic and flammable and poisonous. The tanks are all plastered with the universal sign for danger: a skull and crossbones. I also know that anhydrous ammonia is used as a fertilizer. It’s hard to understand how something so hazardous could be beneficial, but I’ve never claimed to understand farming.
The last picture is dark, obviously taken at twilight, and filled with blurry silhouettes. No flash was used. Still, I can see that it appears to be a group of people with shovels around a skid loader attached with a saw-toothed dirt bucket. I couldn’t even begin to guess what they’re doing, and I’m starting to feel like I don’t want to know.
I stack the photos in the same order that I found them and carefully slot them back into the envelope. When I slide the package into Jonathan’s backpack, my entire body prickles with goose bumps, even though the air is warm. There’s something really wrong about those pictures. Something foul. It’s not just the dead carcasses or the warning signs all over the tank. The perspective is off, and every shot has a rushed, furtive quality to it that makes the photos feel urgent somehow.