Eye Wit

by Hazel Dawkins

  Dante Nicosian held the door to the examination room open, then led the way. “Number seventeen is back here.” He strode off towards the last of three examination tables holding corpses, and Dan followed, once again struck by the absolute sterility of the room. Everything was as white as Dante’s teeth. Only the corpses showed any color, and even they were only off-white, except for one stitched-up African-American, whose hues mixed black, brown and blue.

  Number 17 looked like a ghost.

  The ominous haunting strains of Mozart’s 25th Symphony barely covered the sounds of the high-volume ventilating fans Nicosian had insisted upon when the examination room had been remodeled a couple of years earlier. A big help, those fans, but the smell of formaldehyde, mixed with something else that Dan always identified as the odor of death itself, couldn’t be eliminated entirely.

  “As my report indicates, Marco Fellini was killed by an arrow identical to the one that wounded the balloonist, the same length, same shaft material—some perfectly straight wood of some kind––same color, same fletching, same razor-sharp blades. There’s no question they came from the same place. Here’s the denouement: the two arrows are so much alike, I’m saying they probably came from the same quiver. Interestingly, both are hunting arrows, not target arrows.”

  The ME smiled at Dan. “Now aren’t those what a detective would call significant facts?”

  “Apart from a few missing links such as ‘who and why?’” Dan said.

  “Hey,” Dante protested, “tell me you find this interesting––I know I’ll wait till I’m an aging queen and hell has frozen before you find me interesting.”

  “I assure you, Dante. You’re the most interesting aging queen I know.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. God, now I feel thlimmenos.”

  “Thlimmenos?”

  “Sad,” Dante explained.

  “You’ve little reason to be sad, Dante. You’re still a fucking doctor.”

  “Not often enough.”

  “Ohh…Kay…. Anything else you found that can help me figure out why Marco Fellini and the balloonist are connected? Why’d the balloonist be flying a balloon across lower Manhattan?”

  “Outside of the obvious?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe because he could. Maybe because he was another Phillippe Petit. You remember. That oraios French dude who walked the high wire he strung between the Twin Towers?”

  “Oraios?”

  “Handsome. Charming. Devastatingly gorgeous. God, if he’d only been gay. We could’ve had a beautiful life together. I could have knit his bones back together when he fell….”

  “Or opened him up with your famously tidy Y incision, right here on the slab.”

  “Thank you, mystikos praktoras, for bringing another cherished fantasy down to Earth.”

  “Mystikos-whatsis?”

  “Detective,” Dante explained.

  “Oh. All part of a day’s work for us mystikos whatsis, Doc.”

  The ME nodded. “You owe me a drink, Daniel Riley. At least a drink.”

  12

  Thanks to the sacrifices of Malina Lublinski in 1943, I, Hans Reiniger, am alive to tell this tale today as a Gypsy of Bohemian heritage and a bona fide citizen of Switzerland.

  By the spring of 1943, Malina Lublinski had been a prostitute for two years, a fair-skinned eighteen-year-old beauty with tresses the length and color of late-harvested straw and eyes the cerulean hue of a canyon-flanked fjord. To every camp guard, she was the ideal and—more importantly—available Nordic goddess, a wet dream in the flesh. She looked fourteen.

  Unknown to the guards, she also was as Jewish as her parents, Casmir and Cyla Rolnik, both professors of biology and botany at the Agricultural University of Lublin.

  Malina was sixteen and living with her parents on the northern outskirts of Lublin when Casmir and Cyla were questioned at home by Generalgouvernment troops, then escorted out their own front door and executed as dissidents who were proselytizing against the Greater German Reich. Their bodies were left to rot on the doorstep as an object lesson to Jews and other dissidents.

  Malina Lublinski escaped capture by sneaking out the back door as the troops approached the house; she escaped discovery by burrowing into a pile of manure alongside her neighbor’s barn.

  Malina entered the manure pile a young woman who had been planning a career in veterinary medicine. She exited to find her parent’s bullet-riddled bodies—and herself an orphan with no assets beyond her body and a determination to avenge her parents.

  To escape detection as the daughter of dissidents, she would forego her parent’s surname and call herself Malina Lublinski from that date forward—a good Christian trade name: “Magdalene from Lublin.”

  Malina knew all the guards at Majdanek concentration camp; they were her most devoted customers. Evening after evening these guards demonstrated their devotion to racial purity by taking turns pillaging her Aryan exquisiteness. Her payment in Reichsmarks was insignificant. Her real recompense was distracting the guards’ attention from the fences and gates surrounding the barracks. Dozens of Jews and Romani escaped, sometimes entire families. Malina was impoverished—but a moral millionaire, many times over.

  One such evening was May 25th, 1943, when Malina serviced three gate guards simultaneously, her finest performance, in my book. Only a few Romani escaped during that one-hour love fest, but two of them, the Domanoffs, Andre and Mishka, walked out the unattended gate carrying a third Gypsy, baby Luminitsa Krietzman—my mother, then barely a month old.

  Once outside the gate, Andre and Mishka and baby Luminitsa headed immediately to the forest, a quarter mile away, where they were embraced by Romani partisans. Over the next weeks and months, partisan guides led them from temporary encampment to encampment, deep in the forest paralleling the road to Kielce, then stealthily proceeded southwestward, eventually passing quite close by the gates of Auschwitz, then across the valleys and ranges of the Protectorate of Bohemia-Moravia and Greater Germany, and finally, by small boat, across the Bodensee into Switzerland.

  Little Luminitsa, my mother, was almost nine months old when they arrived at Sankt Gallen in northeast Switzerland in the dead of winter, January 1944. The next month they travelled to Winterthur, Switzerland. At this point, you’re probably thinking, “Good for them, they made it to sanctuary in the neutral haven of Switzerland.” You couldn’t be more wrong. In its treatment of Gypsies, Switzerland was neither neutral nor a haven; rather, it served as an early model for the Third Reich, lacking only the willingness to adopt the ultimate solution to the Gypsy menace: execution in death camps. During World War II, no Gypsies—Roma, Sinti or Yennish—were offered asylum by the Swiss government. Not one. All Gypsies who sought asylum from the Greater Third Reich were deported back to Germany, with most of those deportees sent on to concentration camps.

  So the Domanoffs and baby Luminitsa were not welcomed with open arms by the Swiss government. Fortunately, Swiss authorities were unaware of their origins. The Domanoffs and little Luminitsa were able to stay in Switzerland only because Andre’s uncle, a Swiss citizen who lived in Zürich, knew of their impending arrival and was able to obtain high-quality papers for all three, including passable birth certificates and work papers.

  Their papers showed them to be German, of Polish and Swiss heritage, who had moved to Sankt Gallen Switzerland from Liechtenstein in 1940. Of their Romani heritage there was no mention. They were able to keep their names, except for baby Luminitsa Krietzman, whose birth certificate proclaimed “Luminitsa Domanoff,” born in Sankt Gallen, Switzerland, 23 April 1943.

  Nineteen years later, thanks to the heroics of Malina Lublinski, the determination of Andre and Mishka Domanoff, and the assistance of dozens of Romani partisans and sympathizers, I would be born a Swiss citizen in Lucerne, on 23 August 1962.

  There is no mention of my origins as a Romani Gypsy on my birth papers either, or those of my parents, Luminitsa Domanoff and Jurgen Re
iniger, who were married in 1961. But I know my Romani identity—my clan and my heritage—and I will never forget.

  13

  Sophia Fellini’s announcement of her husband’s infidelity had been intentional, Yoko Kamimura concluded. But for what reason? Was she trying to shift suspicion away from herself and onto her husband’s assistants? If so, she would have been more successful if she hadn’t exposed what could be her own motive to kill her husband: jealousy. Surely she would know that. What game was she playing?

  Apparently it wasn’t a game that was causing Zoran much distress. He continued his questions as if Sophia Fellini had simply commented on the weather.

  “Did your husband depend on Iona Duncan and Jessica Ware for professional advice on his business, or were they simply attractive…how do you say? ‘Go-fers?’”

  Sophia Fellini allowed a small smile. “Gophers? I tend to think of them as ‘weasels,’ Mr. Zeissing.”

  Zoran grimaced. “I was referring to their position with regard to your husband’s business, Mrs. Fellini.”

  “In terms of position, I’m sure they assumed whatever position Marco wished. Marco didn’t much care for missionaries.”

  Yoko decided she’d better get this interview back on course. Raunchy talk didn’t go down well with Zoran. What was Sophia thinking? Had she tried to chase away thoughts of her sudden widowhood with a snifter or two of cognac? Although Yoko didn’t know Sophia Fellini well, she hadn’t expected crude talk from her. Was this the shock of her husband’s death talking?

  “We appreciate your frankness in volunteering information about your husband’s extra-marital affairs, Sophia, and we’ll certainly explore that topic later. Right now, it would be helpful if we consider other aspects of your husband’s life. Let’s talk about your husband’s business, how he made his money.”

  Zoran picked up the cue. “Did Marco sell objets d’art on consignment, or did he buy things on his own and sell them through his gallery, or privately through his connections, or at public auction?”

  Sophia sighed. “Mostly, Marco bought pieces for which he knew he had a buyer, or more than one buyer. He rarely accepted consignments, unless he was certain he knew someone who would buy the item. He was very shrewd about such matters.”

  “Therefore the items in the gallery are items that he misjudged, art that did not sell as he expected? Costly things that buyers turned out not to want?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Zeissing. Sometimes it simply took customers a short while to convince themselves of what Marco already knew: they wanted the piece and would buy it. The point is, my husband was a good student of human nature, as well as of the value of antique collectibles. He understood that most collectors would not actually pay their money for something unless and until they were allowed to perform their own little rituals of purchase, like pretending they needed to ‘sleep on it.’ Of course, sometimes Marco would buy associated art, knowing that specific clients were quite likely to buy that item too, once they saw it.”

  “Did anyone ever complain after a purchase? Were any of his customers dissatisfied?”

  Sophia Fellini paused for a moment, then said, “I can’t recall a single instance of an unsatisfied customer, Detective.”

  “Not even one? For any reason? Please consider the question carefully.”

  “No, not one,” the widow snapped. “That’s why I have trouble believing that my husband was murdered, you see. Who would want to kill him? Not anyone he did business with, certainly. He did have some kind of dispute with someone who claimed that Marco had obtained a piece illicitly, but every art dealer runs into those lunatics now and then, every dealer, I assure you. You just have to learn how to handle them.

  “Marco would never buy anything that didn’t have impeccable credentials. His reputation in the art world was absolutely without blemish. It had to be.”

  “Elaborate, please.”

  “It’s the nature of this business, Mr. Zeissing. One unhappy customer, someone who had purchased a piece of great value, only to discover that it wasn’t as valuable as he thought, could destroy my husband’s business. There is not an infinite number of collectors of very high-priced items, Detective—and most of them know each other and all of them are jealous of each other and all of them talk. All the time.”

  “Yes. I see why your husband had to be very careful about the items he offered for sale.”

  “Let me give you an example. Several months ago, Marco was approached by another Swiss gentleman….”

  “Excuse me,” Zoran interrupted. “You said another Swiss gentlemen. Who was the first Swiss gentleman?”

  “I’m sorry. I was still thinking about the lunatic I mentioned, some fellow named Hans, who accused Marco of stealing an heirloom that belonged to this Hans’ family, his Gypsy family he said. He claimed his heritage was a mix of Germanic Swiss and Roma Gypsy. I imagine the Roma are a tribe or something. Of course, he had nothing to offer in the way of documentation or proof—nothing at all really, so Marco sent him packing. But the man kept bothering him, showing up at exhibits and such. He literally followed him all over the country until Marco finally got a restraining order to keep him away.

  “I see,” Zoran said. “Do you know the last name of this man, this Hans, or his address?”

  “I don’t believe I ever heard his family name, Detective. He was just one of those worms that crawl out of the woodwork now and then.”

  “You say he was Swiss?”

  Sophia sighed. “That’s what he said he was, Detective, he said he lived in a small village near Lucerne. Last time I visited Lucerne, it was still in Switzerland.”

  “Would there be a record of the man’s name in your husband’s files?”

  “I would assume so, actually definitely, because of the restraining order. Jessica or Iona ought to be able to locate it for you.”

  “Did this Hans make any specific threats against your husband?”

  “No. How could he? His claim had absolutely no basis. It was obvious that he was simply out to get Marcus to pay him some money so he’d stop pestering him. I would imagine the only threat he made was some cursing when the restraining order was served.”

  “Did you hear from him after the restraining order was served?”

  “Not a word, and that was several months ago. I assume he crawled back into his worm hole. Or wherever Gypsies live these days.”

  Zoran grimaced at the image. “Very well. Continue, please. You were telling me about a second Swiss gentleman?”

  “Yes, that was a man who collected rare Chinese and Tibetan statuary. The man’s fortunes had recently tumbled, he told my husband, and he needed to sell some of his collection.

  “He offered Marco a small jade hunting scene showing two archers, which supposedly had been a gift to the 13th Dalai Lama. After the Dalai Lama died in 1933, the treasured figurine could not be found anywhere.

  “He showed Marco a picture of the carving, and another of the 13th Dalai Lama holding it, looking at the two archers while he was praying, and the two pictures certainly appeared to show the same figurine. He said he’d obtained it from a Chinese antiquities dealer who had confirmed that it was presented by the 13th Dalai Lama to a representative of the Chinese government. Supposedly the Chinese antiquities dealer had provided reams of documentation verifying its provenance. It is believed the Dalai Lama had intended the gift to be a good-will gesture intended to forestall his own prediction of impending turmoil for his beloved people of Tibet.”

  Zoran looked up at the ceiling of the Fellini living room while he tapped his seemingly infinite knowledge of obscure history. “I recall reading that prophecy by Thupten Gyatsu, the 13th Dalai Lama. Given the events since his death, his prophecy has proven remarkably precise. Certainly the current Dalai Lama would agree. He was forced to flee the country in 1959, when the People’s Republic of China assumed complete control over Tibet. This is undoubtedly another reason why the 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatsu, feels such a close connectio
n to his predecessor.”

  Yoko’s head was swimming as she tried to digest the mini history course. Did it have anything to do with Marco Fellini’s death? “Another reason, Zoran? I’m not sure I follow.”

  Zoran explained patiently. “The biggest reason why the 14th Dalai Lama would feel such a strong connection to the 13th Dalai Lama would be that he is the reincarnation of the 13th Dalai Lama.”

  Yoko sighed. “Of course. What can I say, except duh?”

  Zoran turned his attention back to Sophia Fellini. “You said your husband’s purchase of the two-archers figurine was an example of why he had to be very careful about items he purchased. What did you mean? Did he suspect that the provenance of the figurine was not legitimate?”

  “Not precisely,” Sophia Fellini said. “Marco was suspicious of the figurine’s provenance, but not because of its supposed documentation of authenticity, rather because he sensed that he wasn’t getting the full story.”

  “So your husband decided not to buy the figurine?”

  “Not at all. He wasn’t ready to reject the figurine outright, but he wasn’t willing to buy it without doing some research on his own. So he demanded that the gentleman from Switzerland produce the figurine and all of its documentation.”

  “Did the gentleman from Switzerland have a name?” Zoran asked.

  “I assume so, Detective. He didn’t say, actually. However, he said he always did business using his business name, ‘Bernardem Collections,’ for tax reasons.”

  “I see. We will explore that later, if we need to. Continue with your story about this jade figurine, please. Did the Swiss gentleman agree to produce the figurine and its documentation?”