The Art of Violence

by S. J. Rozan

  The door opened and Peter Tabor came through. Peter looked a lot like Sam, but more robust: five foot ten to Sam’s five seven, rangy, not spindly, with compact muscles in place of Sam’s droopiness; full, dark hair where Sam’s was beginning to gray and thin. Peter’s jawline was stronger, his cheekbones higher, his nose straighter. It was as though Sam had been the rough sketch, and Peter the improved and finished work.

  “Smith.” Peter shook my hand. “Come with me.”

  He led me to his office at the end of a glass-walled, wood-floored hallway, shut the door, and gestured me to a chair. I looked around; the place was messier than I remembered, more scattered papers, a pen on the floor. I picked it up and put it on the desk. Peter rapped on the glass that gave onto the drafting room, where sleek young people sat at sleek workstations in front of sleek computers. A tall woman with short black hair, high cheekbones, and heavy black glasses glanced up from leaning over a young man’s shoulder. Leslie Tabor, Peter’s wife and partner.

  She said something curt to the young man, tapped his computer screen, and disappeared out of the drafting room. A few moments later she joined us in Peter’s office.

  “Smith.” She offered me her hand. “Good to see you again.”

  I doubted she felt that, but aloud I agreed. As Leslie closed the door, Peter asked, “So, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing critical,” I said.

  If I’d thought that would relax him, I’d been wrong. He perched on the edge of his desk and frowned. “Then why are you here?”

  “Tell me, where was Sam the first couple of nights after he got out?”

  “Where was he? At our place. He stayed with Leslie and me for a while, until I found him an apartment. Why?”

  “Those first nights, he was there all night? He didn’t go anywhere?”

  “Not as far as I know. Les?”

  Leslie shrugged. Arms folded, she remained standing, which struck me as a form of magical thinking: no need to sit, short meeting, just a question or two, no big deal.

  “Would you have known if he’d gone out?”

  “Well, not necessarily,” Peter said, “if it was after we’d gone to bed. Though he’d have had to remember the alarm code, remember to turn it off, and then remember to turn it back on when he came in. I don’t give great odds on that.”

  “That’s true for, say, that whole first week?”

  Peter spent a moment in thought. “The second night after he got out, I had a dinner with a potential client. I didn’t get back until late.”

  I looked at Leslie.

  “I had a Community Board meeting for one of our projects that same night. I got home around eleven,” she said. “He was there. And the alarm was on.”

  “But he was alone for a while that night?”

  “Oh, come on, Smith.” Peter stood from his perch. “You know him. There’s no way he went anywhere. The first day, there were reporters at the Greenhaven gate and at our house. The next couple of days were wall-to-wall people. I didn’t let the press in, but even so, I couldn’t come to work. Sam was freaking out.”

  “And God knows we can’t let that happen,” Leslie snapped.

  Peter gave her a glance, then went on. “There were people there from the committee. Critics came, and artists. Sherron Konecki. Other dealers, too. And museum people, magazine people. I had to let them all in. We owed them.”

  I asked, “Other dealers?”

  “People who’d helped get Sam out. Sherron jumped in and signed Sam right away, but dealers don’t take no for an answer. Some are still looking to see if they can cut her out and steal him. That sour-faced woman, what’s her name? She has a gallery, and the studio next to Sam’s. She’d do anything to be his dealer. And, God, there was that jackass, Tony Oakhurst. Jesus, he wouldn’t leave.”

  “He’s a goddamn carrion beetle,” Leslie said. “Have you seen his work? It’s as creepy as Sam’s.” She radiated irritation, and I suspected Tony Oakhurst wasn’t the only source of it.

  “By the end of the day,” Peter said, “Sam was practically hiding under the bed. Smith, what the hell is this about?”

  “Sorry. I wanted to ask that before we got into anything else. It may or may not turn into a real problem, but I thought you should know. What he hired me for? He just announced it to his dealer and one of his collectors.”

  “Oh, shit. About the Martians, or whatever it is?”

  “It’s worse than Martians. Sam thinks he’s a serial killer.”

  Leslie said, “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

  Peter frowned. “He what?”

  “Two young women resembling Amy Evans were killed, each within a day of a big event of Sam’s. His getting out, and his show opening. He thinks the events were what’s called ‘triggers’ and that he killed them.”

  Leslie said, “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am, because he is.”

  “What do you mean, he thinks he killed them?”

  “He has no memory of either killing, but he doesn’t remember anything else from the nights they happened, either.”

  “He was probably knee-walking drunk,” Leslie said. “There are more nights he doesn’t remember than ones he does. How does he even know this? That these women were killed?”

  “It was in the Post, and on New York One. You didn’t see it?” She shook her head. We both looked at Peter. He looked stunned, a little confused. A little like Sam. “I checked with the NYPD,” I said. “The murders really happened. They wish the Post hadn’t called it a serial killer this early, but they think it might be.”

  “The Post?” said Leslie. “The goddamn Post, and we’re supposed to take it seriously?”

  “It’s what Sam hired me to prove.”

  “What?” Peter said. “That he didn’t do it?”

  “No. That he did. If it’s true, he wants to be locked up before he kills again.”

  Peter stared, then gave a soft laugh. “I almost said, ‘Is he crazy?’ All these years, he can still surprise me. But now I get it. Locked up.”

  “Get what?”

  “Sam wasn’t unhappy in prison, you know. Leslie and I never thought this Free Sam Tabor thing was a great idea.”

  “You were part of it.”

  Leslie said, “Oh, give me a break. What choice did we have?”

  “Seriously,” said Peter. “Think how that would’ve looked, if we’d opposed it or even just stayed out of it. The jealous younger brother, finally rid of the wildly talented but crazy older brother and wanting to keep it that way. There were people already angry I’d known Sam’s work all our lives and never told anyone about it. They said I had no right. No right! What about Sam’s rights? Sam never wanted anyone to see it.”

  Leslie snapped Peter a look. “Enough. That’s old news.” Leslie turned to me. “These women who were killed, did he tell you anything at all? Their names? How he met them?”

  “Their names were in the paper. He doesn’t know anything else.”

  Peter said, “Because he didn’t do it.”

  “When he saw it in the Post, he tried to turn himself in.”

  “To the police?” Leslie threw up her hands. “Oh, God in heaven!”

  “The detective on the case thinks he’s just looking for attention. She asked him for details, he didn’t have them. The killer took trophies, he had no idea what they were.”

  “Trophies?” Leslie said. “What does that mean, trophies?”

  “From the dead women. Some serial killers do that.”

  “God. Like what?”

  “Jewelry, clothing, sometimes body parts.”

  Leslie blanched.

  I said, “The detective wouldn’t tell me what they have from these two cases. They save that to ask people like Sam, people who confess. She also checked out his apartment—”

  “Wait.” Peter held up a palm. “She had a warrant?”

  “No, but he invited her in.”

  “Is that—even if he did, can she do that?”

&
nbsp; “If she’d found anything she wanted as evidence, you might have an argument, but she didn’t, so it’s moot.”

  “No, it’s not. People do this to Sam all the time. He lives in a fog. People take advantage.” Peter ran his hand down his face, Sam’s gesture last night. Peter probably wasn’t even aware of it; and Sam, never knowing what to do in any situation, had likely copied it from Peter.

  Jaw tight, Leslie said, “Smith. What did you mean about his dealer, that he announced it? He called Sherron Konecki to tell her he was a serial killer?”

  “No. She was in his studio when the detective showed up.” I told them about Grimaldi’s entrance and Sam’s inability to lie or keep mum.

  “Hell!” Peter started pacing. “Michael Sanger, too? Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “I gather he’s a major collector.”

  “He’s a high school English teacher who inherited a pile and got sharp investment advice. Now he’s retired, he’s a very rich man, and he’s joined to Sherron at the hip. He’s on the Whitney board, for God’s sake, behind a donation of half a million dollars and a Kerry James Marshall. He’s the one who got Sam into the Violence show.”

  “Sam said Konecki and Tony Oakhurst did that.”

  Peter’s headshake seemed to me as much despair as negation. “Sam’s a child in that world. That’s probably what they told him, but seriously. Sherron’s words may carry some weight, but Oakhurst? With all due respect, you don’t think a museum listens to an artist? Sanger gently suggested to the show’s curators that Sam would be a perfect late addition. Jesus, it would be a disaster if Sanger took this serial killer crap seriously.”

  “If it meant Sam could go back to painting alone in a basement, it might not be that bad.”

  Leslie looked at her husband. When he didn’t speak, she said, “Damn it, Peter! Tell him the rest.”

  “Les—”

  “Why shouldn’t he have the whole story? It’s not just about Sam anymore.”

  Peter met Leslie’s fire-shooting eyes. He sighed. “Sanger wants to build a museum for his collection,” he said. “Upstate. He’s bought land and, because he’s enamored of Sam, he got interested in us.”

  He stopped. Leslie waited for him to go on. He didn’t.

  “Christ!” Leslie turned to me. “A private museum’s the goddamn holy grail of architecture, Smith. Sanger’s museum could put us on the map. Where we should have been long since. But whatever great eye he has for cutting-edge art, he’s still a high school English teacher. Not the kind of man who’d get excited about working with the brother and sister-in-law of a serial killer.” Leslie glared at Peter, who didn’t meet her eyes.

  I said, “Sherron Konecki looked like she was doing major damage control.”

  Peter shook his head. “Damage control, mind control, Sherron can do it all. But it may not be enough. Shit! You see? This is the kind of thing that happens to Sam. Anybody else, the detective would have shown up while he was alone. It’s just bad luck they were there. It’s always bad luck with Sam.” The desk phone buzzed. “Excuse me.” He picked it up. “Yes. I don’t know.” He looked at Leslie. “Are we ready for the meeting?”

  “Jesus, Peter. Did you ask if Asha’s there with the numbers?”

  “Oh, right.” Peter asked Leslie’s question into the phone. “Okay, let me know. Thank you.” Back to me: “Sorry. We’re short-listed on a big project and we’re doing a run-through of our presentation. Okay. All right. I’ll call Sanger. And Sherron. She knows Sam, so she knows. I’ll explain to Sanger about the Whitney opening, how stressed out Sam is. Jesus, it never ends. Listen, thanks for coming. Whatever Sam said he’d pay you, send me the bill.”

  “That sounds like you think I’m through.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be? Now that this is out?”

  “Sam didn’t hire me to keep it a secret. He wants to know if it’s true.”

  “Today. Tomorrow, he’ll be back to the Martians.”

  “The Martians haven’t landed. Those women were really killed.”

  “Not by Sam. Smith, listen. What I said this morning about the haunted house? That only works if the monster’s fake. As soon as it escapes and heads for your neighborhood, it’s not fun anymore. If this gets out, people will drop Sam like a hot potato.”

  “And Michael Sanger will drop you like a hot potato.”

  “Yes, all right, that’s true, and yes, it’s a worry. You have a problem with that?”

  “I’m only paid to worry about Sam’s problems, not yours. I’m hoping I can prove where Sam really was, find something that makes it impossible for him to have killed those women.”

  “And if you can’t?” Leslie demanded. “As long as there’s even a hint that it’s possible, it’s a disaster. Sam killed Amy Evans—okay, he was drugged, he’s an injured party, too. But a serial killer? A predator? Victim’s rights! Me Too! Plenty of people already think he shouldn’t be shown, killers of young women shouldn’t be rewarded—”

  “I’ve seen the press.”

  Peter said, “Then why go on with this?”

  “Because Sam thinks he killed two women and he’s afraid he’ll kill another one.”

  “If I told you,” Peter folded his arms, “if I said I was a hundred percent sure he was home all night both those nights, would you stop?”

  “I might have, if you’d said that when I first asked. Now, no.”

  “That’s my point! It doesn’t matter how unlikely it is. You think it could be true. So will everyone else, and there goes Sam’s career.”

  “If he had to choose between knowing he didn’t do it and his career, there’s no question what his choice would be.”

  “Sam doesn’t always choose well. The whole idea’s just another delusion and you know it. Leave it alone, let it blow over. He’ll find something else to obsess about soon enough.”

  “I never saw him look as bad as he looked last night.”

  “You didn’t grow up with him.”

  I regarded Peter. “Sam told me last night that the kind of paintings he does now are the same as he always did. What did you think about his work, when you were kids?”

  “His work? They were just my weird brother’s weird drawings, not his ‘work.’ Our parents wouldn’t let him put them on the walls, not even in his room. Me, I drew stick figures and flowers because my kindergarten teacher said parents like to have pictures their kids made. Growing up with Sam, that was news to me, but I did it and they put mine on the fridge.”

  “Did that bother Sam?”

  “I told him, just draw a flower. I didn’t give any more of a shit about flowers and stick figures than he did. The stuff I liked was where no one but me knew what it was. I remember telling my mother once that a picture was five camels in a line. She gave me a ‘that’s nice, dear’ smile and put it on the fridge. It was really two people and a dog in a snowstorm. Just do it, I told Sam. Every once in a while, a stupid flower. But he wouldn’t. He had notebooks and sketch pads full of those other drawings. It was all he did.”

  “I didn’t know about them when I was working for you.”

  “Damn right, you didn’t. If anybody’d seen them, he’d never have gotten a deal. They would’ve said his work proved a predisposition to violence and he’d have been behind bars for the rest of his life.”

  “You just said that wasn’t a bad place for him.”

  “I didn’t know that then.”

  “And the predisposition to violence—would that have been wrong?”

  “If two kids argued at recess Sam would run in the other direction. He’s afraid of his own shadow.”

  “He committed a violent murder.”

  “On drugs!”

  “And he drinks. Alcohol can give people courage, just like drugs do.”

  “That wasn’t courage, it was psychosis. And alcohol gives Sam the shakes. He thinks he’s high-functioning but he’s a classic drunk. He slurs words and trips over his feet. If he’d been drunk instead of drugged when
he took Amy Evans into that basement, she’d still be alive. Smith, please, when I—” Peter’s phone buzzed again and he grabbed it. “Yes. Yes, all right, we’ll be right there.”

  “I’m sorry, Peter,” I said when he hung up. “I think you were right when you said Sam’s latched onto me to keep him afloat. He needs to know I’m doing this.”

  Peter slipped his hands into his pockets. “Then how about this: Fake it. All he needs to hear is that you’re on the case. In fact”—his face brightened—“tell him you found his alibis. Tell him he’s—”

  “Sam said he came to me because I’d never lied to him.”

  “Jesus Christ! What does it even mean, lying to someone who can’t tell reality from a hole in the ground?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But whatever it means, I’m not going to do it.”

  10

  After another few moments where we stared at each other, Peter pulled open his office door and stalked down the hall. That left me alone with Leslie and her clenched jaw.

  “Come on,” she snapped. “I’ll walk you out.” In the reception area she opened the glass door, stalked through it into the hall, and kept going around the corner to the elevator lobby, where we couldn’t be seen from the office. “Listen,” she said. “I want to make something clear. Sam’s through fucking things up for us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come on. You heard Peter say Sam finally has a chance—well, that’s true for us, too. But what he said about Sam living in a fog? I promise you, Sam is not the only one. When we met in school, Peter was a goddamn space cadet. A genius who couldn’t find his ass with both hands. But I could see what he had. And I saw this, too—that I wasn’t any kind of real artist and never would be. But together—” Leslie interlocked her fingers. “Peter needs me, or he’d stumble around in a haze of pretty sketches and never build anything. Architecture is full of people like that. Theorists. People who write and teach and never have to put their money where their mouth is. I wasn’t interested in that kind of bullshit. I came into this field to make real buildings. Important buildings. I found out in school they weren’t going to be my buildings. I can accept that because, with Peter, I can make it happen—and without me, he cannot make it happen. I’m the one who turns the pretty sketches into reality. That’s why I picked him. But it never happened. Until now.”