SOME DEAD GENIUS

by LENNY KLEINFELD

  Ugly as it was, the head wound might not have been the COD. Gilson’s throat was sliced open.

  “Takes him down with the bash to the head, then zip,” Doonie summarized. “Nice and quiet.”

  “Uh-huh.” Middle of a residential block, a sculpture and a knife make way less conspicuous murder weapons than a gun.

  Indicating the Ken-in-mouth tableau, Mark asked, “Does it speak to you?”

  “Not in English.”

  “But I sense a theme,” Mark said, gesturing at what Gilson had been working on when he was killed.

  The vic was sprawled next to a worktable on which there was a Barbie doll. Barbie’s clothes had been removed, except for her boots, and Gilson had been painting anatomically correct details on her.

  “There’s more,” the TV Star said. He went to a cabinet and pulled open its doors, revealing a gallery of Barbies and Kens. Sixteen pairs. Nude and semi-nude. Carefully posed.

  All the Kens were painted to look like Gilson; had his curly salt-and-pepper hair and rowdy moustache. The Barbies were all distinctly different. And Ken was usually doing something foul to her.

  Doonie instructed the TV Star to bag the dolls, and snuck a pleased little grin at Mark. This case did feature some promising sick shit.

  They made a quick inspection of the garage; no signs of forced entry.

  Time to go talk to the heavily glazed widow.

  Four | 2012

  Helen Gilson was still melting into the couch. The silver-haired shrink was still glued to her.

  “Mrs. Gilson, I’m Detective Bergman, and this is Detective Dunegan,” Mark said, gently. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  The widow, concentrating on the task, raised her head. The shiny orange hair framed a pleasant oval face, chemically drained of affect. She gazed at the cops. And gazed at the cops.

  When it became obvious Helen wasn’t going to hold up her end of the conversation, the tall woman in black introduced herself. “Dr. Margot Bader. Helen’s therapist.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mark said. “Mrs. Gilson, could we speak to you in private?”

  Helen slowly wobbled her gaze down to her hand, which was clutching Dr. Bader’s. Slowly looked up at the cops. Nope. Not letting go of that hand.

  “This will save Helen having to tell me about this,” Dr. Bader offered, with a well-practiced reasonableness. “However, Helen is somewhat sedated. Can you speak to her later?”

  “We plan to,” Mark said. “But time is important. Whatever you can tell us now, Mrs. Gilson, will be useful.”

  “All… right,” Helen said, to Mark and Doonie’s surprise, and possibly her own.

  “Were you here when it happened?” Mark asked.

  Helen gave her head a slow, wobbly shake.

  “Where,” Mark prompted, “were you?”

  “Yo… ga.”

  “At yoga?”

  A wobbly nod. “Came… home… went to…” She aimed a gaze in the direction of the studio. “I…”

  “You?”

  “Saw him, and… passed… out.”

  “Then?” Mark coaxed.

  “Woke… Took V-val-yumm… Then, 9-1-1… Then, took… a Lu… minal.”

  “Mrs. Gilson, did your husband have enemies? Or stalkers, someone obsessed with him?”

  A slo-mo wobbly head shake: No.

  “Do you have any debts?”

  Wobbly-no.

  “Do you know anyone who would want to kill your husband?”

  Helen thought it over. Said, with plaintive narcotized sincerity, “It… wasn’t… me.”

  Mark raised an eyebrow and waited.

  “Eight years… ago… I stabbed… Bob. But not… very hard.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Was just… bad time, a… thing. W-we…”

  “You?”

  “Bob… a-pologized… I stabbed, and Bob… polo… gized.” Tears spilled.

  Which brought them to the twisted little elephant in the room. “Mrs. Gilson, were you aware of your husband’s collection of… Barbies and Kens?”

  A wobbly-nod. “Found them… few years a-go.”

  “They represent women he had affairs with?”

  Wobbly-nod.

  “Were you angry about all those—Barbies?”

  Wobbly-no.

  “That’s true,” Dr. Bader interjected. “May I?” she asked her patient.

  Wobbly-nod.

  Dr. Bader explained, “Helen and Bob are—were—a mature, realistic couple.”

  “Do you know,” Mark asked Helen, “if any of the Barbies, or their significant others, were—less mature?”

  Helen thought. Gave a mournful shrug, and sagged against Dr. Bader.

  Dr. Bader laid a hand over Helen’s face, shielding it. Stared at the cops, informing them the interview was over.

  As they left, Doonie shot Mark a skeptical, disappointed glance. If Helen was so mature, so un-jealous, why had she dyed her hair Barbie orange?

  Despite the kinky dolls this was looking like a plain-vanilla, wife-got-fed-up-with-her-hound murder. A quickie.

  Five | 2012

  The frustration reduced Mark to playing with Barbies.

  After two days all Mark and Doonie had on Helen Gilson was what they began with: She’d spent twenty-eight years married to an artist with a slippery zipper.

  They’d done a follow-up with Helen, who this time was only partially encased in chemical buffering. Helen said she understood who Bob was and how life was always throwing women at him. The time she stabbed him had nothing to do with sex; it was because of something mean he said during an argument. They had a solid, loving, happy marriage.

  That rosy picture was confirmed by family and friends. And by nine of the Barbies—whose names Helen provided.

  Helen’s alibi held up. She’d been miles away, flexing chakras.

  Helen could’ve hired the hit. But her phones, emails and financials showed no sign she’d been in touch with Throat-Slitters R Us.

  The cops confirmed Bob Gilson didn’t have enemies or debts.

  Both of Gilson’s adult children were happily married, gainfully employed and not mad at dad.

  The TV Stars turned up no unexplained fingerprints or DNA.

  No neighbor had seen a throat-slitter entering or exiting Gilson’s house or studio.

  That narrowed the theoretical suspect list to: A disgruntled Killer Barbie, or her disgruntled spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend.

  • • •

  Mark and Doonie spent Day Three interviewing the known Barbies.

  All had nice things to say about Bob. All but one claimed Bob had never done the nasty things his Ken was doing to her Barbie; the exception said she liked golden shampoos. All said their bonks with Bob had been short flings or one-night-stands. Nothing like a romantic, slay-your-lover affair.

  None copped to having a jealous spouse or partner.

  Which left the seven unidentified Barbies.

  • • •

  Doonie packed it in for the day, went home to have dinner with his expensive family.

  Mark ate at his desk, filling his stomach with kebab while he tried to empty his mind by watching a Cubs pre-season game. The Cubs kept swinging at pitches outside the strike zone, mocking Mark’s at-bats on the Gilson case.

  How to track down the mystery Barbies?

  Go through years of Gilson’s communications, contact every female.

  Show Gilson’s friends photos of the dolls. The known Barbies said Gilson had gotten their hair, eyes, pubes and ink exactly right. Also their clothes, on the dolls who were partially dressed… Mark could run their tats through a database. He began extracting the Barbies from their evidence bags—

  Kazurinsky and Kimbrough, night-shift detectives who’d caught a case and were on their way out, paused to admire Mark’s Barbie line-up. Kimmie gave him an Aww, how adorable grin. Mark didn’t grin back. Kaz and Kimmie left, politely not breaking into giggles until they were headed down the stairs.

/>   Mark began photographing Barbie tattoos.

  Got to a Barbie wearing a red leather jacket and nothing else. But, shit, that jacket was the exact same… And she had long black hair—which was cut just like…

  Mark checked her eyes. Green.

  Turned the doll over.

  The hair went up on the back of Mark’s neck.

  Left butt cheek. Six tiny green letters. Gilson had painted the tat to scale, so Mark had to use a magnifier. But his gut knew what the tat would say:

  VISION

  So.

  Mark and the dead guy had both seen the tiny, well-placed word Janvier Dunstan referred to as her first and last piece of performance art.

  Hmm. If Mark had slept with a subject the vic had also slept with, and that subject turned into suspect, Mark had to step away.

  But first, the subject would have to confirm this black-haired green-eyed Barbie was in fact a Janvier Dunstan Barbie.

  Mark was uniquely qualified to conduct that interview; he could confirm the subject’s identity, even though she was someone he hadn’t been naked with, or seen, or spoken to, in four years.

  Janvier had been twenty-one at the time. Waitressing—and dealing pot and Christ knows what else—to pay her way through an MFA at the Art Institute. Now she’d be twenty-five, and doing…?

  Mark pulled out his cell, found Janvier’s number. Still in the address book, two phones after he’d last called her. A cynic on the street but a sentimentalist on the speed-dial.

  He thumbed. Got the voicemail for a dry cleaner. Baritone, with a mellifluous East African accent. Definitely not Janvier, whose voice was husky but nowhere near that deep. And her accent, despite her French name, was pure Midwest. She was Mark’s favorite thing about Indiana, and not just because there was no competition.

  Janvier was six foot, easy. Nearly Mark’s height. A fine full-length full-contact fit. And the sweep of that long sleek back. Insanely silky skin. Endless legs, most exciting legs he’d…

  And smart, talented, funny, tons of fierce young energy, and a whole lot of rural resilience. But always playfully, defiantly stoned. Or tripping, or coked.

  There’d been no way Mark could ignore the felonious recreationals. And no way she’d back off. He’d ended it.

  And yet, soon after that, on her own initiative, Janvier helped Mark and Doonie leverage one of her pot customers, a woman who’d witnessed a hit-and-run and then refused to testify. Janvier set her customer up for a drug bust, and the detectives traded the reluctant witness a walk in exchange for her testimony.

  Mark had phoned Janvier and thanked her. But that was all. By then Gale had moved in with Mark, and… Now Gale was gone, and Mark was sitting here remembering the feel of Janvier’s legs intertwined with his, and, right, working a murder.

  He searched the white pages. Found a J. Dunstan. In Pilsen. Hot neighborhood for young artists. Hot enough so it was no longer cheap. Janvier was making money. Mark hoped it was from selling more art than weed.

  He called.

  Someone answered.

  “Maaark,” Janvier said, teasing it into a lyric.

  Six | 2005

  “Good news, bad news. Bad news, you’ve lost a finger. Good news, only lost one. Bad news, it was your middle finger,” the surgeon-comedian informed Dale. “Good news, it was your left hand—” sly grin, “—unless you’re a lefty. You a lefty?”

  “Uuuhhhh.”

  “Okay then. There’ll be some deformation and loss of function in the adjacent fingers. The nurse will be by with prescriptions and instructions. ER’s crazy today, gotta hustle.”

  Dale lifted his left hand. It had no fingers. The whole hand was encased in a softball-size glob of gauze and tape, bright white with a red stain above the place where his middle knuckle might still be.

  Good news, his head was encased in an anesthetic haze. Bad news, a nurse showed up with a laptop.

  The nurse flipped open the laptop and said, “So you don’t have any medical coverage?”

  • • •

  When the forms were signed and the (Thank you, Jesus) prescriptions handed over, the nurse asked, “Is there anyone who can drive you home?”

  Was there? Dale had burned so many bridges.

  Walt Egan. Dale and Eegs went back to fourth grade at Francis Parker. Eegs would never lend Dale another dime, but was still good for a ride home, after something like an emergency middle finger amputation.

  The nurse went to make the call.

  Dale closed his eyes.

  Five thousand, plus twenty per cent vig: six thousand.

  Seven days. Six thousand. How?

  Ah shit. Ah fuck. Why couldn’t he have gone legally bankrupt like a normal person, protected his assets? Why’d he have to go literally bankrupt, piss away what should have been a lifetime-cushion trust fund, then keep right on going and piss away his friends’ money?

  There was no way he could hit up his friends again.

  Or family. His parents were gone. Dale was sole heir, which turned out to be only pocket-money solace; his parents’ estate had been decimated by bad investments and good hospitals.

  He was the only child of two only children. Had no siblings, uncles, aunts or cousins who might be guilted into sacrificing hard cash to save him from Tommy Tesca’s next surgical procedure.

  What quick crime might pay six thou?

  Bank robbery. At this point what the fuck… Yeah sure, a guy robbing a bank with a gun in his right hand and a gigantic white lump where his left hand should be. Make an LOL security-cam clip. Especially the part where the one-handed robber tries to pick up the money without putting down the gun.

  Seven days. Six thousand.

  How?

  Seven | 2005

  “Oh God God God, Dale, that was like so totally the best, bestest sex, that wasn’t sex, that was a fuck, you animal, an-nee-mull,” Soosie chirped. Soosie, panting, slick with sweat, was trying to purr, but though Soosie was a chunky five-foot-seven, the gene factory had equipped her with wispy high-pitched munchkin pipes; chirping was Soosie’s deepest, sultriest sound.

  Music to Dale Phipps’ ears, even the one that was swollen and purple.

  Walt and Elise Egan had spent two days taking care of and feeding Dale. On the third night Dale felt un-crappy enough to be fed at a restaurant.

  The Egans took Dale to the new Mexican place (“The Taco Goes Molecular”—Chicago magazine), where a reservation entitled them to a forty-five-minute wait. They headed to the bar, where—holy shit, is that—yes—Soosie Smith and two girlfriends, mainlining margaritas. Soosie Smith, daughter of millionaire Phillippa Smith (boutique ad agency), to whom Dale had sold four pieces over the years.

  As a teenager Soosie often accompanied her mom to the Dale Phipps Gallery, where Soosie made it plain she considered Dale to be adorably sophisticated. He’d pretended not to notice. Soosie was too young, too shallow and the daughter of too wealthy a client.

  Now, years later, over extraordinary appetizers and inexcusable entrees—blueberry-molé foam on gluten carnitas, for fuck’s sake—twenty-three-year-old Soosie made it plain she was still suffering from unrequited lust.

  After dinner Dale went home with Soosie and requited with phenomenal enthusiasm.

  In between requitements, Dale related the broad outline of his plight. How he’d lost his business and was about to be evicted from his loft. Why his left ear was purple and where his middle left finger had gone.

  Soosie wept, and offered anal sex.

  This morning Dale had packed his six or seven belongings and moved in with her.

  Tonight they’d celebrated with a romantic (edible) dinner, followed by dance clubs. Now they were back in bed, where Dale the an-nee-mull was fucking as if his life, or at least his kneecaps, testicles and eyeballs depended on it.

  Soon Dale would let Soosie pry out some dark details he’d alluded to but refused to discuss—specifically, how the half-orangutan thug would be removing a lot worse than a finger if Dale
didn’t come up with another six thousand. Within three days.

  Dale wouldn’t ask for it. Soosie would offer. Soosie would insist. Soosie dropped that kind of money during an hour at a good shoe store.

  Dale couldn’t entirely relax until they’d played that touching scene and he had the cash in hand. But he’d only have one shot; had to pick the perfect moment. And then, then he’d be free and clear, starting over, with Soosie—and her millionaire mama—behind him.

  Dale Phipps was back. Life had handed him a lemon and he’d made a bottle of Petrus.

  Soosie threw her leg over his. Began rubbing her damp swollen labia up and down his thigh. Sucked his nipple.

  Dale began to stiffen. Make that a magnum of Petrus.

  Soosie fondled his erection. A jeroboam.

  He pulled Soosie on top of him, grasped her ample hips and lowered her onto his jeroboam. Began to swivel, slowly, slowly, stirring the ooze—

  The radio alarm went off.

  Soosie giggled. “Seven-fifteen already!”

  “You set the alarm?”

  “Dermatologist at eight-fifteen, only appointment available. So-o-o,” Soosie urged in her most carnal chirp, “bet-turh hur-ree.”

  “We’ll be there before the snooze alarm goes off,” Dale promised.

  He reached for the snooze bar.

  Froze.

  Surreal.

  Sounded like the newscaster just said: “Rising young Chicago artist Laurie Desh, twenty-nine, was found murdered in her apartment late last night. Police haven’t released any details.”

  Jeroboam turned to magnum turned to bottle turned to half-bottle turned to stricken baby worm.

  Eight | 2012

  “Hi, Janvier.”

  “Hi—actually that’s not my name any more. Like, legally.”

  “To whom am I speaking, legally?”

  “JaneDoe. Capital ’D’ but all one word: JaneDoe.”

  If ever a name change proved someone hadn’t changed. “How long you been all one word JaneDoe?”

  “Three and a half years. This is a business call, isn’t it?”