SOME DEAD GENIUS

by LENNY KLEINFELD

  “I’m Detective Dunegan, Detective Bergman, we’re sorry for your loss. We’re working the Robert Gilson murder—”

  No, those really are ants crossing that windowsill—Ignore the ants, just fucking ignore those goddamn—.

  “—and we got a coupla questions you could help us with.”

  “Of course. I—uh, I uh—” Taylor couldn’t control it, “—excuse me—” The rage launched him past the cops, to the windowsill where he pounded and pounded, obliterating every one of those…

  Oh, fuck. Oh God. I’m a mess… Sorry, Gerd.

  Taylor brushed ant fragments off his hands. “Sorry, I… When I, I found Gerd, there was… this trail of ants across his body. They were swarming… in and out of the bullet hole.”

  “No apology necessary,” Bergman said, “little bastards had it coming.”

  Jesus. Cops you were glad to have around. Gerd would’ve been amused.

  The older cop asked the questions. The younger cop observed, gray eyes reading Taylor the way they’d assess an X-ray.

  Dunegan asked, “Was there anything Mr. Voorsts and Mr. Gilson had in common? Were they friends, maybe working on anything together?”

  Taylor shook his head. “They barely knew each other. We met Bobby and Helen at a reception last spring. A month later we had them over for a dinner party, about twelve people. Gerd and Bobby didn’t hit it off. I think Bobby found Gerd a touch pompous.” A rueful half-grin. “Which he could be.”

  “Any friends or associates in common?”

  “None—Gerd was in town five years ago, for four months—he taught a master class at the Art Institute—that’s where we met.”

  “The Art Institute,” Dunegan noted. “You were a student?”

  “Yeah. When the semester ended I went to Amsterdam with him. We just moved back to Chicago last year, it’s not like Gerd knew many people here…” Taylor’s voice plunged into the barely audible, a whisper from the pit of his stomach. “Gerd moved here because I was homesick. And last night he was alone because I had to go fucking kayaking…” Taylor clenched his eyes shut.

  “Hey,” the big cop confided, “twenty years in Homicide, I learned a coupla things. First is they got murder everywhere, even Amsterdam. Second is the only one who gets to take credit for killing Gerd Voorsts is the one who killed Gerd Voorsts.”

  After a moment Taylor whispered, “Thanks.”

  “Sorry to have to ask,” Dunegan said, “does the Yellow Submarine refer to some, anything, in Mr. Voorsts’ life?”

  “Fuck, no,” Taylor hissed. Then, apologetic: “Not, not far as I knew.”

  Dunegan flicked a tiny, almost telepathic glance at Bergman, giving him some sort of cue. Taylor recognized the lived-in intimacy.

  Bergman asked, “Five years ago, at the Art Institute, did you or Mr. Voorsts know a student named JaneDoe?”

  “Yeah—but then her name was Janvier. How did you know she was at school then?”

  “We’ve interviewed all of Mr. Gilson’s acquaintances. So you knew her?”

  “Casually. But JaneDoe was one of the first people I re-connected with when we moved back, because she and I had pieces in last year’s New Chicagart show—in fact, she was at that dinner here with Bobby and Helen Gilson.”

  Bergman asked, “How did JaneDoe and Mr. Voorsts get along?”

  “Great, this time.”

  “This time?”

  “When Gerd gave that master class, JaneDoe wasn’t allowed in because she was an undergraduate. She asked if she could audit but Gerd turned her down. She was pissed—but like I said, this time she and Gerd… Oh c’mon. JaneDoe? Kill people?”

  Bergman’s gray eyes went opaque.

  Taylor didn’t do representational art, but he knew someday he’d paint those eyes, that look.

  Christ. Planning a painting while Gerd’s down there with ants waltzing in and out of his skull.

  But Taylor wasn’t mortified. Because he knew Gerd would approve.

  Fifteen | 2012

  There weren’t many ways being a cop reminded Mark of being a teenager, but one was that the car was the most reliable place guys could talk with no danger of being overheard by a grownup.

  They were driving to JaneDoe’s, on official business.

  Mark said, “So.”

  Doonie gave a dismissive wave. “Filed your paperwork after you interviewed her. Then just now we brought Hsu and Montero up to speed about the JaneDoe connection soon as we heard about it. And we’re goin’ to re-interview JaneDoe, together. You’re in policy.”

  “Not the part where I forgot to inform Husak my first interview with her ended in bed. And by the way, Loo, four years ago JaneDoe and I had an affair… Doon, she’s about a quarter-inch from being a person of interest. Longer I wait to tell Husak, the deeper the shit.” Mark glanced at his partner. “Not just for me. Who’s gonna believe you knew nothing about it?”

  “Everyone,” Doonie ruled. “I never even met her, years ago she and me just had a coupla phone conversations. Far as what happened last week, you never told me you banged her, I can testify hand on a bible.”

  Which was no guarantee the brass would believe it, seeing how Doon had his share of reprimands engraved on his permanent record. Another similarity to adolescence.

  Mark said, “Nah. Before we talk to JaneDoe I gotta tell Husak—”

  “And take a guaranteed rip? Just for not mentioning you fucked a witness?”

  “Doon—”

  “Look, if she turns into a suspect, you’ll go confess your sins to Husak and lie your ass off about how I knew nothin’. Till then fuck it, we got work to do.”

  Sixteen | 2012

  When JaneDoe’s door opened the cops were enveloped by the muscular stank of high-grade weed. Standing there was charred sweetness herself, green eyes gone heavy-lidded. Floppy black sweater, baggy black pants. Half-empty wine glass in her hand, sadness in her eyes, weary grin on her lips.

  She gazed at Doonie, pleased. “Detective Dunegan, at last.”

  JaneDoe handed her glass to Mark and gave Doonie a kiss. On the lips. “You give good phone,” she explained.

  JaneDoe retrieved her wine from Mark and stated, with somber formality, “How nice to see you again, Detective Bartman.”

  Doonie laughed. Said, “So tell us you didn’t kill Gerd Voorsts.”

  “I didn’t kill Gerd Voorsts,” JaneDoe agreed. She ushered Mark and Doonie inside, confiding, “Though I’m flattered you think I could be Chicago’s most cultured serial killer.”

  “Anything you set your mind to,” Doonie assured the youngster. “Gotta ask, hon—where were you between ten P.M. and two A.M. last night?”

  “Right there,” she said, indicating her work table, on which were the unassembled parts of a multi-hued… something. An asymmetric female something, if those seven mounds on the torso were breasts. “I’m too busy to have a life, forget go around stealing lives.”

  She finished her wine and poured herself another.

  “Anybody confirm you were here?”

  “Sure.” A casual wave at her work table. “Zug,” she said, revealing the creature’s name, without giving away its gender.

  “Any homo sapiens?” Mark inquired.

  JaneDoe gave an apologetic shrug. Then asked, for real, “How’s Hal doing?”

  After a moment Mark replied, “His friends should call him.”

  “His friends keep getting voicemail, and no replies to texts,” JaneDoe murmured. Then slipped back into her armor, a breastplate of cynicism topped with a helmet of intoxication. “Lemme guess what brought you here: I was at a dinner at Hal and Gerd’s house with Bobby Gilson. I’ve been wracking my little brain and can’t come up with a single fun fact about that night. Or anything Bobby and Gerd had in common besides painting the shit out of every canvas they touched. Now sit down, Detectives, ask away, I’ll tell you everything else I don’t know about why the hell this is happening.”

  They sat. Went through her every encoun
ter with Voorsts, especially him not letting her take his master class. She assured them if she killed teachers who annoyed her, the faculty lounge at the Art Institute would’ve looked like Omaha Beach.

  “Fucked if I can think of anything else,” Doonie announced. Not true; he was signaling Mark to ask it, after the interviewee thought the quiz was over, and might be caught with her composure down.

  Doonie said, “Good finally meetin’ ya.”

  “You too,” JaneDoe said.

  She walked them to the door.

  As they got there, Mark asked, “By the way—you own a gun?”

  “No, that’s you guys.”

  So much for the composure-loss theory. “Wanna come take a paraffin test for gunshot residue?”

  JaneDoe shook her head. “Send your paraffin guy here. Gotta finish Zug.”

  Doonie asked, “You can work when you’re this high?”

  “Sure. My art’s like my sex life. No mistakes I can’t correct in the morning,” she said, shifting her gaze to Mark.

  Doonie informed Mark, “I’ll be out in the car.” Made his exit.

  JaneDoe and Mark looked at each other.

  “How you doing?” he asked.

  “How you think? Someone’s running around killing artists.”

  “Male artists.”

  “So I got nothing to worry.”

  “There someone you can stay with, or who can stay here?”

  “You.”

  Knife in. Knife twisted. Say your line, asshole. “Not till we nail this guy.”

  He touched her cheek and left. There was no sound of a door shutting behind him. JaneDoe was standing in the doorway, watching him. He returned, eased her inside and closed the door. Waited till he heard the lock click.

  • • •

  Mark got in the car.

  Doonie said, “Maybe she should get a gun.”

  “Her and every artist in Chicago… Maybe that’s the only connection between our vics. They were artists. Maybe our perp’s an especially serious art critic.”

  “Ooh,” Doonie grunted, pleased.

  As Mark put the car into gear Doonie took out his phone. Scrolled through the voicemails he’d ignored in the hours since this case expanded from a media snack about one dead artist into a media feast about one live serial killer. Picked the winner, Karl Winnie at the Sun-Times.

  “Karl, Doonie—Look, wish I could help ya, but—… Look, it’s too soon, can’t say anything yet, you know the fuckin’ drill… Well, shit, Karl, one detail, ’cause it’s you. We’re calling our perp The Art Critic.”

  Seventeen | 2010

  Usually it was the nudes. A man—almost always a man—would park himself in front of a nudie—and stare at it too long.

  Maleekwa Pritchard-Varney, one of the uniformed guards stationed in the galleries at the Art Institute, wasn’t surprised how many dudes got freaky off peeping at nudes, any nudes. Even that Picasso where the only good part was one triangular boobie stickin’ out the side this poor woman’s head. What Maleekwa didn’t get—wasn’t sure she wanted to—was why so many people—men, women, young, old—would get hypnotized by that crazy-nasty Ivan Albright painting, Picture of Dorian Gray.

  Dorian Gray had clothes on, but Jesus, it was like his body was the whole Wikipedia of ugly diseases. And not just him—even the wall and furniture and rug in that painting had infections and plagues.

  Disgusting. Yet near as many got hypnotized by it as by the nudes.

  But that was none of a guard’s business, long as the visitors didn’t touch the painting, or touch themselves. Maleekwa hated seeing some perv with his hand way deep in his pocket, hated having to go up to the perv and tell him, “Sir, you’ll have to leave now.”

  Didn’t think she’d have that problem with the little dude, gentleman in a fine black pinstripe suit, who’d been staring at Dorian Gray for twenty minutes. The look he was giving Dorian Gray wasn’t freaky horny. Just kinda sad, like far, far away sad.

  Shit. Wasn’t too hard to guess why.

  • • •

  Hey Dor, how’s it hanging, and oozing, and bleeding?

  I know, I know, been a while, mea culpa, but things have gotten hectic, and complicated and scary beyond belief. You know if possible I would’ve been here sooner. You know you’re the only one I can talk to. And you know how much it means to me to verify no matter how putrid my skin gets, yours is worse. And always will be. Ivan Albright really was a genius.

  Good thing Ivan’s dead. No chance I’ll have to murder him.

  That’s right, five years in, business is booming, profits are incredible. So Tommy Tesca has lost his mind. He wants to bring in an outside investor, someone who can plunk down millions.

  Wait. Gets better. Tommy’s not tapping any old venture capitalist. He’s got his heart set on going partners with Gianni Mastrizzi.

  What do you mean, “What is a Gianni Mastrizzi?” Dorian, all due respect, you live in Chicago. You should keep current on the civic fundamentals.

  Mastrizzi is the heavy of heavies in the Chicago Outfit. Old school, butchered his way to the top. No offense, Dor, this guy’s rep is worse than yours.

  Well shit yeah I tried to talk Tommy out of this, I’m not a complete idiot. Which is why I caved when he said he’d snap my fuckin’ head off if I didn’t shut up.

  No point arguing. There’s something insanely important to Tommy about getting in with the Lord High Mobster, no matter how stupid and risky that has to be.

  So tomorrow we meet with Gianni Mastrizzi—and his son Lou, who I hear has an MBA, a sophisticate who hasn’t whacked nearly as many people as the Old Man.

  For some reason it doesn’t matter to Tommy that if the Mastrizzis buy in, we’ll be working with guys who’ll bury us if any little thing goes wrong. Or maybe even if it all goes right.

  Oh c’mon, Dorian—what “upside” do you think I’m missing?

  Oh. Right. If this deal goes down I’ll be done with murdering merely important artists. I’ll be murdering great ones.

  Thanks Dor. Always count on you to keep things in perspective.

  • • •

  The gentleman with the fine suit and the foul skin gave the disgusting freak in the painting this fond, unhappy little smile.

  Oh. Oh, Lord.

  Maybe that poor man ain’t spending time ’cause he likes to look at that painting. Maybe it was because that painting was looking at him, and not a soul else could stand to.

  Eighteen | 2012

  It was 8:40 P.M. when they got back to the office. Husak was still there, and on the phone. He waved Mark and Doonie into his office.

  “Uh-huh. Right. Yessir. Uh-huh.” Husak hung up a little too hard. Complained, “You’d think Ditka and Jordan got whacked. HQ’s been lit up by the national media, plus Europe, especially Holland.” Husak eyed Doonie. “And our perp’s already got a cute name—The Art Critic.”

  “That was fast,” Mark commented, blandly.

  Husak kept staring at Doonie. “It was on Karl Winnie’s blog.”

  “Reporters,” Doonie scoffed. “Winnie pulls the name out of his ass but says he got it from a cop, fools his editor into thinking he’s got sources.”

  Husak wearily demanded, “Just tell me Winnie’s source didn’t use that term in front of the bereaved.”

  “Loo!” Doonie snorted, offended.

  “Small blessings. So watcha got?”

  Mark and Doonie briefed Husak.

  Husak said, “The Ken doll and the Yellow Submarine are kinda arty; this JaneDoe is worth a look.”

  • • •

  Doonie took Gilson and Voorsts. Pulled their communications, looking to see if they’d been in touch with one another or a common third party.

  Mark took JaneDoe.

  But first Mark put in a call to the POD unit. Police Observation Device. Spy cams. The policeman’s friend. Twelve hundred of them, attached to light poles and buildings across the great city of Chicago.

  Mark requested a su
rvey of footage from every camera within a mile of the two crime scenes, for two hours before and after each murder. If they spotted the same car or pedestrian near both locations, might be a magic bullet.

  • • •

  Mark went through JaneDoe’s communications and financials. Hit the databases, looking for anything hinky in her past. Nada.

  Mark searched for murders with a dildo sodomy signature. Squat.

  A search for any unsolved artist homicide spat out Laurie Desh.

  Mark expanded the search to include any artist death nationwide that merited a police investigation, starting the year Desh went down, 2005.

  In 2006 in Wisconsin, Richard Struger fell off his bike, knocked himself out or broke his neck, then got run over by a train. Sort of strange accident. Which made it sort of typical; every year dozens of people manage to snuff themselves in improbable ways.

  In Los Angeles in 2009, Harold Pruitt took a fall off a roof. There was no evidence Pruitt was suicidal. No intoxication or physical evidence that pointed to an accident. But also no evidence he was pushed.

  In 2010 in Taos, Ella Stark passed away in her sleep. Stark was 83 and had emphysema; coroner ruled she’d simply stopped breathing.

  The police report noted a small mystery: Alfred, Stark’s black Lab, was gone. Neighbors said the dog had never before run off.

  To one neighbor, the dog’s disappearance suggested Ella Stark’s spirit had entered Alfred and he/she was now running free. To Mark, who hadn’t done mescaline since college, it suggested the possibility of a break-in which Alfred had made a fatal effort to thwart. Same possibility occurred to the Taos cops. But a search of the premises found nothing had been stolen or disturbed. And no puddle of retriever blood.

  Which put Mark back where he started, with Laurie Desh being the only verified unsolved artist homicide.

  Like Gilson and Voorsts, it happened in Chicago. Unlike them, Desh was female, and there’d been no oral decoration. But Desh might be an early work by a serial whose kinks escalated over time.

  Tomorrow morning Mark and Doonie should make that visit to Desh’s art dealer, Dale—