SOME DEAD GENIUS

by LENNY KLEINFELD

  Bergman recited the highlights, ending with JaneDoe’s connection to both Gilson and Voorsts, and her lack of an alibi for either crime. Information which was in his written report, had any cops or Feds bothered to do their homework.

  Mark was about to hand off to Wendy Hsu when young Agent Rarey raised a question.

  “Thank you, Detective Bergman, just one, um—how did you determine the doll was a representation of JaneDoe?”

  The baby-faced Fed had read Mark’s report. And spotted a detail that wasn’t in it.

  “One of the other—live—Barbies recognized the doll’s hair and red leather—” Mark didn’t get to complete the fib.

  He was saved by a man who blew into the room, waved at the Feds and boomed, “Don’t let me interrupt!”

  “No problem,” Mark assured him. “Welcome to Chicago, Doctor…?”

  He was in his forties, medium height, pugnacious jaw, shaggy hair poking out of a Kangol beret, aviator shades, three-piece herringbone suit, black cowboy shirt, turquoise bracelet, alligator boots. He pulled off the shades and gave Mark a wink. Said, “Bard Hillkirk.” Took a quick look around to see how many cops recognized his name.

  Hillkirk manfully hid his disappointment and strode to the Feebs and Langan. He murmured to Langan, who nodded, then took the floor.

  “Thank you,” Langan told Mark. “Hsu—” Langan held up a hand, gesturing for her to wait. “Dr. Hillkirk has worked up a profile, which we need to get to right away.” He turned to Hillkirk. “Don’t worry, we’ll have you back at O’Hare on time. A chopper if necessary.”

  Mark and Doonie exchanged a look. Doonie crossed his arms and waited to be impressed. Mark slipped out his phone.

  Hillkirk stepped front and center. “Sorry about cutting in line, I’m due in Osaka. Haven’t written the profile yet—I’ll do that on the plane and email it. But I prefer to connect face to face. Don’t have to tell you how important that is,” he told them.

  Mark’s browser told him Hillkirk was a consultant at The House That J. Edgar Built. Doctorate in Abnormal Psych from the University of Wyoming.

  “Someone has dubbed our perp The Art Critic. I’d call her—or him—The Tsarina. Those phallic inserts are conquest, not criticism.

  “The Tsarina is a woman or gay. Her goal: To be a great artist. The Tsarina lusts for that so hard she can’t waste time achieving it through decades of incremental progress. The Tsarina is leaping directly to greatness by turning great artists into pieces of her own work.

  “She’s a loner. Resentful of authority. Possibly—probably—promiscuous.

  “Obviously, she fancies herself an artist. Perhaps is one, but not on the exalted plane of Gilson or Voorsts: True genius, a status upon which The Tsarina is fixated.

  “Look for someone on the outer edge of the victims’ social circle. Groupies, volunteers. Gallery staff. Students who took classes from the victims. Even,” Hillkirk flashed a cynical grin, “art critics, who are all artist wannabes.

  “There is an outside chance The Tsarina wasn’t an acquaintance. But since there’s no forced entry… No. The Tsarina knew both victims.” Hillkirk nodded in agreement with himself. “Any questions?”

  Not from Mark. Mark was clear on what Hillkirk had just done.

  Hsu asked, “Dr. Hillkirk, you’re certain the perp is a woman or gay. How did you arrive at that?”

  “I’ll put it in the written version. If I start expounding on analytical process, I’ll miss my flight to Osaka, and by tomorrow you and I will be on the Attorney General’s shit list,” Hillkirk bragged.

  Mark decided to ask a question, on the off chance it might make Hillkirk miss his plane. “We did find one unsolved previous local artist murd—”

  “Yes, in your report, six-seven years ago, female, garroted… “ Hillkirk squinted in concentration. “Laurie Kash!”

  “Desh.”

  “Really? Hmm. But to answer your next question—no, that murder’s not connected. I don’t see congruent precursor pathology that would mature to fit The Tsarina. Digging into the—Desh—homicide would be a waste of time.”

  An alarm beeped in Hillkirk’s pocket. He silenced his phone. Agent Rarey whisked him out the door.

  Hsu briefed Voorsts: No fingerprints. Canvas of the neighbors drew a blank. The Yellow Submarine vibrator was an old, unlicensed collectible from a magical mystery manufacturer. Teams would check sex shops and second-hand stores to see if it had been purchased locally.

  Langan told the room, “All right. This JaneDoe is the only link between the vics, and she fits the profile to a T.” The Deputy Chief of Field Group B gave Lieutenant Husak a hard significant look. “You’ll have whatever resources you need, and focus all of them on her.”

  Then Langan hustled out like a man in a hurry to get to the breakfast he’d skipped to get to this meeting on time. A man in too much of a hurry to notice something that was obvious to Mark.

  JaneDoe didn’t fit the profile to a T. The profile fit her to a T.

  Fucking Hillkirk. He hadn’t worked up a profile, he’d placed a bet. He’d read Mark’s report, decided JaneDoe was the odds-on favorite. Tailored a profile so specific that if the cops did bust her it’d make Hillkirk look like a goddamn psychic.

  And fucking Langan. That look he gave Husak was an easy read. JaneDoe’s your perp. Make it happen, fast.

  • • •

  Husak issued assignments. “Bergman and Dunegan are the primaries. Hsu and Montero will—”

  As Husak worked his way down the list, Mark looked at Doonie, silently putting the question to him. Mark said he’d fess up if JaneDoe became a suspect. Which she just did. Without a shred of serious evidence.

  Doonie gave his head a small, firm shake: No. Too late.

  Same way Mark saw it.

  The issue wasn’t Mark’s career. Fuck Mark’s career. Minor collateral damage compared to what JaneDoe was looking at.

  Her having sex with Mark wasn’t just any old sex; she seduced the detective interviewing her about Gilson’s murder. Classic sociopath chutzpah. The news JaneDoe had humped Detective Bergman would add a whole mess of momentum to the suddenly real danger of her getting railroaded.

  Only way to prevent that was to find the actual Art Critic, fast. While working twenty-six hours a day investigating JaneDoe.

  Twenty-Three | 2011

  Oh, Lord, thought Maleekwa Pritchard-Varney, observing the well-dressed man communing with Dorian Gray. Hard to believe a complexion that nasty had managed to get worse. And one of his eyes had gone bulgy.

  The museum guard and the poor man had struck up a nodding acquaintance. She’d nod when he walked in, and he’d return it.

  She decided this time she’d say goodbye. A word and a smile. A friendly face who wasn’t put off by his. Well in fact she was, but, she was a Christian woman, and the poor man’s afflictions weren’t his faul—

  His hand. His left hand. He’d been the whole time with that hand stuck in his pocket. Was she so distracted by his skin—Maleekwa tried to picture his other visits, think if he always stood that way, hand in pocket. Was he all along touching himself?

  • • •

  Isn’t there any way I can join you up there, Dorian? C’mon, I’ve gotten repulsive enough—I could play a servant, maybe offering you a rotting puppy on a platter?

  No, Dor, I’m not implying you belong in a velvet painting with poker-playing dogs. I’m implying I’m desperate to be someplace Tommy can’t get at me.

  He keeps giving me this mega-troll stare, like he’s wishing he had a kitchen sink so large he could fit my head in the disposal.

  No, Dor, that’s not masochistic whimsy. It’s logical terror.

  All his life Tommy dreams of getting in with the Mastrizzis. Then Tommy has his inspiration, his kill-the-artist business plan. Boom, dream comes true.

  And it’s a handful of turds.

  He was sure the Mastrizzis would finally think he was smart. Instead the Mastrizzis think I’m smart and To
mmy was lucky to bump into me.

  Worse, they steal his shiny toy. He’s gone from being boss to being muscle. Meanwhile, I work with Lou Mastrizzi. Who trusts me to invest twenty million dollars.

  No, Dorian, I’m not relishing how the man who ground off my finger is being humiliated. I am concerned. I’m concerned shitless.

  Tommy and I will each bet a half-million on this final throw; the Mastrizzis are putting up fourteen. And here’s the insane part: They insisted on adding another five mil from an investor—like what this needed was more risk, another partner we have to trust.

  Guy named Jay Branko. Friend of Lou’s. Branko owns a huge construction firm, gets city contracts, hires union workers controlled by the Mastrizzis.

  Now, with the troll already seething, the sensible thing would be to not tell him we’re taking on this other investor. But the Old Man does tell Tommy, just for the pleasure of informing him there’s no need for him to know the investor’s name.

  So of course Tommy shows up at my place and demands to know who the fuck this secret investor is.

  I tell him, “I can’t. The Mastrizzis would kill me.”

  Tommy’s glaring. Nostrils quivering. Ready tear my throat out with his teeth.

  But instead of killing and eating me he pats me on the cheek. Goes and washes the hand that touched my eczema. Then goes into my room and pisses on my bed. Leaves, without washing his hands.

  And now the troll’s mood is about to get shittier.

  Our final target is Damian Jung. A colossus of modern British painting. And, at seventy-six, an age-appropriate candidate for sudden death. Best of all—don’t know how much auction gossip you pick up around here—Jung’s stuff is cosmically expensive. Last year one of his classics went for thirty-nine mil; we’re talking bidding wars between major museums and minor Saudi royalty. Too rich for even the Mastrizzis.

  So we’re buying minor works, in the two to six million range. After Jung’s tragic demise we’ll maximize profits by selling one painting a year.

  Which brings us to the details of that tragic demise.

  Jung loathes the U.S. Almost never visits. But Jung does take a ski vacation in Zermatt every January. Seventy-six, he should know better. It’s dangerous out there.

  Thing is, Zermatt’s tiny; a Swiss zillionaire playpen. Tommy Tesca would not be inconspicuous in Zermatt.

  Lou says no problem. Lou has a line on a high-end Euro-hitter.

  I say problem. On top of not being told Branko’s name, Tommy’s also had his troll-panties in a twist over Lou telling him he doesn’t need to know the name of the target until it’s time to prep the hit. Now Tommy’s about to hear he can’t do the hit or even be told who the target is. Tommy’s been reduced from boss to muscle to silent micro-partner, who isn’t entitled to know where his money’s invested.

  So I’ve asked Lou to break the insulting news gently. Throw Tommy a bone. What he craves: To feel like your cousin again. Take him to a Bulls game, or better yet, to some family thing.

  What? Dorian! I’m shocked you’d accuse me of setting Tommy up. Never crossed my mind the Mastrizzis—especially the Old Man—might decide killing Tommy would be easier than trying to raise Tommy’s self-esteem.

  • • •

  Far as Maleekwa could tell the hand in the man’s pocket never moved. But his chest gave a heave. And then he does this cold little grin. Had he just finished…?

  All that time she spent feeling bad for him. Offered up prayers. And now this.

  She had to at least let him know she knew. Bust his damn afterglow.

  The man started to leave. Turned to his left. Did the instinctive thing to maintain balance when turning left, which was to pull his left hand out of his pocket. Just for an instant.

  Long enough. Maleekwa saw. The middle finger was gone except for a gruesome stub. The fingers alongside the stub were scarred, and bent at nauseating angles. He’d been hiding his hand, and she’d been this close to accusing—

  The poor man was coming her way. Looking at her. He’d seen her reaction, the horror on her face. Mercy.

  Maleekwa said, from the core of her generous, deeply embarrassed being, “Have a blessed day, sir.”

  “From your lips to the Old Man’s ears,” he replied.

  Twenty-Four | 2012

  Mark, Doonie, Hsu and Montero convened in Lieutenant Husak’s office. Husak was ordering a countywide dildo hunt for the source of the Yellow Submarine—

  Mark’s cell burbled. He excused himself and stepped out of the office.

  It was Carrie—calling from the desk phone of Assistant State’s Attorney Carrie Eli.

  “Hello, Counselor.”

  “Detective,” Carrie responded. “I regret to inform you that for the first time in my life, I’m the one who has to apologize for not being able to get it up.”

  “Get what up? “

  “A subpoena to tap JaneDoe’s phones and computers. The judge was all, insufficient cause. Wants us to bring him stuff that smells more like evidence.”

  “You caught this case.”

  “Obviously. And obviously I should’ve placed this call to Husak, but this way you’re the one who has to give him the bad news.”

  To Mark, the cops not getting to tap JaneDoe’s communications was good news; never know when she might mention bonking Detective Bergman.

  Mark informed Husak, “Judge turned down the wiretap subpoena.”

  “Surprise,” Husak muttered, unsurprised. “Put 24/7 surveillance on JaneDoe.”

  “Shame me and Bergman can’t help on that,” Doonie deadpanned, reminding Husak that JaneDoe knew their faces. It sounded like Doon was gloating about avoiding shit-work. Mark knew Doon was gloating about avoiding the possibility of JaneDoe spotting them and publicly planting a kiss on one or the other.

  Another bullet dodged.

  Until Husak said, “You two get the fun job. Bring her in and re-interview her. In depth.”

  Fuck. Mark pictured grilling JaneDoe while Husak observed from the other side of the mirror. She makes one slip-up, a joke, a look…

  “Lieutenant,” Mark said, “if Doonie and I go at her a third time, she walks in knowing we like her. But if Hsu calls JaneDoe, says Hey, I’m the primary on Voorsts, I need to ask you some follow-up, but I’m slammed, would you mind coming down…”

  “Uh-huh,” Husak nodded. “JaneDoe thinks she’s just a witness, plus maybe we get the woman to woman comfort zone.”

  Doonie gave Mark a complimentary look.

  He’d put them on the safe side of the mirror. Sort of.

  Twenty-Five | 2012

  Wendy Hsu ushered JaneDoe into a 12th District interrogation bin.

  Husak, Doonie and Mark were in the observation room. Mark observed JaneDoe had already made a mistake. She’d accepted a cup of coffee.

  JaneDoe sat. Took a sip of official police-issue heartburn. Placed the cup off to one side, to minimize the risk of absentmindedly picking it up.

  Hsu began with the dinner at Gerd Voorsts’ place. Asked about the relationship between Gilson and Voorsts. Hsu then asked about all the dinner guests.

  But JaneDoe was the subject; Hsu was sizing her up. And getting her yakking. Sometimes a mouth builds momentum and moves faster than its mind.

  When there were no diners left to dissect, Hsu moved on to, “How was the relationship between Gerd and his boyfriend?”

  JaneDoe darkened. “No. Forget it. Hal and Gerd were happy.”

  Control yourself, Mark thought, in JaneDoe’s direction.

  “And I talked to Hal this morning,” JaneDoe continued. “Said he was out of town when it happened.”

  “Which we confirmed,” Hsu replied. “But spouses have been known to hire someone to pull the trigger.”

  “So your theory is Hal paid this hired gun to kill Bobby Gilson first, for practice?” JaneDoe’s expression was one degree shy of a sneer.

  Behind the glass, Husak said, “Fits the profile—resentful of authority.”
/>   “What artist isn’t,” Mark said.

  “What cop isn’t,” Doonie added.

  Husak didn’t respond. He focused on the interrogation room, where Hsu was responding to JaneDoe’s insult with shrewd amusement.

  “My theory is, consider everything. Fr’instance, I checked out your website. I like your stuff.” Hsu grinned. “Honest. Off the record. Those costumes are way cool—I wanna see somebody wear one.”

  JaneDoe’s near-sneer twitched into a near-grin, and she mumbled an embarrassed, “Thanks.”

  My, how unexpected praise can blow open a young artist’s dopamine floodgates, Mark thought. Be careful kid, Wendy Hsu is good.

  Hsu, enthused, queried JaneDoe about her work. Soon JaneDoe had her phone out and they were giggling at photos of her latest creatures.

  Husak looked at Mark. “Another fit with the profile: Those Halloween costumes ain’t ever gonna make JaneDoe a major artist like Gilson and Voorsts.”

  “A century ago that’s what they said about imagists and abstractionists like Gilson and Voorsts,” Mark parried. “Lieutenant, remember how Hillkirk ducked Hsu’s question about why he thought the perp was a woman, said he’d explain it in the report? His written explanation is a one-sentence pile of psychobabble.”

  “Now you’re an expert on medical jargon?”

  “Nope. I forwarded the profile to Dr. Duxler. She said Hillkirk’s one-line justification was horseshit—her exact medical jargon.”

  Husak scowled. “If you think the profile’s horseshit, don’t give me dick-measuring shrinks, gimme proof.”

  “That mean we can look at that murder from 2005, Laurie Desh?”

  Husak, sounding like a cop who resents authority, said, “Langan’s orders are we work JaneDoe and nothing but.” Husak returned his attention to the interview.

  Hsu was saying, “Sounds like a breakthrough year.”

  JaneDoe confided, “My dealer informed me I don’t make costumes. I make ’interactive bio-kinetic sculptures.’ Which I need to go get bio-kinetic on.”