SOME DEAD GENIUS

by LENNY KLEINFELD

Through the peephole she saw DeNardi paste on a hammy scowl, eyes narrowed, teeth clenched. He threw a quick look back at the camera, so his audience would see what a dead ringer his scowl was for Clint Eastwood’s, then bellowed at the door, “Miss Doe! MISS DOE!”

  When DeNardi didn’t get an instant reply he rapped indignantly on the door, which was way more Clint than indignantly fingering a doorbell.

  “Miss Doe!” DeNardi demanded of the door, “Are you—The Art Critic?!”

  After a moment the voice behind the door said, “No, I’m the interactive bio-kinetic sculptorette.”

  She told herself this would seem really fucking funny someday.

  She told herself she was about to find out if it was true no publicity is bad publicity.

  She told herself there was no reason to be scared.

  Thirty-Three | 2012

  The lead detectives on the Art Critic case showed up for work less than a minute apart. Sat at their facing desks and got down to business.

  Mark said, “G’morning.”

  “No it ain’t,” Doonie warned. “Phyl’s bitching it’s almost two months you were over for dinner.”

  “Tell Phyl soon as we clear this I’m showing up for dinner, even if she doesn’t invite me.”

  “You tell her that. She loves it when it sounds like you’re flirting with her.”

  Business done, they went to work.

  Mark put in a call to Janet Claudel, the art theft specialist. Asked if she could trace sales of works by Gilson and Voorsts.

  “I will try,” Claudel promised. “This is great—thank you—never thought I’d catch a homicide—you think JaneDoe’s been investing in the vics?”

  “No idea, but it seems worth finding out if anybody was,” Mark said.

  “I’ll get right on it—but, fair warning, tracking art sales is dicey—there are databases, but not every auction house and gallery participates—and those that do never give the names of anonymous buyers and sellers—plus which there’s no way to know about paintings that change hands between private collectors. But anyway—this is so cool—I’ll get back to you soon as I’ve got anything.”

  Mark returned to his morning routine. He started with the FBI taps. A number of JaneDoe’s friends had phoned to say they’d been questioned by the cops. Lila Kasey wasn’t one of them. Solid citizen.

  Mark opened the task force overnights. The first report was on The Hunt For Yellow Submarine.

  The TV stars had gotten nothing off the Yellow Sub. The paint was chipped, indicating repeated vigorous use. But there were no prints or trace. The Yellow Sub had not only been wiped down, it had been immersed in rubbing alcohol. The perp wasn’t taking any chances with where that thing had been.

  Cook County’s finest were busting ass to find the last place that thing had been. Cops across the city and the suburbs were checking porn shops, kitsch shops, collectible shops, pawn shops and online. So far no hits.

  On to the POD report: results were in from the search for a money-shot of JaneDoe or her Forester at either crime scene. Total blank. Now the unit could resume doing what Mark asked for in the first place, a search for any vehicle—

  His phone rang. The surveillance team sitting on JaneDoe’s place. A Fox News truck had parked, spat out a reporter and cameraman, who rang the doorbell, then interviewed the closed door, then banged on it—Oops, two more news vans just pulled up.

  Mark alerted the district watch commander to scramble the crowd control.

  He turned the TV on: BREAKING NEWS—POSSIBLE ART CRITIC SUSPECT!

  Right. With cops questioning dozens of people about JaneDoe’s relations with the murder victims, some were going to tweet about it.

  He checked. Twitter, Facebook and blogs were exploding with JaneDoe. A gossip site had launched a poll where people could vote on whether JaneDoe was The Art Critic.

  • • •

  By noon JaneDoe’s block was the site of a Woodstockian siege-fest. Her corner was thronged with media vans, video bloggers, murder groupies, random gawkers, a guy peddling T-shirts that said Kill All The Art Critics, and, Mark hoped, someone was giving away hits of the brown acid.

  JaneDoe was alone inside. Mark knew that because Special Agent Nick Rarey, cheerful, having a great time, began phoning Mark hourly summaries of the FBI taps: Several of JaneDoe’s friends offered to come be with her, but she thanked them and instructed them to stay away. She told them the moment any visitor walked out her door the media would be on them like flies on shit. Told them there was nothing to worry about, she was going to get mad publicity out of this.

  • • •

  Latest update from Rarey: JaneDoe hired a lawyer, over the phone. No way she was going to let herself get lens-raped by running the media gauntlet to get to the lawyer’s office, so the lawyer was on his way over.

  Rarey assured Mark the FBI mikes would be turned off whenever JaneDoe communicated with her attorney. Listening in would violate lawyer-client privilege, which would blow any prosecution of JaneDoe all to hell, if the defense found out about it.

  “Sure they won’t be listening,” Doonie mocked.

  “Meanwhile,” Mark muttered, “what next?”

  “Shit out of ideas,” Doonie conceded.

  Time to visit Lieutenant Husak. If he was shit out of ideas too, maybe he’d let them spend a coupla minutes looking at Laurie Desh.

  • • •

  The Lieutenant was watching TV. The Grace Natchez Show. Natchez was the star crime shrieker for a cable news network, solving felonies at a glance. Unraveling motive from a single factoid. Venting darkly when police dragged their feet about arresting her designated perp.

  At the moment Natchez was playing forensic art critic, snarling at pictures of JaneDoe’s creations, explaining how these sicko costumes were a roadmap of a serial killer’s mind.

  Husak told Mark and Doonie, “Hang on a minute, I wanna see this,” as Natchez segued to a special guest, Professor Bard Hillkirk, who was attending a conference in Dubai, where he’d graciously agreed to stay up until 3 A.M. so he could snag himself some national airtime back home.

  “Professor, I have reliable information you provided Chicago police with a profile of The Art Critic!”

  Hillkirk gave a modest shrug. “It’s out of policy to comment.”

  “C’mon, really?! Okay, okay—just hypothetically, does JaneDoe fit a profile you might do of this killer?!”

  A coy grin. “Sorry.”

  “Then why the heck did you come on my show?!”

  A flicker of panic crossed Hillkirk’s face, until his charm app re-booted. With a boyish duck of the head, he confided, “Well, I can tell you, insiders aren’t calling this perp The Art Critic. Insiders refer to her as The Tsarina.”

  Husak groused, “Insiders? You’re in fucking Dubai.” He hit the mute button. “What you insiders got for me?”

  Mark said, “Not one thing that makes JaneDoe The Art Critic, or The Tsarina.”

  “But she’s got the world crawling up her ass now anyway,” Doonie noted.

  “Yeah,” Husak said, “and Langan likes that. The more pressure, the sooner she cracks.”

  Mark said, “Right, but, Loo, steada me and Doonie sitting around waiting to hear cracking noises—” Mark’s cell rang. He answered. Listened. Said, “We’re on our way.”

  “Cracking noises?” Husak asked.

  “Sonar ping off the Yellow Submarine.”

  Thirty-Four | 2011

  For Tommy’s plan to work he hadda sell the serial killer angle. Popping three artists probably does the trick. And Tommy did what that little leprosy-face fuck did when planning a hit. Research.

  He rented serial killer movies. Second one in, bam—there’s this scientist cop saying, “Serials almost always have a signature. Just like an artist signs his canvas.” Just like an artist! Heh!

  Tommy decided he needed a signature that was fast, easy and did not involve carving. You could chop off a pinkie easy. But that means a butcher kni
fe, then taking the bloody finger and finding a place to ditch it. And the DNA-smeared knife.

  Or maybe he could just leave the finger—stick it in the guy’s mouth. Weird, heh. That works.

  But instead of a wet messy body part he’d have to lop off, why not something dry he could just bring with him? Like…

  A cigar? Nah. Nothing weird about a cigar in the mouth.

  Heh. Hadda give this some thought.

  • • •

  Tommy is tailing Gerd Voorsts, learning the geezer’s routine. He’s walking up Michigan, on the block south of the bridge where there’s those tourist shops selling team souvenirs.

  A window display stops Tommy cold. A Cubs cap surrounded by those miniature little Cubs bats. And next to them, a Sox cap and bats.

  That’s it. Tommy could get three miniature little Sox bats—no, wrong, he’s a Sox fan, don’t wanna leave that clue. Plus which Cubs fans are gay—the cops would think they know why the killer stuck it in the guy’s mouth.

  Wait. His third target’s a woman. So okay. One Cubs bat. Then a different dildo-type thing for each artist.

  Shit, one of them could just be a dildo.

  • • •

  After six porn shops Tommy was fed up. All the dildos were plain and boring, or ugly and stupid. A vibrator with a spinning feather-duster-thingy on top does not say serial killer.

  Tommy gave up. Started browsing second-hand stores and pawn shops, looking for any goddamn object the right size and shape.

  Wouldn’t ya know, soon’s he quits looking for his dream dildo he finds it. Crappy second-hand joint in Forest Park, ten miles west of the Loop. A drab blue-collar ’burb from where you could see the skyscrapers downtown but know they had nothing to do with you.

  The store is a dusty jumble. So’s the owner, tired old fart sitting behind the counter watching horse-race reruns on a tiny TV.

  Guy raises a bushy eyebrow at Tommy. “Help you?”

  “Just browsin’.”

  The old fart goes back to watching yesterday’s races.

  Tommy browses. On a shelf cluttered with chipped figurines, tarnished cocktail shakers, ratty wind-up hula dancers, a dented aluminum tray embossed with a map of The Ozarks, Mountain Paradise… There it is, leaning against a rusty Grease II lunchbox: a Yellow Submarine vibrator. The paint job’s all scratched, but you can make out John, Paul, George and Ringo peering out the portholes. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ye-ahhhh.

  Tommy walks past it. Does a quick scan of another shelf, and leaves.

  • • •

  Later that day, a gaunt homeless guy with greasy pants, meth sores, brown teeth and booze breath limped into the store. Looked around, spotted the Yellow Submarine. Brought it to the counter, asked the price. Fifteen. To the owner’s surprise, the bum pulled out a twenty.

  • • •

  Two down, one to go. Tommy decided he’d use the Cubs bat on Gilson, the Yellow Submarine on Voorsts, then, for JaneDoe…

  Tommy burned time looking for some third signature that would fit with the Cubs and the Beatles.

  Almost bought a pennywhistle but it was too small, and didn’t have any brand name, let alone a famous faggy brand-name. Almost bought a bicycle pump but it was too big and had a faggy brand-name no one heard of.

  Tommy finished all his other preparations. It was time to start popping artists. He decided, worst comes to worst, he’d buy a miniature Blackhawks hockey stick to put in JaneDoe’s mouth.

  • • •

  Heh! Worked out Tommy didn’t have to settle. Within seconds of slitting Robert Gilson’s throat, problem solved. The first dead genius on the list was such a freaky bastard he’d made with his own hands the perfect signature to use on him. Tommy saw the naked Barbie and it was love at first sight. No!—the Ken!

  Ken was perfuckingfection! Way fuckin’ sicker.

  “Thanks, heh,” Tommy told Gilson, waving the Ken doll in front of the dead man’s blank trout eyes.

  How lucky is it, the day Tommy whacks this sick fuck, what the guy is painting is these dolls, Barbie with her blonde bush and Ken with his purple-vein hard-on? Fuckin’-ay: Ken, the Beatles, the Cubs. Went together somehow, like there was some message. Tommy grinned, imagining the cops trying to figure out what the hell that message was.

  Tommy pulled Gilson’s mouth open and inserted Ken, feet-first. Went in a little too far; looked, for some reason, just kinda off. Heh.

  Tommy slid Ken out a bit, so his stiff shlong rested on Gilson’s upper lip. Tommy stepped back, assessed his work. Awright. Now Ken and Gilson were staring at each other. Great stuff. Truly fuckin’ weird.

  And, cherry on the cake, unlike the fifteen-dollar Yellow Sub and five-dollar miniature Cubs bat, Ken was free.

  Tommy left Gilson’s studio in a terrific mood. Looking forward to whacking the next two, imagining exactly how far in he’d place the Yellow Sub and the Cubs bat.

  Thirty-Five | 2012

  The Forest Park cops had no trouble pinpointing when the Yellow Sub had been purchased: twenty-four days ago. Ron Coomber, the proprietor of Bargains & Treasures, saw no point in splurging on a computer, but kept a scrupulous handwritten ledger, “Because I don’t need no tax problems with the IRA.”

  Identifying the purchaser was another story.

  “Some bum looked like all the other bums.” The specifics Coomber could recall: white, skinny, medium height, lousy skin, worse teeth, baseball cap, and greasy pants. As for age: “A bum. Coulda been thirty, coulda been fifty.”

  When Mark and Doonie arrived the cops were an hour into canvassing the town’s skinny white homeless guys. So far no results.

  Could be The Art Critic put on a costume and makeup. Or he’d hired a homeless guy and then killed him. Mark’s money was on #2.

  Mark and Doonie visited Bargains & Treasures to see if they could jog the owner’s memory.

  Ron Coomber looked to be seventy years old and sounded as if he’d spent the last sixty in a sour mood. Had small bloodshot eyes and enormous weirdly mobile gray eyebrows, a pair of scraggly beasts living on his forehead.

  When the detectives asked about the Yellow Sub, Coomber scowled and his brows crouched, two small wolves threatening to pounce.

  “Look, I already told those other cops everything I remember. Ev-ree-thing. There ain’t any more than that.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Mark coaxed, “how much stuff can pop up if you—”

  “I’m old, nothin’ pops up. It was a month ago. And I get a lotta people comin’ through.”

  A doubtful proposition, but Doonie nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, but only one buys the Fab Four vibrator. You notice if he had a tattoo—”

  “If I seen I woulda said. Look, did my civil duty, ain’t fair all I get for it is cop after cop standing here scaring customers away.”

  “Nah, that wouldn’t be fair,” Doonie commiserated. “Sooner we get through a coupla questions, sooner we get outta here.”

  The threat backfired. Ron Coomber folded his arms, flexed defiant eyebrow-wolves at Doonie, then turned his attention to his TV. The detectives were dead to him.

  Mark glanced around. “Hey—a Grease II lunchbox.” He fetched it and plunked it down in front of the old man. “I had one of these,” he lied.

  “Who knows, maybe that exact one,” Doonie suggested.

  “How much?” Mark asked.

  Coomber, without looking up from the TV, muttered, “Ten.”

  “Reasonable.”

  Coomber deigned to look at him.

  Mark pulled out a ten. Extended the bill partway toward the old man. “When the bum handed you his cash, you notice a tattoo on his hand or arm?”

  Coomber stared at the ten. Shook his head.

  Mark gave him the bill.

  As Coomber took the ten he froze. Pointed at Mark’s wrist. “A cast—he had this dirty old cast on his wrist, stickin’ out his sleeve, came up around the bottom of his thumb.”

  “What color was the sleeve?”

  Coo
mber shrugged. “You wanna bag for that?”

  Mark nodded. He pulled out a picture of JaneDoe. “She ever been in the store?”

  Coomber eyed the photo. “Nah. But who knows, she mighta. These days, girls, I’m careful not to stare, don’t wanna get sued for sexual enhancement.” He handed Mark a plastic bag.

  “Thanks,” Mark said. “Was there anybody else who looked at the Yellow Submarine? Earlier that day, or the day before?”

  Coomber scowled, offended at being extorted for more than ten dollars’ worth of effort—

  His eyebrow beasts leapt. “A guy—I remember now, yeah, ’cause the day the bum bought that thing, it was the second time—In the morning, the submarine catches this guy’s eye, and when it hits him he’s starin’ at a Beatles penal device, he does this—” his eyebrows mimed surprise. “Gets embarrassed and moved on, right out the door.”

  “What he look like?”

  “White, and… big. Don’t ask what he’s wearing. Sunglasses.”

  “What kinda big?” Doonie asked.

  “Sorta like you, only… even a little bigger, and…”

  “Fatter?” Doonie suggested.

  Furry eyebrows shrugged a what-you-gonna-do apology.

  Thirty-Six | 2012

  Mark left a voicemail telling Kaz to search for a white male with a cast on the right wrist who’d turned up in an area morgue, starting twenty-four days ago.

  A Forest Park sergeant took Mark and Doonie on a re-canvass of the local homeless, to find out if anyone remembered a guy with a cast.

  In a camp hidden behind foliage on the flanks of the expressway they met Tony and Roz, who knew exactly the guy.

  Tony said the prick with the cast was hitting on Roz.

  Roz told the cops that never happened, Tony got psycho when anyone talked to her.

  Tony warned Roz not to call him crazy.

  Roz told him he was psycho jealous and he knew it.

  Mark and Doonie got between them before the hitting started.

  Tony and Roz agreed the guy was named Buddy. Tony was sure Buddy was from Arkansas. Roz swore it was Vermont.