“In spite of Breinin’s loudly expressed antipathy toward Benton, and some circumstantial evidence, we aren’t satisfied that he’s the killer. Contrary to what many people believe, the police don’t want to railroad someone just because he’s the most likely suspect. We have to follow up every lead, one of which has brought me to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t here when Benton bought it. Anyway, why would I kill him? Ask anybody, him and me were kinda friendly. I had nothing against him.”
“No, perhaps not,” said Sheik evenly, preparing for another outburst, “but your father did.”
Instead of anger or consternation, Wally surprised him with a blank stare. For a few moments, he seemed to be frozen in place, his focus not on Sheik but on some distant point far beyond the League’s walls. Then his eyes closed.
“Oh, Christ,” he murmured, “poor Dad. He can finally rest in peace.”
Forty-Five
The result of Sheik’s initial interview was a request for Wally to accompany him to Midtown North for more questioning, which yielded nothing. He simply remained silent. They decided to hold him on suspicion pending further investigation.
They confiscated his keys and searched his lockers—he had one in each studio where he posed. The ring also contained keys that fit other locks at the League. He had inherited them from his father, who hadn’t turned them in after he was fired. For the staff’s convenience, one key unlocked all the studio doors, another opened all the supply closets, and another worked on every prop cabinet. The school’s frugality insured that the locks had never been changed.
Not surprisingly, Wally’s lockers yielded nothing to link him to Benton’s murder. A more thorough search of the building, however, uncovered a brown paper bag full of clothing stuffed behind one of the clay storage bins in the basement. In it was a red velvet jacket with a label from S. Klein, a paisley scarf, a wide-brimmed brown hat, and a pair of cotton gloves. They were taken to the forensic laboratory for hair and fiber testing and analysis of stains on the right-hand glove, which proved to be blood matching Benton’s type. Hairs found inside the hat were identical to a sample from Wally’s head. Executing a search warrant for his room, the police found the blackjack and clothing receipt in his desk.
Confronted with this evidence, Wally had asked to speak to a lawyer. The Department of Veterans Affairs Office of General Counsel helped him find a pro bono attorney from the Legal Aid Society.
With the promise of attorney-client privilege, Wally told him how he killed Benton, and why.
* * *
On the Thursday evening in September when Laning first mentioned Benton’s name and told the students he’d be coming to visit the following week, Wally was so shaken that he nearly retched. It was, he said, as if the past had come flooding back, drowning him in bitterness. Thank God he was behind the screen on his break, or the whole class would have seen his reaction. As it was, all they knew was that he’d knocked over a stool.
By the time the break was over, he’d composed himself and had begun to think that Benton’s return to the League was really a stroke of luck. Now he’d finally be able to confront the bastard who, as he saw it, had killed his father.
And the more he thought about it, the more determined he became to find a way to pay him back.
It turned out to be pretty easy, once he’d decided that, instead of venting his rage at Benton, he’d befriend him. That was pretty easy, too. The old egotist was a sucker for flattery, so all Wally had to do was sit at his table in the cafeteria and beam with admiration as he droned on about his superiority, then ask if he could go around the Whitney show with him. A few of the others were interested, too, and Benton invited them to his next gallery talk.
The group met at the museum on a Saturday afternoon, the week after the show opened. As his guts churned with hypocrisy, Wally punctuated Benton’s running commentary with favorable remarks, praise that simply echoed the artist’s own opinions.
As they left the exhibition, Wally confided to Benton that he aspired to paint just like him and would welcome his criticism.
“Anytime, Wally m’boy,” Benton had beamed. “Just give me the high sign when you’re ready.”
On his way out of the museum, Wally stopped in the gift shop and bought a postcard of the Benton painting titled Retribution. Although he despised its stylistic mannerisms and simplistic historical theme, it seemed an appropriate metaphor for his plan.
Wally hadn’t touched a paintbrush in more than thirty years and didn’t intend to pick one up again now. His aim was simply to tell Benton that his canvases were in the racks up in Studio Nine and arrange to meet him there. And that’s what he did when he took Benton aside after lunch on November first.
“I’m free after classes finish at half past four. I’ll be posing for Brackman until then. My stuff’s upstairs in your old studio. Would you meet me there after everybody’s gone? I won’t keep you long, sir,” he assured him, “I just want to know if you think I have enough talent to follow in your footsteps.”
Anyone less arrogant would have dismissed such blatant deference, but it was music to Benton’s ears.
“I’ll be there, son. Maybe I’ll go up early and hang around Charlie Alston’s class. He won’t mind. I’ll be quiet as a church mouse.”
Not fucking likely, you rancid old fart, said Wally to himself. The only time you’ll be quiet is when you’re dead, and we won’t have to wait much longer for that.
Sure enough, eager to escape Benton’s bombast, Alston’s class emptied out as soon as time was called at four thirty. Alston himself, a bit weary of his old friend’s relentless self-promotion, also excused himself and followed suit.
Outside the cafeteria, Wally waited until he was sure everyone had come down, then took the stairs to the fifth floor, where he found Benton alone in Studio Nine.
The artist drew himself up and strutted over to Wally, who towered over him. Not one to be intimidated, even at his advanced age Benton could project the outsize self-assurance that had always defined his public persona. Ignorant of Wally’s true intentions, he clapped him on the back and led him into the studio.
“Come on, Wally, show me what you’ve got.”
Courteously, Wally located a chair and set it near the door, facing into the studio and away from the lockers and painting racks. “Why don’t you sit here, Mr. Benton?” he suggested. “I’ll fetch one of my paintings and set it up on an easel.”
Walking behind the chair, he withdrew the blackjack from his right trouser pocket, flipped the latch on the studio door with his left hand, and delivered a backhand blow to Benton’s head with his right. The only sound was a dull thump, and Benton toppled sideways onto the floor.
Wally pulled a pair of cotton gloves out of his left pocket. He put them on and wiped his hand along the top rail of the chair where his bare fingers had touched it.
He lifted Benton, carried him to the model stand, and laid him on his back. He unlocked the prop cabinet with his father’s key, removed the kinzhal—earlier that day he’d checked it was there—unsheathed it, took the postcard out of his pocket, and stuck the blade through it.
Thanks to his Marine Corps hand-to-hand combat training, he knew exactly where to insert the blade under Benton’s rib cage to do maximum damage and cause minimal external bleeding.
You broke my father’s heart. Now I’ll break yours.
A rapid back-and-forth motion, and the right ventricle was lacerated. Death would be quick, much more merciful than Benton deserved. But the debt would be repaid.
The rest of the operation took only a few minutes. Wally curled the body into a fetal position, the better to conceal it if someone looked in between classes. He covered it with the tablecloth, which the monitor had folded neatly and stored in the supply closet, according to standard procedure. He opened his locker and removed the b
ag of clothing he’d placed there ahead of time. He put on the red jacket, paisley scarf, and hat, folded the bag and slipped it under the jacket, and switched off the lights. He unlocked the door, wiped the lock and doorknob with his gloved hand, checked that the hall was empty, and left the studio.
He quickly descended the stairs to the basement, ducked into the sculpture supply room, took off the disguise, put the clothes into the bag, and hid it behind the clay bin. It would be safe there until Breinin was arrested and the cops went away. Then he could dispose of it properly. He took the stairs up to the cafeteria and ordered coffee.
He couldn’t be sure that Breinin didn’t have an alibi, but since the Russian let it be known that he worked alone in his studio at home, with no assistant and only the radio for company, Wally assumed he’d have a hard time proving he couldn’t possibly have met with Benton in Studio Nine at around five, argued with him, and killed him.
Of course they couldn’t indict Breinin, there was no way to prove he did it. Any number of people could have taken the knife out of the prop cabinet, days or even weeks before. Just because it belonged to Breinin didn’t mean he’d used it on Benton. And, like a gift from God, Bill Millstein had laid another false but very plausible trail.
So Wally figured he was in the clear. As far as anyone knew, he had no reason to want Benton dead. Unlike many others at the League, hadn’t he gone out of his way to be friendly to him?
Then somebody made the connection between him and Johann Gruen—probably Brackman, in whom he’d foolishly confided—and took it to Klonis, who knew what Benton had done, at least that’s what Wally assumed. That’s when everything fell apart.
* * *
Wally’s attorney told him that, since the crime was premeditated, he would be charged with first-degree murder. He advised Wally to plead not guilty, and said he’d try to get a plea bargain to reduce the charge to manslaughter.
“It’s a long shot, but I’m counting on your war record to weigh in your favor,” he said. “I hope we can go before a judge who’s a veteran. Many of them are. If he doesn’t take the deal and it goes to trial, the DA is likely to get a conviction, but the jury may not want to impose the death penalty on a highly decorated marine. Still, if they don’t give you the chair, you’re looking at a long prison sentence.”
Walter Gruen Green turned his face to the wall. “Semper Fi, Dad.”
Forty-Six
Friday, November 17
The opening of Alfonso Ossorio’s solo exhibition at the Cordier & Ekstrom Gallery, in the blue-chip art complex at 980 Madison Avenue, was already crowded with art-world luminaries when the Fitzgerald family and Ellen arrived at seven p.m. Several of Ossorio’s newly minted assemblages, which he called Congregations, were on display. He had indeed been hard at work since he spoke to TJ in early October.
While the term “Congregation” was a deliberate allusion to a religious gathering, the imagery itself was defiantly and irreverently grotesque, far beyond even the most flamboyant Spanish baroque decoration. In Eagle and Palette, for example, Ossorio had arranged a collection of found objects—including shells, driftwood, curtain rings, bones, glass eyes, and a set of false teeth—embedded them in a plastic matrix, and topped it off with a cow’s pelvis and a brass bird-shaped finial probably designed for a flagstaff. This was one of his more restrained creations.
Having followed their friend’s evolution over the past decade from expressionist painting to this hybrid form of relief sculpture, Nita, Fitz, and TJ were neither surprised nor shocked by his bizarre constructions. Ellen, on the other hand, was visibly taken aback. Given to expressing herself frankly, she was uncharacteristically at a loss for words, which made TJ, usually the tongue-tied one, grin behind her back as she moved around the gallery.
She stopped in front of Horned Juggler, a rectangular box surrounded by rounded extensions, studded with menacing eyeballs, among other curiosities, and bristling with real animal horns. “Help me out here, TJ,” she pleaded, turning to him in confusion. “What am I supposed to make of this?”
“Whatever you like, my dear,” said a resonant voice to her right. The patrician figure of the artist himself approached, and he greeted her warmly with the impeccable manners and charming English accent he’d acquired as a boarding-school student at St. Richard’s School in Malvern.
“You must be the lovely Miss Jamison. Señor TJ has been singing your praises over the telephone, and now that I see you in person I know he didn’t exaggerate.” Ossorio kissed her hand in courtly fashion, which both delighted and slightly flustered her.
“Ted Dragon to the rescue,” said Ossorio’s companion as he embraced Nita, Fitz, and TJ in turn, introduced himself to Ellen, and put a hand protectively on her shoulder.
“We mustn’t monopolize Alfonso,” he advised as he led them to the bar, “he has to work the room. You’re not the only one who’s perplexed, lovely Miss Jamieson. Believe me, the collectors and critics need explanations, too. Besides,” he leaned in confidentially and took TJ’s arm, “I want to hear all about how you solved the Benton case. Let’s get some drinks and go where we can talk.”
Before TJ could object, Ted snagged two glasses of wine and steered him out to the lobby, where they found an upholstered bench. Ted handed him a glass, and raised his in a toast. “To our very own Sherlock, following in his mother’s footsteps. Tchin-tchin!”
“Honestly, Ted, I’m not the one who brought Walter Green to justice. In fact, if you want the truth, I was kind of against reporting him to the cops. I know that was wrong. War hero or not, he killed Benton in cold blood and even tried to pin it on someone else. I let my feelings get in the way of my judgment.” He lowered his eyes. “Plus, I committed a crime to get the goods on him. I don’t think I’m cut out for the force.”
Ted was all ears. “What crime?”
“I broke into his apartment. I, sort of, borrowed Mom’s lockpicking tools, and I searched the place. Almost got caught in the act, too. But that’s what put me on to the disguise.”
“From what the papers said, he wore an outfit like the one the Russian painter wore, so in case he was spotted people would think it was the Russian.”
“They got that part right. I found what I thought might be a receipt for the clothes in his desk. The problem was, I couldn’t tell the cops about it, and anyway, like I said, I wasn’t sure I wanted to turn him in. So my friend Chris went to them instead. He told them that Wally—that’s what everybody at the League calls him—thought Benton was responsible for his father’s suicide, so maybe they ought to question him.”
Ted gave TJ a long, hard look. “But you’re the one who put it all together. Don’t shake your head, Nita told me all about it. She and Fitz are proud of you, TJ.”
“And so am I, very proud indeed,” said Ellen, who had detached herself from the reception. Sliding onto the bench next to TJ, she threw her arms around him and, much to Ted’s delight, gave him a big wet kiss.
“Don’t you think he’ll make a great detective?” she asked rhetorically, as TJ tried to hide his flush of embarrassment. The warmth of her body against his also sent blood coursing in the opposite direction, and he was glad he was sitting down.
“Maybe,” Ted replied coyly, displaying his famous dimples to effect, “though Alfonso and I think he has the makings of a great artist.” A mischievous grin spread across his face. “But I bet he’ll also make a great lover. Don’t you agree?”
Ellen winked at him and returned his sly smile. “That bet’s already been won.”
Acknowledgments
According to the comedian Charles Fleischer, “If you remember the ’60s, you really weren’t there.” Well, several of the characters in my tale really were there, and others weren’t—in fact, they didn’t exist. Brian Fitzgerald and Juanita Diaz were invented for my first mystery novel, An Exquisite Corpse. Their son, Timothy Juan, known as TJ, came to lif
e, fictionally speaking, in my second one, An Accidental Corpse. In this book, they interact with a cast of actual denizens of the New York art world and anti-war movement. Many of them will be recognizable to those who, like me, lived through that turbulent decade and do remember it. I attended the Art Students League and performed at The Bitter End and have vivid recollections of my formative experiences in both places.
Fortunately for those who don’t have firsthand knowledge, the era has been well chronicled, and several of those accounts have been invaluable to me in my effort to evoke its spirit. I am especially indebted to POPism: The Warhol Sixties, a personal view of the Factory scene by Andy Warhol and Pat Hackett; Paul Colby’s memoir, The Bitter End: Hanging Out at America’s Nightclub; and Max’s Kansas City: Art, Glamor, Rock and Roll, edited by Steve Kasher.
Specific inquiries were graciously answered by Henry Adams, Ruth Coulter Heede Professor of Art History, Case Western Reserve University; Sarah Bean Apmann, Director of Research and Preservation, Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation; Joshua Brown, Executive Director, American Social History Project/Center for Media and Learning and Professor of History, PhD Program in History, The Graduate Center, The City University of New York; Anna Canoni, Senior Operations Manager, Woody Guthrie Publications, Inc.; Stephanie Cassidy, Archivist and Editor, Art Students League of New York; and Robert J. Singer, MD.
Among the many real people woven into this work of fiction, Thomas Hart Benton is the most fully imagined, though I have taken quite a few liberties. His remarkable story is well told in Justin Wolff’s biography, Thomas Hart Benton: A Life, and in Benton’s own memoirs, An Artist in America and An American in Art. Those sources will confirm that he was not murdered in 1967 by a man named Walter Green, who is a figment of my imagination, as is his father, Johann Gruen. After putting the finishing touches on his mural The Sources of Country Music for the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum in Nashville, Benton died in his studio in Kansas City, Missouri, on January 19, 1975, at the age of eighty-five. His property is now a state historic site.
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