by Tom Turner
Pablo Picasso had said that fifty years ago.
Twenty-Nine
Crawford was in his office at five a.m. He hadn’t been able to sleep much with all that was bouncing around in his head. He wanted to go through the thousands of paintings on the Prison Art website. He had a good idea what he was looking for but was fully aware that it might also just be a big waste of time. When Ott rolled in a little after eight, Crawford was still looking at photos of paintings.
He explained his theory to Ott, who thought it might have merit, then called the number for the Malpaso Correctional Institution, a state prison in northern Florida. He was put on hold for five minutes then disconnected. He called back and was told nobody was available to help him. Something told Crawford that this was typical of a phone call to a prison. He called back at nine, and, after speaking to three different people, was finally connected to the assistant warden, a man named Henry Bostwick. Crawford identified himself and said that he was working on a murder case in Palm Beach. Then he started asking questions about Malpaso’s art program.
“Yeah, keeps ’em busy,” Bostwick said. “Supposed to be good for building self-esteem, they tell me, plus good for depression. Between you and me, I don’t give a fuck whether they’re depressed or not as long as they’re not stirring up trouble.”
Crawford figured that was probably a pretty typical attitude of prison officials. He asked Bostwick how the program worked.
“Well, for the art program there are three volunteers who come here during the week. As I understand it, one of them teaches them about art. You know, history and shit. Gives them like slide shows of paintings and sculpture, then discusses it all. The other two are actual painters, so they try to teach the prisoners how to draw, or paint, or do sculpture, whatever the hell. I’ve seen some of their stuff, and it’s pretty damn good. Some of it, though, my dog coulda done.”
“So, I’m guessing,” Crawford said, “they see slides of paintings, and some of ’em try to paint in a style similar to ones they like.”
Bostwick didn’t respond right away. “Never thought about it, to tell you the truth, but I guess so. Probably like anything. You see someone do something good and you try to copy it, right? Like me trying to swing a golf club like Tiger Woods.” Bostwick chuckled. “Hasn’t exactly worked out the way I hoped.”
“Would you mind if I spoke to the art teachers there?” Crawford asked.
“Me? No, not at all,” Bostwick said. “I don’t have their names and numbers handy. But I could call you back with that.”
“That would be great. I’d really appreciate it.”
“Why you interested in all this?” Bostwick asked.
“Got a couple murders down here. One of my suspects did time there.”
An hour later, just when Crawford was about to call Bostwick back, Bostwick called him.
“Thanks for getting back to me,” Crawford said.
“Yeah, no problem. Here’s what I found out. Just two of the art teachers come here now.
One of ‘em stopped coming about a month ago. Nobody seems to know exactly why she quit ’cause she had been the one who’d taught here the longest. Anyway, here are the names and numbers of the other two.”
Crawford wrote down the information, thanked the assistant warden, and clicked off.
The first name was Martin Sanchez. Crawford dialed his number, but the call went to voicemail and he left a message.
The second name was Sasha Estes, and she answered. He told her why he was calling.
Specifically, that he was interested in a former inmate named Johnny Cotton and wondered if she knew if he had been involved in the art program there. Estes explained she was one of the ones who instructed the inmates on how to paint. She said she was familiar with Cotton’s name but didn’t remember having any personal contact with him. He asked her a few more questions, thanked her, and hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Martin Sanchez called back.
“Yeah,” he said. “Johnny was one of my best students. He loved Impressionism and Cubism and a lot of twentieth-century French painters.”
So, he and Ott had been conned, Cotton pretending to be clueless about art.
“Cubism?” Crawford thought back to his old college course. “Would that be Marcel Duchamp by any chance?”
“Sure would. Along with Picasso, Braque, Léger, Cézanne…a pretty long list.”
“What about Modigliani?”
“No, he wasn’t a Cubist. He was Italian by birth but spent most of his time painting in Paris.”
“What was your impression of Cotton, Mr. Sanchez?”
Sanchez thought for a second. “Smart. Very smart. But here’s the thing with all the inmates at Malpaso, they’re always on their best behavior with me. The art program is about all they got. Otherwise it’s just four walls. So, they really don’t want to blow it.”
“But when you say smart, how so, exactly?”
“I mean if he saw a slide just once, he’d memorize it. Not just that but take in every little detail and never forget it. So, if I were his teacher and I was giving him a grade, he’d get an A-plus. He’d be my prodigy. It’s too bad Luna Jacobs isn’t around anymore, I’m sure she could give you some good insights.”
“Who is she?”
“She and Sasha used to teach together. Then one day Luna didn’t show up. I never really found out why she quit. I don’t know if anyone knew why. I asked, and what I heard was that she had moved away all of a sudden.”
“So, she was Cotton’s teacher?”
“Yes.” Sanchez was silent for a few moments. “And you didn’t hear this from me, but I heard there might have been a little thing between ’em.”
“Define ‘little thing,’ please.”
“How ’bout a workplace romance,” Sanchez said. “He had a way about him that I could see would be attractive to women.”
Crawford had to search for the right words for his next question. “This workplace romance between Luna Jacobs and Johnny Cotton…is there anyway something like that ever goes beyond a teacher-student relationship?”
“You mean sexual?”
“Yes.”
“If they were creative enough. And those two were very creative.”
“But Malpaso doesn’t have anything like conjugal visits.”
“Oh my God, no way.”
Crawford wondered if there might be a spare closet or bathroom off of the art space.
“My last question is about the slides you showed,” Crawford said. “Was one of them, by any chance, Duchamp’s Nude Descending a Staircase?”
“Sure was. That’s one of my favorites.”
“And how about Modigliani’s Reclining Nude?”
Sanchez paused. “I’m thinking that may have been before Cotton was in my class.”
“But still, he could have seen it in an art book or something, right?”
“Absolutely,” Sanchez said. “By the way, I saw that sold a few years back for over a hundred and fifty million.”
“A hundred seventy million four hundred fifty thousand, to be exact.”
Sanchez laughed. “You know your stuff.”
“Not really,” Crawford said as he looked at where Malpaso was located on the map on his computer. About a two-hour drive north.
“Well, Mr. Sanchez, I really appreciate your time and the information. I may head up your way. If I do, maybe we can meet. Or, if not, I might just give you another call.”
“Sure. Anytime.”
“Okay, thanks again.”
Crawford went straight to Ott’s cubicle and told him about his conversation with Sasha Estes and Martin Sanchez.
“I sure bought his dumb act,” Ott said. “Sounds like our guy.”
“Looks it. Problem is we got no evidence. Nothing to hang him on. I think I’m gonna take a little run up to Malpaso, see what I can dig up.”
“Want me to come?”
“As much as I relish your scintillating car conversation, we b
oth don’t need to go. Stay here and find out whatever else you can about Cotton.”
“I’m on it,” Ott said and his voice suddenly took on a relieved tone. “Christ, I hope this means we don’t have to take any more shit from that dirtball Stabler.”
Thirty
Crawford took I-95 north up to Melbourne and followed his GPS from there. Malpaso Correctional was out in cow country. Way out.
He called assistant warden Henry Bostwick after he got onto I-95 and asked if he could meet with him and get access to the prison-art workshop. Bostwick said that would be fine and volunteered to get him a visitor’s pass for the Art in Prison program. Crawford guessed that Bostwick probably had a fairly dull job, with every day being like the one before, so maybe he actually relished the idea of a new face coming for a visit.
Five minutes after he spoke to Bostwick, he got a call on his cell. He looked at the display. Dominica McCarthy.
“I was just about to call you,” he said.
“I lifted a bunch of prints from that pantry and the kitchen.”
“All different?”
“Yup. Seven different people.”
“I’ll have the ones from my ex-con sent over to you.”
“Sounds good.”
“Match ’em up, will ya?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Just before he reached Malpaso, he called Bostwick again and said he was almost there. Bostwick met him at the front entrance of the prison, asked him to surrender his Sig Sauer P226 pistol, and ushered him through the metal detector.
“You guys ever have any prison breaks here?” Crawford asked, making conversation.
“Had a riot once,” Bostwick said. “That was a bad day.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Nobody got killed. Bunch of serious injuries, though.”
They walked past a long row of cells, which ran for at least the length of a football field. At the end of it was a solid steel door. Bostwick took out a ring of keys, selected one, put it in the keyhole, and opened the door. It opened into a large room with paintings and various other art media. Ten men in blue uniforms were painting; a small, birdlike woman stood behind a man who had a painting on an easel.
“Hi, Sasha,” Bostwick said as they approached her. “Got a fella here who wants to check out your little operation.”
Sasha Estes smiled and walked over to the two men. “I’ve never heard of it referred to as a little operation before.”
“Hey, Sasha,” Crawford stepped forward and put his hand out. “I’m Charlie Crawford, detective with the Palm Beach Police Department. We spoke earlier.”
“Oh, yes,” Estes said, shaking his hand. “Welcome to the masterpiece studio, formerly Cellblock D.”
Crawford looked around. “Pretty nice space,” he said, glancing at the inmates. The first one he observed didn’t appear to have one square inch of skin that wasn’t covered in tattoos. Another one was missing a front tooth. A third one had ear, nose, eyelid and lip piercings. But all of them seemed to be absorbed in their projects. Two of them had glanced over at Crawford and Bostwick, but the rest seemed disinterested.
“It suits its purpose,” Sasha said. “Marty Sanchez told me he spoke to you.”
“Yes, he was very helpful. I don’t want to take you away from your work too long, but I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, sure,” Sasha said. “What would you like to know?”
He didn’t want their conversation overheard. “If we could just step over this way, please.” Away from the inmate artists.
“Oh, sure,” Sasha said, following him.
“My questions mainly have to do with your colleague, Luna Jacobs.”
Henry Bostwick tapped the floor with his foot. “Well, I’m gonna leave you two to talk.” Then, turning to Crawford, “How ’bout I come back in a half hour or so?”
“Yeah, that would be good. Thanks.”
Bostwick nodded and walked away.
Crawford smiled at Sasha. “So, were you and Ms. Jacobs close at all?”
Sasha folded her arms on her chest. “Fairly close,” she said. “I mean we were fellow artists in this vast cultural wasteland of central Florida.”
“Why did Ms. Jacobs stop coming here, do you know?”
“I have no clue. She never said a thing to me about it. It was a pretty big surprise. I mean, one day she just never showed up. Never told anybody anything. Not me, not Marty, not anybody in the prison.”
“And did you contact her?’
“That was the weird thing. I must have called her five times on her cell. Left a bunch of messages, and she never called back.”
“But in the past, she had? Returned your calls, I mean.”
“Yeah, always.”
“Do you know if anything was going on in her personal life where she might have wanted to leave town all of a sudden?”
“I don’t think she had much of a personal life. Just her painting and coming here. She got a lot of satisfaction helping the guys here.”
Crawford glanced over at three men doing a wall-size mural, then back to Sasha, and lowered his voice. “Do you know anything about her having a relationship with an inmate?”
Crawford thought he saw an inmate subtly lean in their direction.
“You mean Johnny Cotton?” she asked softly.
Crawford nodded.
“She mentioned something to me. But wouldn’t tell me his name even though I had a pretty good idea who. I’m not sure why she didn’t want to tell me his name. She described him as having a ‘gentle soul.’” Sasha laughed. “Really? From what I understand he brutally murdered a woman.”
Crawford noticed the full-body-tattoo man, sitting ten feet away, glance over.
“So that’s it. She just disappeared. Do you know the exact date? When you last saw her, I mean.”
Estes pulled an iPhone out of her blue jean front pocket. “Yes, I can tell you. Hang on a sec,” she said scrolling to the calendar. “Oh, wait. I don’t need to look. I remember. It was February fifteenth. The day after Valentine’s Day. Just over a month ago.”
Crawford nodded. “Well, thank you, Ms. Estes. That is very helpful.”
She shrugged. “That’s it? That’s all the questions you have?”
“Yes, I think so. If I think of any more, I know how to reach you.”
“Well, you have some time ’til Henry comes back. You want an art lesson in the meantime?” She pointed at the three men doing the mural. “Or those guys need a fourth.”
“Thanks, but even stick figures are a big challenge for me. Maybe I’ll just wander around. Check out the guys’ work.”
Sasha gestured expansively at the room “Be my guest.”
Crawford walked over to the tattooed man, who he suspected might have been eavesdropping. He looked at his easel, where a remarkably realistic pen-and-ink drawing of two men wielding knives— shivs, in prison parlance—were slashing at each other in the prison yard. Behind them in a tower above, a guard was looking down and aiming a rifle. Slightly behind the two prisoners, three more guards advanced cautiously toward them, pistols drawn.
Something told Crawford that the man was working from memory. Either a scene he had actually seen, or one that another prisoner had described in vivid detail.
The man turned to Crawford. “You like it?”
“Yeah, you’re good, man.”
The man smiled and shrugged. “But the world will never know.”
“Put it on that website. Prison Art.”
“I did that once,” the man said. “Guy offered me five bucks for something I spent two months on. Fuck that.”
Crawford studied it closely. “How much you want for it?”
“It ain’t done, man.”
“I can see that. When it’s done, how much you want?”
“Two hundred bucks.”
Crawford reached for his wallet to see what he had. Six twenties, a ten and a five.
“I’ll give you
a hundred now and a hundred when it’s done.
The man’s tattooed face lit up. “For real?”
Crawford reached for the money then wondered whether inmates were allowed to take cash. “Make like I’m shaking your hand,” Crawford said under his breath, as he took out the five twenties.
They shook hands, and Crawford palmed the man the hundred dollars.
Then he handed him his card. “Let me know when it’s done. I’ll send you the other hundred and some money to cover shipping.”
The tat man smiled at him. “I don’t know a lot of cops into art.”
“Who said I was a cop?”
“Come on, man, cons can always tell,” the man said, moving his head closer. “I’ll give you a freebie.”
“What’s that?”
“Johnny Cotton was about as much a ‘gentle soul’ as Ted fuckin’ Bundy.”
“You knew him?”
“Yeah.” He paused to search for the right words. “And to know him…was to hate him.”
Thirty-One
Henry Bostwick showed up a few minutes later. Crawford thanked the tattooed inmate, who had told him his name was Jack Lamb, and Sasha Estes again, then let Bostwick lead him out of the art room.
Crawford turned to Bostwick as they walked past the long row of cells. “Can I find out the exact date of Johnny Cotton’s release?”
“Sure, that’s easy,” Bostwick said.
They walked into an office, where Bostwick asked a woman about Cotton’s release date. She came back a few minutes later and said, “February fifteenth.”
Crawford turned to Bostwick. “That was the last day Luna Jacobs came to work.”
“No shit,” Bostwick said. “That’s a coincidence.”
“I doubt it. Can we also find out where she lived?”
“Yeah, we probably have that somewhere in the records.” Then Bostwick asked the woman at the desk, “Can you look up the home address of one of the women who worked in the art program, please?”
“Sure, what’s her name?”
“Luna Jacobs. She worked here a long time.”