Dark Exhibit

by Rick Homan

  “Right, but he chose to paint that car rather than some other one.”

  “Okay then, he painted an Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight as a rusted-out heap ready for the junkyard and called the painting, ‘Dinosaur.’ So, if he was referring to this racist formula by choosing that car to paint, he was saying its time has passed.”

  We looked at each other, neither of us convinced.

  “I don’t know,” said Abbie. “As a satire on neo-Nazis that’s awfully subtle. I wouldn’t have gotten it if I hadn’t seen this.”

  “I wouldn’t have either, but, as you said, he could have painted a Ford or a Chevrolet. He chose the Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight, and he had this formula in his notebook a year or so before he painted it. It could be a coincidence, but it looks more like an artistic choice.”

  I took a notebook from my purse, wrote down the formula and the date on which it appeared in Edgar’s notebook, and went back to scanning pages.

  Chapter 25

  In all I looked through five notebooks and found two similar notes: “RaHoWa = Racial Holy War,” and “Jess tells me neo-Nazis believe in ‘the fourteen words.’” That note confirmed my suspicion that Jessica Fabrizio had influenced Edgar to make those paintings with ironic titles.

  When I was done scanning, I saw Abbie had seated herself on the couch near the front door. She was reading a magazine and bouncing one leg to keep warm. I called her over and showed her the other two references, which I had bookmarked.

  “So, she was feeding him this junk, but where did she get it?” Abbie asked.

  “I can’t imagine. Where does anybody get it? Family? Community? Campus politics?”

  “Now that I think of it, do women actually get involved in all this neo-Nazi stuff? I thought it was a bunch of guys in fake uniforms running around out in the woods playing soldier.”

  “I really don’t know anything about it, but I would be very surprised to learn that she was involved. I looked up her dissertation, and her scholarship focused on statistical models for documenting systematic racism in the criminal justice system. So, she certainly wasn’t sympathetic to racist ideas.”

  “Maybe she was familiar with these catch-phrases and symbols because of her research on racism.”

  “Possibly. And I suppose over their months of living together he might have asked about her research, and these things came up, and he made a note of them for possible later use.”

  Abbie shrugged. “If you’re done, let’s hit the road, because I’m freezing my butt off in here.”

  I was too. We turned out the lights, set the alarm, and locked up. As we walked to the car, I reflected on the notes I had taken. I still didn’t fully understand them, but I had a sickly feeling I had just discovered something I didn’t want to know.

  As we headed back down the highway toward Chillicothe, I had one of those moments that convinces me the subconscious mind is much better at organizing information than the conscious mind. Abbie was cruising at a steady speed, and I was staring at the ragged fields along the highway, which a few months earlier had been full of crops. I was thinking about the odd series of paintings and visualizing how “Dinosaur” came first in the exhibit, followed by “Hung Out to Dry”, “Cheering for Losers,” and one called, “Honor.”

  I wasn’t sure that last one belonged to the group because it had no letters or numerals in it. As I imagined myself standing in the gallery and looking at these paintings one after another, I remembered seeing Matt Dunkle and Edgar standing in front of them after Edgar’s talk at the reception.

  “Matt Dunkle talked with Edgar about these paintings,” I said aloud. “I saw them together a week and a half ago at the opening for the exhibit after Edgar’s speech.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t hear them because I was across the room, but I remember seeing the two of them standing in the corner, in front of this series of paintings. They looked like they were having an intense conversation. Matt was hanging on every word Edgar was saying.”

  “So, you don’t know if they were talking about the paintings. All you really know is that they were standing by them.”

  “I guess so, but from the way they were standing I had the impression they had been looking at them.”

  We rode in silence for perhaps a minute. Abbie checked her mirrors and adjusted her speed before settling back in her seat and saying, “So Matt and Edgar talked about these paintings at the opening, and . . . what?”

  “I’m not sure. Jessica also attended the opening.”

  Abbie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel for a few seconds. “Not sure where you’re going with this.”

  “There seem to be a lot of connections between these paintings and these three people. Too many coincidences.”

  Abbie shook her head. “You can draw lots of lines connecting these three people and the paintings, but those lines don’t necessarily mean anything.”

  I understood what Abbie was saying, and she was right. Still that memory of Edgar and Matt standing in front of the odd paintings burned bright and weighed heavily. “What if we take it chronologically? Jessica and Matt were in a relationship for two years in Albany. They broke up when she graduated. She and Edgar got together a few years later in Cleveland. According to the notebooks, that’s when Jessica told Edgar about all this neo-Nazi stuff, but how did she know about it? Is it possible she got it from Matt?”

  Abbie nodded. “Yes, it’s possible, but there are other possibilities. She could have seen a documentary about neo-Nazis. She could have taken an elective course or read a book.”

  “Sure, but none of those would account for something else we know: Both Jessica and Edgar have been murdered in the past ten days.”

  “That’s true, but be careful how you connect the dots. The murders may have nothing to do with the paintings or with Matt Dunkle. Jessica and Edgar could have been killed by someone they both knew in Cleveland.”

  This was frustrating, but I knew Abbie was forcing me to think more clearly. “I understand. There are always lots of ways to connect the dots. Right now I’m looking at the way that includes Matt Dunkle. What if Jessica learned about these neo-Nazi codes from him?”

  Abbie shrugged. “Okay, let’s play that game. If so, then she passed that information along to Edgar and he put it into his paintings. So what?”

  “Then at the opening Matt saw the paintings, recognized the irony in the titles, and asked Edgar where he got these ideas.”

  Playing along, Abbie replied, “Edgar could have said, ‘I used to have this girlfriend who told me her ex was into this stuff.’”

  I liked where this was going. “And Matt would have felt betrayed because he saw that Edgar was ridiculing the ideas Jessica got from him. Then, when Jessica walked into the gallery, he saw his opportunity to follow her to her motel and punish her for betraying him.”

  Again, Abbie tapped on the steering wheel before replying. “We’re drawing a lot of lines to connect these dots, and I will admit this picture makes sense, but it’s only one possibility.”

  “That is true, but let’s stay with it a little further. If all this were true, what else would have to be true?”

  Abbie hummed for a moment. “Matt Dunkle must have known about neo-Nazi stuff when he was in graduate school at SUNY at Albany.”

  “And not just known about it. He must have sympathized with it since he was offended by the ridicule after more than ten years. So how do I find out if Matt was ever a neo-Nazi?”

  We rode in silence for a minute before Abbie said, “Shave his head and see if he has a swastika tattooed on his scalp.”

  I almost laughed. “I’m probably not going to do that, but thank you for thinking outside the box. If Matt was angry with Jessica for betraying him, maybe he was also angry at Edgar for making fun of these secret codes, angry enough to kill Edgar a week later. If so, maybe he’s still sympathetic to these ideas. Is it possible that Matt Dunkle is secretly active in a neo-Nazi moveme
nt?”

  “That would explain a lot, but it’s still only one way of connecting the dots.”

  We crossed the truss bridge into Blanton. I wondered if I should pick up any supplies before returning to campus, but I couldn’t think of anything.

  Still thinking out loud, I said, “I’ve never heard him say anything that sounded racist.”

  “Of course not,” Abbie said. “That would make him very unpopular on campus.”

  “But is it possible for someone to feel passionately about something and yet hide that from the people he works with every day?”

  “You’re asking a gay woman.”

  “Oh. Right. I guess it is possible.”

  “Yes, it’s also sad and in the long run self-destructive.”

  “I’m sorry it has to be that way for you.”

  “Thanks. I’d like to get to a place where it’s not.”

  “I hope you do.”

  We turned off the highway and drove up the road that would turn into College Avenue, which ran through the middle of campus. I shared my last thought on the subject. “Seriously I have no idea how to find out if Matt Dunkle is secretly a member of a neo-Nazi group.”

  Abbie drove for a few minutes and turned from College Avenue onto Ohio Avenue. “I know someone who might be able to help you. Have you met Patrick Gillespie?”

  “No.”

  “He’s in the psychology department. He’s done some work on organized hate groups. I don’t know if that’s the main focus of his research, but I’m sure he could answer some questions and at least get you started in the right direction.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get his email address from the college’s website and write to him.”

  “Hold off until later this evening. I’ll email him as soon as I’m home, telling him I’ve talked with you about this. Maybe he can tell you whether Dunkle fits the profile.”

  Abbie parked in front of her Rabbit Hutch and we got out of the car.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be relieved if he tells me I’m just imagining things and I should forget about those notes in Edgar’s journals.”

  “Only one way to find out,” said Abbie.

  As I walked back to my Hutch, I thought that I would also be relieved if Sheriff Adams called to say he had arrested the murderer.

  Chapter 26

  That evening I received an email from Patrick Gillespie saying Abbie had told him I had some questions about neo-Nazi symbols and abbreviations. He agreed to meet me in the gallery at four o’clock the next afternoon.

  I got there a little before four and found Paul minding the gallery. It had been a week since I’d witnessed his hostility toward Jessica Fabrizio and reported it to Adams. Since then I hadn’t heard anything about Paul from the sheriff, so I had to carry on as usual. It helped to remember that the murders had happened in a motel room and a studio on a rural highway, so I was probably safe in a busy classroom building.

  He got up from the desk by the door and met me by the lectern. “Good afternoon, Dr. Noonan. We’ve had several visitors today.” He nodded toward the guest book. His outfit and his attitude were relaxed compared with last week. He wore a navy, V-neck sweater with a shirt and tie and gray slacks. His smile seemed genuine.

  I glanced at the guest book. “Very nice. Mostly people from campus, I see. Did they seem to enjoy the exhibit?”

  “I think so.” He pointed to three names in the book. “These ladies spent some time here and had questions, which I was happy to answer. Most of the others looked around for a few minutes and left.”

  I didn’t know if Sheriff Adams had talked to Paul since I reported Paul’s anger toward Jessica Fabrizio. If he had, apparently it hadn’t made Paul resentful. I decided to keep our conversation pleasant and professional. “It will be interesting to see if attendance builds over the next two weeks as word-of-mouth gets around. If it doesn’t, we might think about doing some promotion before the exhibit closes. Do you have any suggestions?”

  His smile widened. “I’m afraid I won’t be involved here after the next two weeks.”

  “You won’t? Why not?”

  He went to the desk and pulled a letter-sized envelope from his backpack. “I’m giving you written notice that I won’t be working in the gallery after the end of the month.”

  “What do you mean? Your internship runs through this semester.”

  He held out a withdrawal slip. “I’m afraid I’ll have to drop those credits.”

  “Paul, what is going on?”

  “Professor Zorn called me about a gallery in Columbus that needs an associate. They’ve handled some of his work. They said I can come in two or three days a week and get some experience. Professor Zorn said that in the near future they might be looking for someone full-time. So, it looks like I might have a job when I graduate in June.”

  “I see. If you withdraw from the internship, will you still have enough credits to graduate?”

  “Yes. I checked with my advisor.”

  I signed the withdrawal slip and handed it to him.

  “Thank you, Dr. Noonan. I knew you’d understand. I can’t pass up this opportunity to get some real professional experience.”

  “Of course not, Paul. I’m happy for you.”

  “I hope you won’t have trouble covering the hours when the gallery is open.”

  “No. That won’t be a problem. A couple of the work-study students have asked about getting more hours.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m meeting someone here in a few minutes, so you can leave now if you want to.”

  “All right. Thank you,” he said. He picked up his coat and backpack and left.

  I felt shaken, but not because Paul was abandoning his internship. I wouldn’t miss his tantrums, and I wouldn’t mind having one fewer responsibility this semester. What shook me was Zorn’s willingness to involve a student in an obvious scheme to strike back at me over our disagreement at yesterday’s meeting of the art department. It was possible he had found a real opportunity for Paul, but I feared Paul would find himself driving to Columbus to sit and answer the phone but wouldn’t find a job waiting when he graduated.

  There had to be a way to resolve my differences with Zorn and avoid sabotaging each other’s programs. At the meeting I tried to support his suggestion and to improve his idea for an animation program by suggesting a computer lab, but he wasn’t interested. When he said I was devaluing the reputation of the department by offering an internship, I struck back by quoting the information I had from Hari about the decline of careers in animation. That was a mistake.

  I couldn’t think what my next move might be, but I knew I didn’t want to keep escalating this conflict. I would have to think of a constructive approach by next Tuesday when the department would meet again. Of course, beyond this semester none of this would matter, because I would be gone, but I still had four months to go.

  I was rescued from this gloomy meditation by the arrival of a man in his early thirties with sandy hair, pale complexion, and sparkling green eyes. He wore a pin-striped dress shirt with blue jeans and hiking boots and carried a leather jacket folded over one arm. He was of medium height, had an athletic build, and carried himself well.

  He glanced around the room, saw no one but me present, and did the five-second stare. I hadn’t seen that in a while. Throughout my first year at Fuchs College, I saw it whenever I met someone for the first time. They needed a few seconds to consider the possibility that an Asian woman could have an Irish name and then a few more to get up their courage to look me in the eye and ask, “Dr. Noonan?”

  This guy decided to skip the question. He held out his hand. “Hi. Pat Gillespie.”

  I took his hand. “Nicole Noonan. Thanks for meeting me here.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “I’ve heard good things about the exhibit.”

  “That’s nice to know. The paintings I want to ask you about are in the corner.”

  I led the way over to the paintings in question and stopped in front o
f the first one.

  “These are amazingly realistic,” he said.

  I nodded. “Photo-realism. It creates the illusion that the artist took a photograph of something that never happened.”

  After he looked at the painting of the old car, I said, “It’s called ‘Dinosaur.’”

  He smiled. “They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

  I had with me the notebook I had used at Edgar’s studio the day before. I opened to the page where I had written, “88=HH=Heil Hitler,” and asked, “Would it change your mind about the painting if you knew the artist had written this in his notebook around the time he painted it?”

  Gillespie glanced at the formula in the notebook and looked back at the painting. “Maybe, although it could be a coincidence. That’s a pretty common piece of code for neo-Nazis.”

  “Really? Why would they write it as an equation?”

  “They don’t. In fact, I’ve never seen it expressed that way. A lot of guys in the movement have ‘88’ tattooed on their arms so they can recognize each other without giving themselves away to outsiders.”

  “I see. Edgar must have written it this way in his notebook so he would remember what it means.”

  I walked a few steps to the right and stopped at the painting of white sheets on a clothesline with the date, November 11, 2011, superimposed in the lower, right corner.

  Gillespie looked it over and asked, “What is this one called?”

  “Hung Out to Dry.”

  He shook his head. “It’s kind of humorous, but nothing strikes me as especially significant.”

  He followed me to the next painting, took one look at it, and chuckled. “Here we definitely have some white supremacist content. What’s the title?”

  “Cheering for Losers.”

  He chuckled again. “Nice bit of satire.”

  “You’re seeing things I can’t see,” I said. “Please explain.”

  “To start with, look at the letters on the cheerleaders’ sweaters.”

  I told him what I saw. “The three sitting in the first row of the bleachers all have red letters, as if they’re all cheering for the same team, but the letters are different: R, H, and W. The one sitting in the top row has a yellow A, the one half-way down has a blue O, and the one lower down has a green A. Honestly, I can’t make any sense out of it.”