Dark Exhibit

by Rick Homan

I knew Pat was offering to provide me security for the after-dark walk across to the residential side of campus, and I liked that idea, but I wondered if I could take him up on it without inviting him in when we got there. Maybe I was afraid I would want to.

  “That’s awfully nice of you,” I said. “I’m afraid I can’t invite you in for a meal. I need to go grocery shopping.” Of course, that was a lie—I had just come from Steadman’s—but I wasn’t sure I was ready to cook for him.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Pat. “I have to get home anyway. I have some goulash going in a crock pot.”

  I said nothing, and took my time getting wrapped up in my winter gear, hoping an invitation to share that goulash was forthcoming. Alas, he decided to follow my example and keep it simple.

  As we made our way out of Arts and Humanities and walked along the quad, past the construction site of the new business building, we got better acquainted. I told him about my background in California. He told me he was a Minnesota boy, born and raised in Rochester, and educated at U of M.

  When we turned onto College Avenue, that loose end started bothering me again. “Darn it,” I said. “There’s something I forgot to mention when we were talking to the Sheriff.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “About a week ago, just before Edgar was killed, I was talking to a friend of his on the phone, a guy named Mel. This guy said he had warned Edgar that some organized racist group might try to make trouble at the opening of the exhibit. He said he knew about this because he creates these robot programs that search for things on the internet, and one of them found Edgar’s name on a forum that’s dedicated to racist activity. Does that sound right to you?”

  We walked for a minute or so before Pat spoke. “If you’re asking whether the members of one of these forums would talk about specific individuals like Edgar, the answer is yes. And, yes, some of them might have planned to disrupt the opening. Did you have any trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Good. As to whether someone could search the internet for names and phrases on a forum that is monitored, I don’t really know. As I said, the opposition groups I know of do it by joining the groups under fake names. I don’t know anything about robot programs.”

  I could see I had to make my question more specific. “I’m worried about this guy, Mel. He says he’s just interested in developing these search robots, and he had them search for Edgar’s name because he’s a fan of Edgar’s work. Then, along with a lot of other stuff, he just happened to find this racist chatter about Edgar. Does that seem believable?”

  “I suppose so,” said Pat. “It would depend on how these robots work.”

  “What I mean is, the internet is a big place. Nobody knows how much is out there. When I do a normal internet search, I get five million hits, and like everybody else I only read the first page. So how does Mel find the racist stuff about Edgar out of all the hits his robots must have turned up? Doesn’t it seem like he must have been somehow keyed into these racist groups already?”

  “Again,” said Pat, “without knowing the nature of his research, I can’t guess about how he’s able to fine-tune his searches. But it’s not a stretch to think that a person sets out to look for someone’s name and finds his way to racist forums. The stuff is out there. It’s not that hard to find it.”

  That information did nothing to comfort me. I decided to send Adams an email with what I knew about Mel and let him investigate, which was what Abbie had told me to do.

  When we stopped outside the door to my Hutch, I turned to Pat, smiled, and said, “Thanks for walking me home.” This was his last chance to invite me over for goulash.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Let me know when you hear anything from Judith.” With that he turned and walked back up Montgomery Avenue.

  I went inside and resigned myself to a boiled egg, toast, and grapefruit for dinner.

  As I made my meal, I was glad I’d told Adams what I had discovered about Dunkle, but I was nervous about seeing my colleague the next day at three o’clock. Greta had insisted we use the meeting time we had “penciled in” to discuss the associate vice president’s reply to my question about legal implications of the two murders for the college, the gallery, and each individual member of the Gallery Advisory Committee. I would have to look interested in whatever Greta wanted to argue about and would have to be pleasant toward Matt Dunkle as I had the last time I saw him, when he hit on me for a dinner date, and I brushed him off. That was going to be difficult, to say the least, since I now suspected him of being a neo-Nazi and a double murderer.

  Maybe, after teaching my morning and afternoon classes, I could come down with the flu. No, that was not a good idea. Even Millard Haflin would see through that.

  I would have to show up, and see it through.

  Throughout the week, my students became more and more eager to ask questions about Edgar’s death and the murder investigation. By Friday morning, they were raising their hands to ask things like, “Are the paintings worth more now that he’s dead?” Since it’s my job to make them curious about art, I took this to mean I was teaching them well. At the same time, having known and liked Edgar, it was a little hard to take.

  So, my feelings were ragged by the time I arrived at the meeting of the Gallery Advisory Committee at three o’clock. Greta and Millard were already seated, but I didn’t see Dunkle.

  Greta made no secret of her inner turmoil. “I’m very concerned about the associate vice president’s memo.”

  “I want to address your concerns, Greta, but don’t you think we should wait until all members of the committee are present?”

  I had the satisfaction of seeing her halt with her mouth open as she tried to come up with a reply. Apparently, she couldn’t think of anything because she clammed up and checked her watch. “I say we give him three minutes and then get started.”

  “Good idea.” I got out my phone and set an alarm for three minutes hence.

  This suited me fine because I had come to this meeting determined not to get trapped in another pointless argument with Greta. I wanted to spend some time talking with her about things we could agree on. If we could establish some trust and goodwill, I hoped we might find it easier to resolve differences when they came up.

  “In the meantime,” I said, “how are your classes going this semester?”

  Greta gawked at me as if I’d just asked about her sex life. “Very well, thank you. I’m not exactly a rookie when it comes to teaching undergraduate biology.”

  I smiled. “It must be a great satisfaction to have the sort of confidence that comes with experience.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You make it sound like I’m as old as the hills.”

  “Not at all. You have such a youthful spirit.”

  She glared at me. “What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.” I would have to give more thought to topics we could agree on. “Millard, have you heard any comments about the exhibit?”

  Millard blinked and said, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Greta turned to him. “She wants to know what you’ve heard.”

  He seemed surprised. “Oh! My hearing is fine. I had it tested in the fall.”

  Greta seemed ready to erupt. Fortunately, Matt Dunkle slipped through the door at that moment and took a seat at the end of the table.

  Chapter 34

  I took a deep breath and tried to look interested while Greta made up things to argue about. I also tried to look pleasant though I suspected Matt Dunkle was a neo-Nazi and a double murderer.

  “Good. We’re all here,” I said.

  “May we please begin the meeting now, Madame Chairperson?” asked Greta.

  “Of course. We’re here to discuss the legal consequences of Edgar Yount’s death. I assume you’ve all read the associate vice president’s email that I forwarded to you on Wednesday. In addition, I have met with the artist’s sister, E
lla Yount, who is the executor of his estate. I’ll be happy to inform the committee regarding my discussion with her. But let’s start with your comments on that email.”

  “This memo is very troubling,” said Greta. “He speaks of . . .”

  At that moment my phone sounded the alarm I had set.

  “Turn that thing off,” she yelled.

  I did so and said, “Please continue.”

  “He speaks of exposure to litigation and liability. I am quite sure this is not what President Taylor had in mind when he gave us the task of bringing art to the campus. I hate to think of what this could do to the college, especially at this critical juncture when we are set to become a university.”

  I slipped a sheet of paper out of one of the folders in front of me. “Greta, here’s what the memo says: ‘I understand the committee is concerned about whether the college has any exposure to litigation.’ You notice he doesn’t say that in fact there is any. Later he says his office ‘will address any issues of liability that may arise.’ That implies he doesn’t think there are any at this point.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Greta, “but lawyers don’t know everything.”

  I looked to Matt, hoping he would speak up and counter what she was saying as he had in the two previous meetings. I was startled to see him staring at me with a blank expression. I had to clear my throat before I could ask, “Does anyone else have any comments on the associate vice president’s memo?”

  “What’s-his-name—the fellow who’s now associate vice president—came to teach here seventeen years ago,” said Millard. “He was the dean before becoming associate vice president. Born administrator. I always had a lot of confidence in him.”

  “Relevance, Millard?” asked Greta. “I don’t see the relevance.”

  “Thank you, Millard, for that vote of confidence,” I said. “Since I’ve been here less than two years, I’m glad to know he enjoys such a good reputation with the faculty.”

  Again, I turned to Matt and again found him staring at me. I felt chilled.

  “What exactly does our contract say?” Greta asked.

  “Our contract with Edgar?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “It gives us permission to exhibit his paintings for the dates chosen for the exhibit. There are more details about the college paying to insure their value while they are here and about the artist’s responsibility for removing them, and so on.”

  “Do you have a copy of this contract?”

  “With me?” I glanced at the tabs on the folders in front of me. “I think so.”

  “May I see it?” asked Greta.

  I opened one of the folders, flipped a few sheets, pulled out the two-page, single-spaced contract, and handed it to her.

  As she started scanning it, I said, “This might be a good time for me to mention I met with Ella Yount earlier this week. She’s pleased to have the college showing her late brother’s work through the end of February. As executor, her concerns are—”

  “This isn’t signed,” said Greta.

  “Excuse me?” I looked at the second page of the contract, which she had turned face-up on the table. Her finger rested on the line for Edgar’s signature, which was blank. “You’re right. I signed two copies and sent them to him. Apparently, he forgot to sign the one he sent back.”

  Greta’s eyes were bright and there was color in her cheeks. “Does the associate vice president know about this?”

  “I don’t think so. I hadn’t noticed it myself.”

  “So, we have an illegal exhibit.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “We have no contract. No permission to display the paintings.”

  “Of course, we do. Edgar brought them here himself. He and I hung them in the gallery. Obviously, he gave us permission. If nothing else, we have a verbal agreement which is a legal contract.”

  “But we can’t prove it.”

  “We don’t have to. As I was just starting to say, his sister, who is also his executor, is happy to cooperate with us.”

  “I’m sorry, Nicole. I have to draw the line at this. If you won’t inform the associate vice president, I will.”

  “Please don’t do that. If he starts hearing from individual members of the committee that will just create confusion. Let’s agree on what we want to do.”

  “How do we know what to do? We’re not lawyers.”

  I could see that neither Millard nor Matt was going to help out. I had an idea. “Greta, I imagine the other copy of this written contract is in Edgar’s files, and I would bet he signed it. He probably meant to return that one and just mixed up the two copies. Would you feel better if I went to his studio and picked it up so we have a signed copy in our possession?”

  “How are you going to get in?”

  “I have the key, and I have the alarm code. His sister gave them to me. We’re cooperating. I am helping her protect his work. I will let her know I am picking up the signed copy and leaving this one with my signature. It will all be above-board. Will that satisfy you?”

  Greta seemed to run out of steam. “I suppose it would help. At least then we could begin to address the legal issues we face.”

  “Good. I will fetch the signed copy, and I would like you to do something for the committee, Greta. Would you please make a list of the issues you have in mind and briefly describe your concerns about each of them? I think we would all like to have that in hand before we meet again. Wouldn’t we?”

  Millard wasn’t paying attention. Dunkle was giving me that same dead stare.

  Greta was frowning. “That seems like asking a lot.”

  “I know, Greta, but, of all of us here, I think you have the best grasp of these issues. It would be a great help to me. Please, Greta, for the sake of the gallery.”

  She had to stifle a smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  This time I was first to get up and leave the room. With my phone in one hand and my folders in the other, I bolted out the door and down the corridor to the stairway. After bundling up in my office, I set out to walk back to my Rabbit Hutch. Stretching my legs as I started across campus felt good. Even the cold air in my nostrils felt good after the stale air in that meeting room.

  Once inside, I locked up, stripped off my cap, scarf, jacket, and boots, and began making tea.

  A knock at my front door made me jump. This was the second time in two days I had freaked out about someone coming to my door. I had to stop doing this. Maybe I should get motion-sensors and cameras installed. Maybe I should get a dog. Maybe I should call Abbie. “Who is it?”

  “Gillespie.”

  I recognized his voice. It was a nice voice. I opened the door and said, “Hi. Come on in.”

  As I shut the door behind him, he looked around and paused, as most everyone did, at the sight of my outdoor furniture and carpet made of green, artificial-turf doormats stitched together.

  “Would you like to sit down?” I asked.

  “No thanks. I just brought you this.” He handed me a slip of paper.

  Written in pencil on the paper was, “Judith. Kretschmer’s, 2037 Route 23. 2pm.”

  “Is this tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did she find out who Karl Krusher is?”

  “My contact passed this message to me with instructions to give it to you, just like last time. That’s all I know.”

  I glanced at the message again. Route 23 was the road to Columbus. There were a few towns along the way and a lot of farmland.

  “I need to ask you something,” I said. “Let’s sit down.”

  Chapter 35

  Pat took one of the sling chairs by the front window of my Rabbit Hutch, and I took the other.

  “The last time I met with her,” I said, “Judith explained to me what sock puppets are and how she uses them to infiltrate neo-Nazi groups and forums.”

  He nodded.

  “She also said the
‘bad boys,’ as she calls them, use sock puppets to infiltrate opposition groups like the ones where she shares information she finds.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So how do I know Judith isn’t a neo-Nazi posing as a member of the opposition? She could be doxxing me.”

  He leaned back and stared across the room. “For one thing, I trust my contacts. Also, they don’t know who you are, just as you don’t know who Judith is. What you’re suggesting seems a little too cloak-and-dagger. Mostly this is a propaganda war.”

  “But it’s not impossible.”

  He shrugged. “Anything is possible.”

  “I just came from a meeting with the Gallery Advisory Committee. Matt Dunkle is on that committee. I got a really weird vibe from him. Either he knows something or strongly suspects it. So, if Judith is actually working for the other side, she might have told him I’m investigating him.”

  “There’s a simpler explanation. Sheriff Adams may have questioned him, and now he’s freaked out and suspicious of everyone.”

  “Yes, that’s possible. I guess my real concern is that I’m supposed to meet someone I don’t really know out in the middle of nowhere.” I held up the note Pat had given me.

  He nodded. “I see why you’re concerned.”

  “Will you go with me?”

  He looked away for a moment, thinking about it. “Yes, if that will make this easier for you. But we’ll have to work out something because I can’t be sitting there at a table with you. She’ll expect you to come alone. If she sees me, she’ll probably skip out.”

  That made sense. “How about this: We’ll go in separate cars. You can park outside, and once I’m with Judith, I’ll phone to let you know everything’s okay.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “If I don’t phone right away, you run in and save me.”

  His eyebrows went up. “I’ll dial 911 first. Then I’ll run in and try to create a distraction until they get there.”

  I glanced at the message again. “What kind of place is Kretschmer’s?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’ll look it up online.”