by Greg Iles
“Mr. Wheaton,” says Kaiser, “in examining these paintings forensically, we’ve recovered some hairs from them. The hairs come from a special type of paintbrush. Kolinsky sable.”
“You’re investigating every artist in America who uses Kolinsky sable brushes?”
“No, that would be too big a job, even for us. But these weren’t ordinary Kolinsky sable. They’re a very fine grade—the finest, actually—produced by one small factory in Manchuria. There’s only one U.S. importer, and he sells a very limited quantity. To select customers.”
“And Tulane University was one of those customers. Now I see. Of course. I placed that order. For obvious reasons, I hope.”
“Could you tell us why, obvious as it may be?”
“They’re the finest brushes in the world. Highly resilient. They’re generally used for watercolor, but they’re adaptable to any medium. I use them for fine work in my oils.”
“Your students use them as well?”
“Had I not ordered them for this program, two of my students wouldn’t be able to afford such tools. That’s one of the benefits of an academic setting.”
“That would be Ms. Laveau and Mr. Gaines?”
Wheaton chuckles. “Yes. Frank could buy a Manchurian sable ranch if he chose to.”
“You’re referring to Mr. Smith?” asks Kaiser.
“Yes. Frank Smith.”
“Is that a Kolinsky brush you’re using now?”
“No, this is hog bristle. Crude-sounding, isn’t it? But a fine brush all the same.”
“Have you always used the rare Kolinsky brushes?”
“No.” This time the pause seems interminable. “Three years ago I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that affects my hands and fingers. I’ve had to alter the mechanics of my brushstroke to remain consistent with my own style. I experimented for a while, and finally discovered the special Kolinskys. They worked so well that I encouraged my students to try them.”
“I see. How many people have access to these brushes?”
“My graduate students, of course.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well . . . this isn’t a high-security area, as you can see. Anyone could walk in here and take one if they really wanted to. Undergraduates frequently come through to see my work in progress. We’d have to have twenty-four-hour guards to keep them out.”
“Mr. Wheaton,” Kaiser says in an apologetic tone, “I hesitate to ask this, but would you have any trouble providing alibis for a group of dates over the past eighteen months?”
“I’d have to see the dates. Are you saying I’m a suspect in these terrible crimes?”
“Anyone with access to these brushes is by definition a suspect. Do you know where you were three nights ago, after the opening at the museum? Say from eight forty-five to nine-fifteen?”
“I was at home. And I foresee your next question. I was alone, as it happens. Should I contact an attorney?”
“That’s your prerogative, sir. I wouldn’t want to influence you either way.”
“I see.” Wheaton is answering more slowly now, his words preceded by careful thought.
“Would you mind telling us how you selected each of your students?” asks Kaiser.
“I suppose not. Each applicant submitted paintings for review. There were quite a lot to go through. I initially looked at photos sent through the mail. Then I flew down and examined a group of paintings by each of the finalists.”
“Did you use any criteria other than the applicants’ paintings?”
“None.”
“Did you have biographical information on the applicants?”
“I believe I had a brief sheet on each one. A CV of sorts, though with artists that’s not a very formal document. Leon Gaines’s résumé made interesting reading.”
“I imagine it did.” Kaiser is trying to sound friendly, but there’s no hiding the fact that this is an interrogation. “What was it about the work of each that impressed you?”
“I don’t think I can give you a short answer to that,” Wheaton replies.
“Could you give us a verbal sketch of each student?”
“I really don’t know that much about them.”
“Frank Smith, say.”
Another long silence, but whether it’s caused by reluctance to comply or by Wheaton searching for words is unknowable from the isolation of the van.
“I’m very fond of Frank,” Wheaton says finally. “He’s a talented boy. He’s never known financial hardship, but I think his childhood was difficult. He had one of those fathers, you know. Great expectations, of the conventional kind. Frank’s talent and dedication are unbounded, and he’s only going to get better. He’s meticulous in technique and fearless in dealing with his subject matter. I don’t know what else to say. I’m not a critic. And I’m certainly no detective.”
“Of course. Have you ever seen Frank Smith get violent?”
“Violent? He’s passionate about his work. But violent? No. He hasn’t much respect for other artists’ work, I can tell you that. He rubs a lot of people the wrong way. Frank knows just about everything there is to know about art history, and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You can imagine how that affects a man like Leon Gaines.”
“Why don’t you tell us?”
“Leon would probably have killed Frank by now if it wouldn’t put him in Angola penitentiary for life. It would make him a three-time loser, you see. They’d never let him out again.”
“Tell us about Gaines.”
Wheaton sighs loudly enough for it to reach us over the transmitter. “Leon is a very simple man. Or very complicated. I haven’t been able to decide. He’s a tortured soul who’ll never rid himself of his demons. Not even through his art, which is certainly violent enough to exorcise a few demons.”
“Are you aware that Gaines beats his girlfriend?”
“I have no idea what Leon does in his spare time, but nothing would surprise me. And his paintings are full of that kind of thing.”
“Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
“We’re all capable of killing, Agent Kaiser. Surely you know that.”
“You served in Vietnam,” Kaiser says, taking a cue from Wheaton’s reply. “Is that right?”
“You must know I did.”
“You had quite a distinguished record.”
“I did what was asked of me.”
“You did more than that. You won a Bronze Star. Do you mind telling me how you got that?”
“Surely you’ve got hold of the citation somehow.”
Daniel Baxter shakes his head beside me. “Wheaton’s getting comfortable. He’s turning the questions back on John.”
“Citations never quite tell the story, do they?” asks Kaiser.
“You were there, weren’t you?” Wheaton replies.
“Yes. I was a Ranger. H Company, Ninth Cav. You were a Marine?”
“Third Division.”
“They didn’t hand out medals for digging foxholes.”
“No. It was a straightforward enough action. My company was pinned down in a paddy near Quang Tri. Our sergeant had stepped on a mine that took off his leg above the knee. Two men went out after him. Both were shot dead by a sniper in the tree line. The weather was too bad to call in napalm on the sniper, but it was clear enough for him to shoot. Our artillery couldn’t seem to get him either. The sergeant screamed that if anyone else came out after him, he was going to pull the pin on one of his own grenades. I thought he might actually do it, but he was bleeding to death, so I went and got him.”
“Just like that?”
“That’s how it is sometimes, isn’t it? The sniper shot at me but missed.”
“The citation said you killed the sniper as well.”
“I think getting the sergeant back alive gave me delusions of invulnerability. Did you ever get that feeling over there?”
“Only once, thank God. It’s a dangerous feeling.”
“Yes. But I used it
. I borrowed a grenade launcher from a corporal and made a dash across the paddy—”
“Which was mined?”
“Yes. But as I zigged across the paddy, the sniper kept shooting and missing. That allowed me to get a fix on his muzzle flash. When I got within range, it was too late for him to move. He was stuck up in his tree. Tied in, actually. I just planted my feet and gave it to him. I was lucky that day. He wasn’t.”
“That’s the way it was, all right. What about the rape incident?”
More dead air as Wheaton adjusts to the shift of conversational gears; Kaiser has gone from comrade-in-arms to adversary in two seconds.
“What about it?” asks Wheaton.
“It must have cost you some friends in your company, to push it as far as you did.”
“I didn’t have any choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was raised to treat women with respect, Agent Kaiser. No matter what language they speak or what color they are.”
I feel like cheering aloud.
“And this wasn’t a woman,” he adds. “She was a child.”
“Was it an attempted rape, or a fait accompli?”
“I walked in on the crime in progress. We were checking a villa for weapons caches, and I heard screams from a hootch near the back.”
“I see. Two perpetrators?”
“That’s right. One was sitting on her chest with his knees on her arms, holding her down. The other was . . . committing the act.”
“And what did you do?”
“I told them to stop.”
“But one of them was your superior, right? A corporal?”
“That’s right.”
“Did they stop?”
“They laughed.”
“What did you do then?”
“I held up my weapon and threatened to shoot them.”
“Your M-16?”
“I carried a Swedish K-50 at the time.”
“Sounds like you knew your weapons.”
“I didn’t want to die because my M-16 jammed when I needed it. I bought the K off a Lurp on leave in Saigon.”
“What happened next?”
“They cursed me and threatened to kill me, but they stopped.”
“Would you have shot them?”
“I’d have wounded them.”
“You reported the incident right then?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you make any attempt to comfort the girl?”
“No. I didn’t want to turn my back on those two.”
“Sounds like a smart decision.”
“The girl’s mother was in the hootch. They’d knocked her cold, but she was waking up by then. Is this relevant to your investigation?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Wheaton. But we have to ask about everything. I appreciate your being frank with us, though. That says a lot in your favor.”
“Does it?”
The sound of fabric rubbing against the mike tells me Lenz is moving around the room.
“Get ready,” says Baxter beside me.
“Mr. Wheaton,” says Lenz. “I must tell you, I’m floored by this work-in-progress. A return to your original inspiration will turn the art world on its ear.”
At this remove, it’s easy to hear the culture and education in the psychiatrist’s voice as compared to Kaiser’s.
“That’s something I wouldn’t mind doing,” says Wheaton. “I don’t think about critics much, but I don’t like them. They’ve always been kind to me, but they have savaged work by people I admire, and I won’t forgive them that.”
“What did Wilde say about critics?” asks Lenz. “‘Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming’?”
“Yes!” cries Wheaton, bright pleasure in his voice. “You sound like Frank. He’s a big fan of Wilde.”
“Really? I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly, then.” More shuffling from Lenz’s clothes. “Mr. Wheaton, as a forensic psychiatrist, I’m also a medical doctor. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask about your disease, and how it’s affected your work.”
“That’s something I’d prefer not to talk about.”
Lenz doesn’t immediately reply, but I can imagine the laserlike stare that must be searching Roger Wheaton’s face at this moment. “I understand,” the psychiatrist says finally. “But I’m afraid I must insist. Such diagnoses deeply affect human psychology, as you know too well, I’m sure. Did you know that Paul Klee also suffered from scleroderma?”
“Yes. His work suffered equally.”
“I see you’re wearing gloves. Has the move south relieved your Raynaud’s phenomenon to any degree?”
“Somewhat. But more because the university has done so much to protect me. A prerequisite of joining my lecture class was an agreement to attend it in a hall without air-conditioning. In New Orleans that can be quite a hardship. But no one seems to mind too much.”
“I wouldn’t think so. You’re a very famous man.”
“In some circles. I still have frequent episodes of Ray naud’s, to answer your question.”
“Have you had permanent tissue damage to your hands?”
“Again, I’d prefer not to discuss it.”
“I’ll be as brief as possible. Are you being treated here in New Orleans?”
“I visited the rheumatology department at Tulane once. I was not impressed.”
“Surely there were other university cities you could have gone to, where autoimmune diseases have more of a priority? Did you consider other offers?”
“Wherever I go, the treatments are essentially palliative. You must know that, Doctor. I find that I do better by simply living in denial and doing the best I can.”
“I see. Have you been tested for organ function in the past year?”
“No.”
“Do you have your blood pressure checked regularly, at least?”
“No.”
“You realize that accelerating hypertension is a hall-mark of—”
“I’m not a fool, Doctor. I’d rather move on to something else, please. My time is too short to spend it discussing what is killing me.”
A wave of pity rolls through me at Lenz’s relentless questioning. “Why doesn’t he leave the guy alone?”
“He feels he’s onto something,” Baxter says in a taut voice.
“Do you think he is?”
“Diagnosis of a terminal disease is a major stressor. It could initiate homicidal behavior in a predisposed individual.”
“Are you aware that there are some revolutionary new treatments being tried?” Lenz asks. “In Seattle, for example, they’re using autologous bone marrow transplant—”
“I’m aware of all this, Doctor . . . ?”
“Lenz.”
“Doctor Lenz, thank you. I fully understand my situation. I wonder if you do. I’m an artist. I have no family. My priority is my work. I shall do the work I am strong enough to do for as long as I can do it. When I die, my work will live after me. That’s more satisfaction than most men will ever know.”
Wheaton’s voice is a knife blade of truth, and it demands respectful silence, the way a prayer does.
“Come on,” Baxter says, anxiously tapping the console before him. “Get her in there.”
But Lenz doesn’t know when to quit. “I’d like to move on to—”
“I apologize, Mr. Wheaton,” Kaiser says sharply. “Our photographer was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. If—”
“Go!” Baxter says, slapping my knee.
I throw open the van’s rear door, and in seconds I’m clacking across the sidewalk toward the Newcomb Art Gallery, fighting to keep my balance in unfamiliar heels, my heart pounding against my sternum.
The smell of oil paint hits me as I go through the door, and grows stronger as I move toward the main gallery, guided by my memory of a floor plan Baxter showed us in the van. The entrance area is ornamented with Tiffany stained-glass panels, mounted on both sides of a w
ide doorway. When I walk through, I find myself facing a curved white wall. Then I see wooden framing. I’m looking at the back of Wheaton’s room-sized canvas circle.
To my right is an opening in the curved wall. As I go through, I concentrate on Baxter’s instructions to act detached and professional, but my first sight of the painting stops me in my tracks.
The circle of joined canvas panels is eight feet high and at least thirty-five feet across. The scale alone inspires awe. But it’s the image itself that takes my breath away. I feel as though I’ve walked into J. R. R. Tolkien’s Mirkwood, a shadowy world where roots wind around the feet and gnarled limbs bind the throat, where tangled vines and deadfalls conceal things we wish would remain out of sight. Through this dark world winds a narrow black stream, occasionally rippling white over rocks or fallen branches. The scene shocks me because I expected something abstract, as all Wheaton’s later work has been. This is what Lenz meant by “a return to your original inspiration.” I feel I could reach into the painting, pick up a twig, and snap it in two with a loud crack. Were the smell of paint and linseed oil not so strong, I think I would smell decaying leaves. Only one curved panel is unfinished, and before it stands Wheaton himself, paintbrush and palette in his white-gloved hands.
The size of the artist is my second shock. The head shot I saw last night gave me the impression of a slight man, but that merely proves how deceptive photographs can be. Wheaton is but an inch shorter than Kaiser, who stands six-three. He has wiry arms but large hands with long fingers, and shoulders only slightly bowed by age. His face is so strong that the wire-rimmed bifocals he wears—I can see the lines on the lenses from here—seem merely an ornament rather than functional spectacles. At fifty-eight, he has a full head of silver hair that sweeps back from his forehead, some of it reaching his shoulders, and his skin is remarkably smooth. He gives the impression of a man who has reached a place of extraordinary peace, though from the little I know about his history, that is a misconception.
“Is this your photographer?” he asks, and then he smiles at me.
Wheaton’s smile fades as he turns to Lenz, who like Kaiser has not even heard the artist’s initial question, so intent is he on picking up signals of recognition in Wheaton’s face. I could save them the trouble. This guy has never seen me before in his life.
