by Walter Marks
And the biggest concern of all — what can I do to bring Victor out of his new, more complex illness. I can still see that blank-eyed reptilian look. What’s going on in his brain now? The trauma of his beloved Daisy trying to kill him was something he couldn’t handle. Add to that his already fragile psyche and there’s no predicting where this new pathology will take him...
I decided I needed a break from introspection.
I turned on my car radio; and by doing so I solved the one remaining mystery in the case of Victor Janko. It was a mystery I'd almost forgotten about.
On WFAN they were interviewing some hockey player from the Montreal Canadiens. The topic: how NHL salary restrictions would affect the player’s upcoming contract negotiations. Boring.
As I started to change the station, I heard the hockey player, speaking in his flat-toned French-Canadian accent, “I got agent to deal with money,” he said. “My job to shoot dot puck...score dot goal. No doubt about it.”
He pronounced it Canadian style — “no doot aboot it”.
His accent reminded me of the threatening phone calls I’d gotten on my voicemail. There was something familiar in those speech patterns — now I knew what it was. The anonymous caller had said, “Don’t let Janko oot. Don’t even think aboot it.” It was the French-Canadian voice of Father Emile Toussenel.
Of course. The priest was obsessed with the idea that Victor Janko was evil incarnate. He, like Karp, was adamant Victor should never leave prison.
I was outraged.
I’m gonna confront that bastard — tell him he’s a demented, hypocritical shit-heel; the antithesis of everything his religion stands for.
I’ve got proof of his transgressions on my voicemail. I’ll get him convicted of a crime — Felony Harassment, Criminal Intimidation...
But wait. His voice was disguised, maybe it wouldn't prove anything. And what kind of a case could I make? My word against a priest — A Man of God? Okay, maybe priests aren’t quite so exalted these days, but do I really want to go through all that legal wrangling, spend my time, my energy?...
No. Inflicting punishment on Father Toussenel isn’t necessary. After all, in the end he has to answer to... A HIGHER AUTHORITY.
When I got to Vanderkill I wrote up my most recent notes.
After, I went to Ben’s office and had him read it while I waited. When he was finished, he looked up and smiled. “Good job, David.”
“Listen, Ben,” I said. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’ve decided I want to continue working here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” I said. “So you can tell that guy from Brigham and Women’s that you don’t need him.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said. ”I can’t do that.”
“Why not.”
“It’...just not possible.”
“Why?”
“Because there is no guy from Brigham and Women’s.”
“What?”
“I just made that up to put pressure on you. I knew your ego wouldn’t allow someone else to take your place.”
I gave him a dirty look.
“Reverse psychology 101,” Ben said smirking. “Remember, I told you — you’re never as smart as you think you are. And your judgment is never as good as you think it is.”
“Lesson learned.”
“I also have some good news for you,” Ben said. “We’ve found you a place to live.”
“Where?”
“Your houseboat. You told me you lived on a houseboat, right?”
“In the city. You expect me to commute?”
“No,” Ben said. “My wife found a marina on the Hudson River, half an hour from here. How big is your boat?”
“Thirty feet.”
“Okay. It’s seven dollars per foot per month. That’s...um, two hundred ten a month, including electricity, gas, and internet. You can’t beat that.”
“My boat doesn’t run. It’s permanently moored.”
“So you can have it towed up here.”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess I could.”
Ben’s phone rang. He held up his hand and answered it. After listening for a while, he said “Okay” and hung up.
“That was Stevie Karp. He says Janko wants to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“He asked us to return him to his cell. Said he felt better and he wanted to be with his painting materials so he could start doing art again.”
“So he’s in his cell now?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty sudden recovery.”
“Well, Karp says he seems to be in good spirits.”
This is strange. I thought. “I’ll have to see for myself.”
Karp let me into Victor’s cell. I asked him to leave us alone. When he left, I looked to make sure he wasn’t eavesdropping.
“Doctor,” Victor said. “I’m sorry I’ve been so...so, y’know, freaked out lately. With what happened with Daisy and all, I just...I just...”
“I understand, Victor.” His face looked more normal now. Well, normal for him. The reptilian stare was gone. He still looked scared and depressed, but he was clearly feeling a lot better.
“Victor”, I said. ”I want you to know I’ve uncovered facts that show you did not murder Agnes Rivera. I’m not sure I’ve got enough to prove your innocence, but I’m gonna work very hard to get you out of here.”
He looked at me with a look of awe. “Thank you, thank you, thank you...”
“I can’t promise anything. It may take a long time.”
“Thank you, thank you...”
I interrupted his mantra of gratitude. “Tell me something, Victor,” I said. “How do you feel about Daisy? About everything that happened?”
He hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly. ”It’s in the past, Doctor. You can’t change the past. I’m not sayin’ it doesn’t hurt. I’m not sayin’ I forgive her, ‘cause I don’t. But she believed I killed her Mom. She wanted revenge. I understand that. I can’t change the past. All I can do is look to the future. That’s what I’m tryin’ to do. It’s not easy but...I’m tryin’.”
“That’s a good way of looking at it, Victor.”
“Can you do me a favor?” he said. “Can you look and see if Stevie is listening to us?”
I checked again and Karp was gone.
“Doctor, you told me about that recording thing you got. I...I’d like to use it. Get evidence on Stevie.”
I took the voice recorder out of my bag and handed it to him. “You see that green button?” I said. “That’ll make it record. It runs for twenty straight hours. Put it in your pocket. Soon as you see Karp coming in, press that button and it’ll record everything that goes on. Can you make him say things that will incriminate him?”
“No problem. He’ll do it himself.”
“Good. Press the red button when he leaves. Okay?”
“Got it.”
“Doctor,” Victor said. “I know you’ll do your best to get me outta here. But if it doesn’t work out, and I’m stuck here another five years — do you think, if I act right, start painting again, listen to you and do what you say, do you think I can get parole?”
“I don’t know, Victor. But if you do all those things, I can guarantee you’ll have a better life.”
“Better life,” he said. “Yes, better life. That’s the ticket. Whatever happens, happens, right?”
“Right.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You’re a very good doctor.”
I nodded, called for Karp, and he let me out of the cell. As I walked away, I had a good feeling about Victor. But then I reminded myself that it was impossible to predict how his situation would play out.
Ben’s voice echoed in my head: “You’re never as smart as you think you are. Your judgment is never as good as you think it is.”
Lesson learned.
I hope.
EPILOGUE
Victor Thomas Janko, wearing his jumpsuit, lay on his bed in the unlit ce
ll. It was his first night back in Ad Seg, and he hated it, especially after the relative comfort of his hospital room. There, he could sleep in peaceful darkness. Here, there was always the glare of that naked bulb in the corridor, shining in on him. He stretched out his hands and turned them palms up, palms down, palms up, palms down, watching the way the light coming through the mesh door mottled his skin. Alligator hands, he always called them.
Victor was happy that Dr. Rothberg finally realized he hadn’t killed Mrs. Rivera. He always knew he was innocent. He couldn’t have killed anybody. He wasn’t that kind of person.
Only being in prison had gradually turned him into a different person — years of isolation, Stevie’s brutality, the priest’s constant accusations and threats of damnation, and finally Daisy’s betrayal — no, he wasn’t that same gentle, peaceful soul any more.
So it was important for him to be back in Ad Seg. Because of the Plan. He’d hatched the Plan during his days and nights in the hospital. It was easy enough for him to get moved back to his cell. He just suddenly got better.
He started talking again, saying how he wasn’t depressed any more; When Dr. Rothberg came to see him, he said how he felt about Daisy; that he was ready to move on with his life, that you can’t change the past, blah, blah, blah.
Dr. Rothberg told me not to give up hope — that he was working to get me out.
Yeah, that would happen soon...on the Twelfth of Never. Does Dr. Rothberg expect me to believe the people who railroaded me in here are gonna admit they were wrong and let me out. Fat chance!
The only help I’m gonna get is from the Holy Trinity — Me, Myself, and I.
The important thing about being back in Ad Seg was he had his painting materials. He wasn't allowed his palette knife, but that didn't matter — he could manage without it. He’d been thinking a lot about his new painting. It wouldn't be another beach scene. No. No. No. It would be something new, something different. And he felt sure when people saw it, they would say it was Victor Janko's masterpiece.
It was all part of the Plan. The Master Plan.
Stevie Karp had served him dinner at 6:00 and promised dessert for later, which meant he'd be back with his K-Y jelly and his condom and that disgusting boner he was so proud of. But Victor wasn't worried about it. In fact it fit his Plan perfectly.
He heard the familiar jingle of Stevie's keys down the hall. Soon he'd be unlocking the cell door, and entering with that leer on his face.
Victor turned on the recording device and put in in his pocket.
Stevie came in, turning on the cell light. Victor looked at him, with his sunglasses and his guard hat and his stupid ponytail and his beer-belly. Disgusting.
“You ready for a little dessert, Vickie-boy?”
“Listen, Stevie,” Victor said. “My butt’s kinda sore tonight. Those meds I’m takin’ gave me a bad case of the runs. Could you give me a break tonight?”
“Gross,” the guard said, making a face. “Well, I’ll just settle for using your pretty mouth. You know the way I like it, don’t you, Sweetie?”
“You know I hate blowjobs.”
“Yes. That’s why I like ‘em.”
Gotcha, thought Victor.
He pointed to the empty canvas sitting on his easel. "How you like my new painting?" he asked.
The guard looked at it and turned to him with a puzzled expression. "It's blank. Ain’t nothin' on it."
"Yes, there is,” Victor said. “See, it's called 'Polar Bear in a Snow Storm', and I painted it with all these different shades of white. You gotta look real close to pick out the polar bear."
Stevie walked over to the canvas for a closer look. "I don't see shit. What the hell..."
Hell was the last word Karp ever uttered. Victor had come up behind him and plunged the sharpened end of a paintbrush handle deep into the soft spot between Stevie's skull and cervical spine. The hardwood handle, honed to stiletto sharpness on the cinderblock wall, sliced cleanly through the guard's brain stem.
Stevie collapsed to the floor, making a gurgling sound as if he were trying to complete his final sentence. Victor noted with satisfaction that there wasn't too much blood. It was oozing slowly from the wound, and Victor wasted no time stripping off the guard's shirt before it became badly stained.
Working quickly, Victor took off his jumpsuit, removed the guard's pants and dressed himself in Karp's uniform. Of course, the pants were too large, but he’d planned for that. He stuffed a pillow inside the trousers and the shirt, and he immediately took on the paunchy shape of the guard. He put on his own socks and shoes.
Victor kneeled down beside the body, removed Karp's shoelaces and tied them together.
Next, with the nail clipper attached to the guard's lanyard, he snipped off Karp's ponytail, right above the point where the hair was secured by a twisted rubber band.
He tied the shoelaces to the ponytail and fastened the laces around his head like a headband. The ponytail now hung down his neck. With great excitement he put on the prison guard's hat, and then, placing his own glasses in his shirt pocket, he put on Karp's dark shades. He couldn't see well, but he could see well enough; well enough to take Karp's gun, wallet, and keys.
There was no mirror, but Victor knew his disguise was excellent. It was night and it was dark and there were no other guards in Ad Seg. Anybody who saw him would take him for Karp, and it would be a snap to walk out through the prison gate.
Victor tried to imagine what life would be like on the outside after all these years. He couldn't picture it, but he could hardly wait.
Now, before Victor departed, there were two more things he had to do. He took the recording device from his jumpsuit pocket and pushed the red stop button. He pulled down Stevie’s undershorts and jammed the recorder into Stevie’s butt crack so it jutted up into the air.
“Sorry — no KY jelly for you... Sweetie!”
Then it was time for Victor to create his masterpiece. He switched back to his own eyeglasses, then yanked the sharpened paintbrush handle out of Karp's neck. The blood flowed freely from the wound, pooling on the floor and spreading in crimson puddles. Victor liked the color. It reminded him of Matisse.
He picked up a fresh paintbrush (his favorite, the No. 12 Grumbacher sable), knelt down and dipped it into the pool of Karp's blood. Then he went over to the blank canvas and began to paint.
As his hand guided the brush skillfully over the canvas, he again took pleasure in the bright red color. The stuff was difficult to work with, though. It had a tendency to spatter and run, and he detested sloppy work. So he was very, very careful.
Gradually the picture took shape. It was a portrait of Dr. Suess's goofy-looking feline, depicted in monochromatic red. It was a dead-on copy, with two notable exceptions. Over the cat's eyes were a pair of dark sunglasses. And behind his head a scrawny ponytail drooped down.
Victor took a few steps back and scrutinized his work. It was perfect, he thought. His whole Plan was perfect. Then he spoke harshly, doing his best Stevie Karp imitation. "Good. Now gimme the finishing touch."
Then in his own voice — "No. No. Please, boss. Please don't make me."
"Now, faggot. The finishing touch."
"All right, boss," Victor said with a smirk. He dipped his paintbrush again into the guard's blood and with great care he painted in the hat. But instead of a high porkpie, he gave the feline the hat of a prison guard. Finally, he painted seven words on the canvas, in precise imitation of the way Dr. Seuss formed his letters. The words were:
THAT IS THAT,
THE CAT IN THE HAT.
He put the sunglasses back on and fastened the gun and gun belt around his waist. Then the cat in the hat, who you’d’ve sworn was Stevie Karp, calmly left the cell, went down the Ad Seg stairs, crossed the prison yard, and strode unchallenged through the Vanderkill Penitentiary gate.
In the parking lot it was easy to find Karp’s car, he’d bragged enough about it — a red Camaro.
Victor got in.
He’d only driven in Driver Ed, but he remembered well enough to get going. He stopped at a Mobil station to get gas. When the tank was full, he paid with cash from Karp’s wallet.
As he did a cop car pulled up at the gas pump next to him. Victor put his hand on Stevie’s gun in case there was a problem.
He smiled.
They smiled.
No problem.
“Pardon me,” Victor said to the gas guy. “Could you give me directions to Albany?”
“Sure. Turn left at the corner, take Route 52 West and you’ll catch the Thruway North to Albany.”
“Thanks.”
Victor started his engine and felt in his pocket for his stiletto-like bloodstained paintbrush. He ran his finger over the sharpened point.
“Ouch,” he said out loud.
As he drove off, he chanted softly to himself — “an eye for an eye...an eye for an eye...an eye for an eye.”
A SNEAK PEEK AT WALTER MARKS’
DEATH HAMPTON
AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON
CHAPTER 1
Midnight. The intruder tried the sliding glass door on the deck of the beach house. It was open.
How accommodating of her, he thought.
He wore dark glasses over a stocking mask. His squashed nose and flattened ears made him look like a being from outer space. His tongue darted across his lips, exposed by a hole in the stocking. He had cut the hole to make breathing easier, and because he liked to use his mouth on them.
He stepped inside. In the bright moonlight shining through an angled bay window, he found his way easily. He could see, up a flight of stairs, a slant of light coming from the door of her bedroom. He took out his automatic pistol. What he liked about the gun was that it forced instant compliance; no screams, no arguments.
As he climbed the stairs he could hear recorded string quartet music through her door — Mozart or Haydn, he could never tell the damn difference.
The top step creaked loudly and he froze, alert to any sound. Satisfied he hadn’t lost the element of surprise, he moved forward.
