“When’s Whitney’s shift?”
“Twelve a.m. to twelve p.m.”
“So the day manager booked her in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did they know Mason was an escort?”
“No. The pimps tell the escorts to say they’re here for a medical conference at BU. And since they carry a small overnight bag, the day manager has no reason to think otherwise. She takes an imprint from a credit card and gets a fake address. It’s only when Whitney checks them out that they pay the premium.”
“Was he forthcoming with this information?”
“You bet, sir. He’s scared shitless — of us, the pimps, or losing his job, we don’t know. But he seems willing to talk.”
“Did he touch anything in the room?”
“He says no, sir. Neither did we.”
* * *
There are two carotid arteries, one on the left and one on the right side of the neck. Together they feed blood to the brain, neck, and face, and for thirty-three years Melody Mason had been unaware of their existence. When both arteries are severed, death is swift — certainly terrifying but possibly painless, if you disregard the slash of the razor. With more than a gallon of blood in the human body, cutting two major blood vessels while the heart continues to pump is, in a word, messy.
The wallpaper, a medley of mauve flowers and vertical aquamarine stripes, had been hit by a heavy spray as Mason’s head turned. After that the blood had flowed over her upper chest, streamed under her torso, and spread over the bed and onto the carpet below. The greatest pooling, however, was under the body. Her arms lay relaxed and extended at her sides, the left hanging over the edge of the bed, suggesting someone in a deep sleep. Both hands had been covered in blood when she instinctively grasped at her neck.
“Jesus. First he does DeSouza and Grant, and now her.” Williams shook his head.
“Look down, boss.” Vertesi pointed to the carpet. Just beyond the swing of the door was a one-inch brass V.
Williams shook his head in disbelief. “We gotta get ahead of this fucker somehow. Man, he’s seriously twisted.”
“I want to keep this scene as clean as possible,” MacNeice said from the threshold. He took out his point-and-shoot and framed the image above the letter. After he’d taken several photographs, he studied them on the screen. “The wooden chair is interesting.” He toggled back and forth between the images. “Michael, go and sit there, facing the camera. Don’t touch anything; just sit for a moment.”
Vertesi walked across the carpet like a man in a minefield and sat down. He waited for MacNeice to compose the photo, then leaned over, elbows on thighs, head down, head up, hands on thighs, head turning to look at Melody’s face. MacNeice kept shooting. When he was finished, he asked Vertesi to look around the room for anything that wasn’t Glenn Grove property.
“There’s a black leather bag open on the other side of the bed. Mason’s clothes are piled neatly on the corner chair. Sequined black stilettos. That’s a bloody kimono behind me, partially covering her legs.” He turned his attention to the mirrored closet. “There’s a hard-case carry-on in the closet and a makeup kit on the bathroom counter.” He did one last scan. “That’s it. No drinks, no paraphernalia. Do you want any of these things?”
“If you can get to her wallet. But other than that, no.” MacNeice scrolled through the photographs. “I think our dag curator needs to see this.”
MacNeice squatted over the V and studied the carpet. There were two ancient stains — likely red wine — each the size of a nickel. The pale grey twill had been worn down in the high-traffic areas, but despite being brittle and crusty to the touch, the carpet looked clean. He got down on the floor and looked across its surface.
Near the wine stains were two tiny black splinters. MacNeice pulled his latex glove on tighter so he could pick one up. Holding it to the light, he smiled. “Graphite.”
“What’s that?” Williams leaned over, straining to see it.
“Pencil lead. The sharpened tip broke off. And here, look.” He reached over and picked up something else, placing it in the palm of his hand, admiring it as one would a newly found jewel. “Eraser crumbs.”
Williams shook his head, realizing he was missing the point. Vertesi also looked at it, shrugging his shoulders.
“He wasn’t here to have sex,” MacNeice said, accepting a plastic zipper bag from Williams. “He was drawing her.”
* * *
“There’s five hundred dollars in fifties, a couple of credit cards, a health card, and a driver’s licence. Nothing personal like a snapshot, just the cash.” Vertesi closed the wallet and opened the bag. Inside he found lipstick, lip gloss, K-Y lubricant, a packet of condoms, and a brushed aluminum business-card holder with six black cards: eXotic escorts was printed in hot pink, with no address, just a phone number.
There was a knock at the door. Giordano looked in to tell them the parking garage security camera was down. It had been disabled about the time Melody Mason checked in. The camera feed was on a computer in the office; while there was a lineup at the front desk, no one was in there, so it went unnoticed.
MacNeice wasn’t surprised. He turned to Vertesi. “Find out where Mason lived, who she lived with, whatever family she may have had.”
Montile leaned against the door. “I’ll call Forensics and get a statement from the night manager.” Looking back at the bed, he added, “I don’t know why, but this one’s more depressing than the priest, the lawyer, or Donkey-Head.”
[43]
Galerie Weitzman-Bourget specialized in boundary-breaking international photography. Located on a narrow street in the Latin Quarter of Paris, the gallery was known as “haute sleek,” a description it came by honestly. Carmen Weitzman and Chanel Bourget were partners both in life and in the gallery. For artists from such faraway places as Japan, China, Africa, South America, and also elsewhere in Europe, exhibiting at GWB was considered to be conquering the Mount Everest of contemporary photography.
The work shown at GWB was unquestionably edgy. Its openings featured gold-covered windows, with two men in black suits at the door. While they looked like elegant heavies, they wore white silk gloves and politely took the invitations from arriving guests. After one week of these private viewings, the gallery would drop the golden veil. There’d be an immediate reaction from passersby, and without fail there’d be some who’d ring the bell for entry, only to be ignored.
The very first exhibition at GWB, by a famous German photographer, had featured one-metre-square colour-saturated photographs of Weitzman and Bourget making love. The edition of ten prints per original image sold out, after which the negatives were destroyed at an invitation-only brûlant — a formal burning.
In their chic designer apparel, the partners were beautiful women of superb taste. Naked, however, they were stripped of any illusion of perfection. Carmen was zaftig, with large, sagging breasts, stretch marks on her stomach, and dimpled thighs. Chanel was thin and vaguely reminiscent of the actress Jean Seberg; there was a wasted quality to her, as if she suffered from terminal disinterest. It was strange how the voluptuous partner was light in spirit and ready to laugh, while the one with a real claim to beauty seemed heavy, burdened with hipbones that jutted out like dorsal fins.
Nonetheless, as a graphic exposé of lovemaking, the exhibition had been both exquisite and raw. The photographer (also a woman) revealed moments of passion, aggression, joy, submission. So intimate were the images that the sweat beading arms, breasts, and foreheads compelled some viewers to reach out and touch the glass, thinking perhaps it was just caused by moisture in the air from hyperventilation.
Each print was framed with wide panels of satin-lacquered wood in a colour Chanel dubbed rose des lèvres — “labia pink.” Carmen felt that the frames sealed the deal in every case, and perhaps she was right. What they certainly sealed was the perception and
future of GWB as too hot to ignore.
For the pair’s bedroom, the photographer had printed two life-size images. Framed in labia pink, they faced each other from opposite sides of the bed. The artist’s message was part gratitude, part tease: “Just in case you ever feel in need of inspiration,” her note read, “un petit soupçon.”
* * *
Into GWB’s world of sophistication and decadence arrived an unsolicited portfolio from an unknown photographer. Accompanying the work was a two-page cover letter separated from the prints by a black card. Chanel began to read: “The intent of this series is to shine a light on history and the truth and lies of telling stories through images. There’s a deep chasm between what is real and what is fiction. Each of us must explore this dichotomy, because what we see determines who we are and how we act.”
While Chanel’s English pronunciation was refined and her vocabulary sufficient to carry on a dialogue with the English-speaking clients who visited the gallery, she wasn’t entirely sure that the author of this text was being serious. It sounded so pompous. She called in Jacqueline, her British assistant, for an opinion. As she stood watching the young woman read, she asked, “It is pompous, yes?”
“A little, but I think it makes sense. What are the images like?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to read first, then look. Please use Google Earth” — she picked up the courier slip and handed it to her — “and find where is Dundurn, Ontario, Canada. Tell me what is there.”
On the second page of the cover letter were images of the Daumier lithograph and the Goya/Chapman paintings. There were also six very fine photographs by an unnamed war photographer. Chanel sat down behind the long mahogany table that served as her desk. As she sipped her coffee, Jacqueline returned. Reading from her note, she said, “Madame, Dundurn is Canada’s tenth-largest city. It’s an hour’s drive southwest of Toronto. It’s known for industry and manufacturing, and it has one of the largest ports on the Great Lakes. With the collapse of some industries, the city has been changing. There’s been a migration of artists from Toronto, where the cost of living is high. Dundurn has an abundance of nature —”
“Merci, Jacqueline. No more, please; it’s too much.” Chanel waved her hand dismissively and went back to the cover letter.
GWB —
This introductory portfolio contains four 12 x 12-inch sample prints of two subjects. A full exhibition will include twelve 24 x 24-inch signed and framed archival prints of similarly themed tableaus, with further editions of six photographs on request.
Regarding the artist’s biography and exhibition history — nothing exists. Nor will it. The combat photographs by this artist were taken while serving in Afghanistan. They have never been shown and will not be included in the exhibition.
A METAPHOR OF INTENT
A farmer buys a farm from a farmer, just as that farmer bought the same farm from a farmer decades before, and before him, farmers had bought that farm from farmers ever since it first became a farm. Each might add a new crop or remove an old one, but essentially it remains the same farm. It just has a new name on the barn.
That’s painting. Each painter is a farmer who adds a wrinkle. It may not be new and it’s often not as good, but he claims it is — it’s his wrinkle. And so it has been throughout the history of painting. The painter buys the same canvas, uses the same brushes, the same paints. He believes that his painting is a new crop from old soil.
Then came a revolutionary way to “farm” — photography. But, even after 150 years, it’s just another way to farm the same soil. Only the tools are different.
This artist is determined to create something undeniably new. He wants to commit art.
COMPENSATION
For each photograph sold, after gallery fees have been deducted, cheques will be made payable to a Credit Suisse account under the name Romeo Charlie Victor (RCV). You will never meet the artist known as RCV. He will not appear in person, nor will he provide a portrait for marketing purposes. The point: that who he is, how tall he is, whether he has a nice smile — those and similar considerations — are unessential to the art. A manifesto will be provided to GWB for use as a title panel for the exhibition.
EXHIBITION TITLE
Romeo Charlie Victor: With Respect
* * *
Unaccustomed to being preached to, Chanel stood up quickly and considered returning the portfolio unopened. But apart from the gall of its author, she couldn’t argue the point. For Bourget, the truth wasn’t complicated: curiosity is a demon. Whatever she thought of the letter and its presumption, she was curious to open the box. She wanted the satisfaction of a laugh and of writing a short, vicious response to an arrogant pretender.
Chanel opened a drawer in the desk and retrieved cotton gloves and a large magnifying glass. She moved her empty cup over to a credenza, put aside the black card, and carefully picked up the four prints. Removing the covering tissues, she placed them one by one in a row and stood back. In a matter of minutes she was shaking her head in admiration.
Few things had the ability to shock her, but this work did. Yes, they were small square horrors — they would be even more powerful when blown up for exhibition — but they were horrible in the tradition of Daumier and Goya. The satirical trick of going further than the Chapman brothers also appealed to her. Whatever RCV had done to make his tableaus appear so lifelike would possibly also remain a mystery, but the re-creations had an unmistakable modernity while respecting and paying homage to the originals. The use of additional lighting, if it was present at all, was so subtle that the images appeared to be lit by nature, by the lamps in the bedroom or by moonlight. They were masterfully long exposures.
Though Carmen was in Brussels concluding a lucrative contract, Chanel had an urge to call her and scream for joy. The thought of doing that made her laugh. It would be so out of character that Carmen might dismiss it as a crank call.
She picked up the magnifying glass and scanned the prints again for weaknesses or mistakes in the conceit. Was the blood lifelike? Was a chest or an eyelid blurred because the actor needed to breathe? Death is difficult to achieve when your face is full of life. Think of all the actors who died onstage or on camera. How many times did you wait for their chest to rise or their belly to quiver?
Chanel prided herself for spotting the tricks photographers used to achieve illusions. But she could find no evidence, no slip of a digital tool, no hard-edged cropping, cutting, or selective colour enhancing in these photographs. The work was seamless. She returned to the letter to read the remaining text.
POSTSCRIPT
Should GWB wish to proceed, simply send a text message to the number below, confirming same. Be specific with regards to the timing of the exhibition. RCV will deliver archival prints — excluding the additional edition of six — unframed, with specifications for the framer of your choice, one month prior to opening.
RCV has researched your gallery and feels that GWB is the right venue for this work. However, in the unlikely event that you’re not interested, return the portfolio by FedEx to the post office box on the delivery slip.
* * *
“Magnificent bastard,” Chanel murmured as she returned the prints and the letter to the box. Laying her white gloves on top, she took her cigarette case and lighter from the drawer and walked outside. The sidewalk was narrow and busy, as always, with passing tourists, so she walked around the corner to stand facing the graffiti-crammed wall of Serge Gainsbourg’s former home on rue de Verneuil. She inhaled long and deep, marvelling that her trick-monitor brain couldn’t find a way to diminish her interest in the mysterious RCV.
Was he a charlatan? On some level, possibly, but the work resoundingly said no. Artists’ pretentions weren’t new to her. Chanel had spent two decades dealing with arrogance, insecurities, foibles, and kinks. She’d charmed, cajoled, and at times berated them into keeping their commitments. Of cours
e, her own arrogance put most of her artists to shame, and of that she was exceedingly proud. Unstated, her message to each was clear: You need me more than I need you.
She leaned against the bollard, enjoying her cigarette and looking at but not seeing Gainsbourg’s likeness staring back. Chanel was thinking about exhibition scheduling and which artist she could bump for RCV’s work. Would June be too soon? She decided that was RCV’s problem. Exhaling a narrow cloud of smoke, she said out loud, “June it is.” Though it was one of her busiest months, she’d move the Italian photographer, because he’d originally changed his scheduled date from April.
She wondered what would happen if she insisted on a meeting before proceeding. No reasonable person would think that too much to ask, though she suspected RCV might be defiantly unreasonable. Nonetheless, a challenge trigger had been pulled for Chanel. It was the same one that had been pulled when she was a teenager attracted to her tennis coach, a woman fifteen years her senior. The same trigger her father had inadvertently pulled when he said she’d be wasting his money and her education by buying photographs for wealthy decadents. She smiled, recalling his exact words: “You’ll never make your way doing this, ma chérie. I will always be your Bank of Papa.”
Chanel dropped her cigarette butt on the ground, grinding out its fire and kicking it into the gutter, where it would be swept away the next morning.
[44]
Jeffery Ridout was leaving for a studio visit in Toronto when MacNeice arrived at the DAG. Standing near the entrance windows, MacNeice warned him that what he was about to see would be disturbing. Ridout smiled bravely.
Vantage Point Page 18
