Why had I told the Cobbs that they and their parents were depicted in the Locust Street Murals?
Thérèse Zellweger
I had just arrived at work when Berthe, DeJ’s secretary, told me the Great Psychiatrist wanted to see me in his office.
‘Why are you glaring at me?’ I asked.
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Am I in trouble?’
She sniffed.
‘I’ll put on my uniform, then come down.’
‘I wouldn’t bother with the uniform,’ she said, turning her back and stalking off.
Berthe and I had never gotten along. She had worked at the clinic for many years, was in charge of the office when I first arrived. I found out later she’d had an affair with DeJ, one of many as he worked his way through the administrative and nursing staffs. She hated all the women DeJ slept with after he was finished with her, and we all hated her as well. Still, we all put on false fronts and pretended to get along. Today she didn’t bother to conceal her pleasure that DeJ was displeased and I was about to be subjected to one of his tongue-lashings.
All right, I thought, if he’s going to bawl me out, I might as well go to his office and get it over with.
‘What is this about Agnès meeting a visitor?’ he demanded, the moment I appeared at his door. His face was red. I could see he was furious. Somehow he’d found out about our meeting with Penny in Meilen.
There was no point denying it. ‘She met an old friend at the café there.’
‘So your little motorboat jaunt was a pretext.’
‘It was you who suggested it.’
He ignored that. ‘This meeting was prearranged?’
‘It was perfectly innocent, Herr Doktor. I wanted to help her. Johnny did, too. I didn’t see the harm.’
‘You didn’t tell me!’ His fury was mounting. Droplets of spittle were shooting out of his mouth.
‘As I said, it was innocent. I didn’t think you’d mind. It was up to Agnès to tell you if she wanted to. I didn’t think she needed permission—’
‘I’ve discussed this with Agnès. She tells me she didn’t know about the meeting before you arrived in Meilen. Someone got to you, didn’t they? I want to know who and what you’ve been up to behind my back.’
‘There was an American couple. They were tracking the Ragdoll Artist.’
He glared at me. ‘And you didn’t think you were obligated to report this?’
‘It wasn’t about clinic business. I did what I thought was best for the patient.’
‘You don’t make those kinds of decisions. That’s not your role. You betrayed me and you betrayed the clinic. You acted unprofessionally and, worse, betrayed one of our most troubled patients. I’m terminating you. You have one hour to pack up your stuff and get out. And don’t expect a recommendation. If anyone asks, I won’t hesitate to say I sacked you for dishonesty.’
We stared at one another for a full twenty seconds. I could see him savoring my distress.
‘I’d like to say goodbye to my patients.’
‘I forbid it.’
I moved closer to him, got right in his face. ‘How dare you deny me that!’
‘I’m in charge here. I make the rules.’
I stared into his eyes. ‘I’ve known for a long time that you’re a cruel, controlling man. Everyone on the lake knows about your affairs with staff. Some even know you’ve been selling Agnès’s dolls on the sly to a gallery in Lucerne, no doubt pocketing the money for yourself. Maybe the canton police would like to hear about that. Maybe family members who pay enormous fees to maintain their relatives here will be hearing about it too. Not to mention your dismissal from the Jung Institute for unwelcome touching and gross improprieties. Oh, yes! And your dispensing of unauthorized compounded drugs. Should I go on?’
He looked stricken. ‘What exactly do you want, Thérèse?’
‘Permission to say goodbye to my patients and a favorable letter of recommendation. I have no wish to destroy your reputation, Herr Doktor, and I expect you to refrain from harming mine.’
He nodded, retreated to the window and stared out at the lake. That was it. There was nothing more to be said. I gathered my things, then went around the clinic saying my goodbyes, wishing everyone well. Johnny wept when I told him I was leaving. We sobbed together as I held him in my arms.
When I told Agnès, she shook her head. ‘I know why you’re going,’ she said. ‘You did a special thing for me and I’m very grateful to you for it. I had to tell Doctor DeJ. He threatened to take away my art materials if I didn’t.’ She paused. ‘I’ll miss you terribly, Thérèse,’ she whispered as she hugged me close.
I found out later from Hannah that Agnès’s brothers heard about the meeting, phoned DeJ in a rage, demanded that Agnès not be permitted any further meetings with anyone, and that any dolls she made in the future were not to appear on the market, or they’d yank her out of his clinic and install her someplace else.
The following week I was hired to work at the Canton Psychiatric Clinic in Zurich. I was happy to begin a new phase of my life.
I still go back on occasional Saturday evenings to see my old friends at Schwarze Katzenbar. We laugh and sing and they pass on tidbits of gossip about the goings-on at the clinic, and, amidst much mutual laughter, I commiserate with them for still having to work in such a hellhole.
I still think often of Johnny and Agnès.
Tally Vaughan
I’ll never forget that night. Oscar called me at two a.m. We’d stayed in touch since I called out to him the day after Jason discovered the murals. Every so often I’d stop by the observatory with a six-pack. We’d sit out on the terrace in his Adirondack chairs, drink and shoot the breeze. I enjoyed talking to him. He wasn’t the kind of guy you’d expect to find working as a watchman. He liked his job and loved the rundown neighborhood, proud he knew everything going on. He particularly liked observing through his state-of-the-art night-vision goggles. As he liked to put it, ‘Since this here’s an observatory, I figure my job here’s to observe.’
He was not at all relaxed when he called me that night. He was panicked.
‘Tally! Something bad’s going down at the house. Van pulls up, two guys get out with gas cans, walk around sprinkling liquid. Then they break in through the back. I already called Ms Broderick and the cops. I think they’re going to torch the place.’
Jesus!
I told him I’d be right over, pulled on some clothes, grabbed my camera and phone, ran down to my car and started toward East Calista, calling Jason en route.
‘I know. Cindy called me. Hannah and I are on our way.’
I don’t like to drive fast, especially at night. Cops see a black man driving an old car like mine, they’re likely to pull me over. That night was different. This was an emergency, so I stepped on it, hit the interstate and drove to East Calista like a demon.
As I neared Locust, I heard the sirens – CPD and CFD. Then as I swerved around the corner and caught sight of the observatory, I saw the flames dancing up the walls of the house. Two big fire trucks were parked on Locust. Firemen were wrestling hoses. The cops stopped me half a block away. I pulled over, slung my camera around my neck and started firing off shots as I ran toward the blaze.
It was a hot night. The smoke was acrid and there was a scent of gasoline in the air. Immediately, the adrenaline kicked in. I went on auto-pilot, racing toward the fire, moving as close as I could, then circling the house, shooting from different angles, heart pounding, totally focused as I worked. The rush I felt was like the rush Jase used to talk about when he described going into a combat situation: nothing else mattered but the task – it seizes you and doesn’t let you go. I’d never felt that before, certainly not covering weddings. Later, coming down from the high, I realized how seductive that kind of shoot is – when nothing else has meaning except capturing images of the event, and it doesn’t matter what you have to do and what risks you have to take to nail them.
> My passion rose as the flames began licking at the gazebo. I couldn’t think of anything except that I had to work fast to document what would be the last moments of the murals’ existence before they were consumed. This was a once-in-a-lifetime event. It was occurring in real time. I was there with a camera. There’d be no second chance to get it right.
There came a point, within minutes of my arrival, when the flames totally engulfed the gazebo. A sudden burst of wind fanned the fire, showering red embers into the air. The flames rose high above the gazebo, feasting on the wood, biting into it, swallowing it, turning the attic room into a torch. Then, as if in slow motion, the roof collapsed beneath, and the flaming shell of the gazebo sank into the inferno below.
I moved closer while firing off multiple frames. I thought I caught a glimpse of a panel from the murals, paint bubbling off its surface, then the bubbles bursting, then being devoured by flames. I moved as close as I could without getting burned, focusing on the charred beams glowing orange, crashing, smashing against one another, seeming to melt together into the pile of flaming wood that had been the house. Feeling the heat searing my skin, I dropped back. Choking on smoke, I gasped for air. My shirt was soaked. My throat felt scorched. Was it the smell of burning acrylic that was turning my nostrils raw, the harsh smell of the murals burning up?
It happened very fast then, the fire reducing the house to a blazing heap. I stood back, let my camera fall loose and simply gazed, spellbound, at the conflagration as the timbers roasted in a pile, and listened to the hiss as water from the hoses hit the smoldering ruins.
I found Oscar standing in a gray T-shirt just outside the main gate of the observatory. He was slowly shaking his head. I caught a glimmer of moisture in the old guy’s eyes.
‘They asked me if anyone was inside,’ he said. ‘I told ’em no.’ He glanced at me. ‘That part where the art was – it’s gone. Good thing you got the art out of there.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell him then that we’d only gotten some of it out, that the rest had burned up.
Cindy came over. Oscar introduced us. ‘Heard about you,’ she said.
She turned to Oscar. ‘Disaster.’ She said the word several times. ‘Oh, Oscar, my Caring Place – gone now. All gone …’
As she started to weep, Oscar took her in his arms.
An arson investigator came over. I listened as Oscar told him what he’d seen. No question, he said, the men had targeted the house. No, he’d never seen them before. They came in a light-colored VW van. He’d noted down the plate number.
The investigator stared at him. ‘What made you do that?’
‘I’m the watchman here,’ Oscar said.
I found Jase and Hannah sitting on the ground, gazing at the smoking ruins. I was surprised to discover Jase hadn’t brought along his camera.
He looked at me. ‘Forgot it in the rush. You got the fire?’
I told him I’d shot the hell out of it.
‘Good!’ he said, then turned to Hannah who had started to weep. He put his arm around her. ‘At least we got some of it out,’ he told her. ‘But not enough.’
‘The Cobbs did this,’ Hannah said.
‘We mustn’t blame Joan for telling them about the murals.’
‘I don’t blame her. Noah warned us. Now we know what “nasty” really means.’
I remember well the moment at dawn when our despair turned into hope. We’d been sitting out there all night on the front steps of the observatory – Jason, Hannah, Cynthia, me, and Joan who’d driven over soon as she heard. We were all bemoaning the lost murals. Just out of habit I started taking pictures of their faces etched with grief and loss, lit by the flickering light of the dying fire.
Hannah was going on about how people who deliberately set out to destroy art are the worst, most barbarous people in the world.
‘It’s the fascist mentality,’ she said. ‘That’s what the Cobbs are. Fascists, polluters, destroyers.’
‘They didn’t do this themselves,’ I said. ‘They got some goons to do it for them.’
‘Where do you find people like that?’ Hannah asked.
‘I saw people like that working security in their building,’ Joan said.
‘At least we still have the A wall and the B,’ Cindy said.
‘Half,’ Hannah said. ‘That’s something, I guess.’
‘Doesn’t work unless you have all four walls,’ Jase said.
‘You have your photos,’ I reminded him.
‘Yeah. Maybe …’
And then, suddenly, the idea struck – not just to one of us but to all five of us, it seemed, and all at once. Like lightning, Joan said later. Jason said it reminded him of the old comic book image of light bulbs appearing above people’s heads.
Then, as we grasped the thought – though no one had so far put it into words – Cindy looked at us, from one to the other, and announced, ‘It’s certainly possible. Yeah, we could do it. For sure we could. There’re several ways it could be done.’
‘We’re all thinking the same thing, right?’ Joan asked.
‘Reconstruction. Combine what we have of the original with Jase’s photos,’ Hannah told her. ‘That is what we’re talking about, right, everybody?’
‘You got it, babe,’ Jase said.
‘Hey, there’s the sun!’ Joan said, pointing.
We all looked. It was rising fast, a great orb showing red through the smoke.
‘A blood sun,’ Jase said. ‘Calista’ll be broiling in an hour.’
Joan turned back to us. ‘The sunrise, a new start. That’ll be part of the story – how you found the Locust Street Murals, Jase; how we discovered who made them and why; how we tried to save them; the fire that destroyed most of them; and then the reconstruction.’
‘It could be a fabulous story,’ Jase said.
‘It will be!’ Joan said. ‘I’m going to write it.’
She did write it. And the images I took that night, the ones of the fire and of our faces afterwards – they were incorporated into it. Those images changed my life. They set me on my career. People who saw them saw something in them. Jase said what they saw was my compassion. And that, he said, could not be taught. You either have it or you don’t, he said. And then he added that maybe the murals brought out that quality in all of us.
Joan Nguyen
The time has come to reveal, as promised, what I imagine most readers have already figured out – that I am the editor of this text, the person who conducted the interviews, rendered the testimonies of the participants into story form by presenting recalled conversations as dialogue, and utilized other methods of the non-fiction novel to create a coherent narrative.
It’s been eighteen months since the Locust Street house caught fire. In that time I’ve worked with the participants whose testimonies are collected here, assisting them as they distilled their memories, then submitting their edited statements back to them for approval.
In this regard I want especially to thank Cynthia Broderick for granting permission to include Hannah Sachs’s summary of her ‘confession,’ originally made on a promise of confidentiality. Without that account of Cindy’s role, the story of the Locust Street Murals would be incomplete. If she did anything improper at the age of sixteen, she has more than made up for it by her close supervision of the reconstruction. As Cynthia recently put it, ‘I can’t get over the thought that while I was plotting against Courtney and Penny, they were creating a masterpiece in the attic above the very room where I slept.’
Several people mentioned in these testimonies declined to participate. This was their right and I respect it. Even without their participation, I believe the story is fully told herein.
The Arson Investigation: I’m grateful to Nick Gallagher for the following information regarding his investigation.
As mentioned, Oscar took down the plate number of the van used by the arsonists, a van stolen earlier that evening and found the next day by the police, abandoned in the parking
lot of the Walmart store on Ansel Road.
It stank of gasoline, but Gallagher’s men could find no forensic evidence inside that would lead them to the arsonists. However, after they contacted the van owner and learned where it was last parked, they found footage from a camera mounted in front of a pharmacy down the street that showed it being stolen. The men who stole it could not be identified from this footage, but the plate number on the car that dropped them off was clear.
Police located the driver, a guy named Hal Castle, who, it turned out, worked as a corporate security contractor. Under interrogation, he spat out the names of the two arsonists, who were arrested the following afternoon. Each confessed to the Locust Street arson and also to torching two houses in Danzig Heights belonging to environmental activists. The arsonists had received $2,000 cash apiece for each job. Castle, the security contractor, told Gallagher he’d received $10,000 per job, out of which he’d paid the arsonists.
He was vague about who hired him, saying only that it was a woman he knew casually as ‘Marge,’ whom he’d met a couple of times at a West Side bar. When informed that the only way he could avoid a lengthy prison sentence was to find this ‘Marge’ and give her up, he agreed, was fitted out with a wire, then returned to the bar where he and Marge were regulars.
When, after three nights, Marge appeared, the contractor engaged her in conversation, saying he was eager for more jobs if Marge was satisfied with his work. When Marge confided that she was highly satisfied, he told her that next time he’d need more money, thus initiating a negotiation regarding future arsons. As soon as Marge clearly admitted she’d paid him to start the three fires, Gallagher’s men arrested her. Her full name was Margaret Evans, a manager in the security division at Cobb Industries.
She denied hiring Castle, and even after her DNA was found on the cash, declined to turn state’s evidence. The case went to trial. Ms Evans was represented by experienced, high-priced attorneys paid for by CI, who were able to raise reasonable doubt in one juror, resulting in a mistrial.
The Murals Page 26
