An Artful Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  “The school will have his address,” interjected TJ, “and if his fight with Benton was reported they’ve probably already given it to the police.” He looked around the table and continued, “There’s more to it. Chris Gray—he’s the monitor I mentioned—told me that Bill’s boyfriend is in the army in Nam, and the guy is in trouble mentally. Plus Bill was hoping to get into Cooper Union so he could get a student deferment, but he just found out he got rejected. All that on top of the induction order, and you can see why he went ballistic when Benton started in on him.”

  Ellen’s distress was evident. “Oh, no, I didn’t know all that! Why didn’t he tell me?” The fact that he hadn’t confided in her had hurt, but TJ was quick to reassure her.

  “He never saw you after he got the news. According to Chris, he thought things were smoothed out with the boyfriend last Monday, then the next day came the double whammy—no from Cooper and yes from the draft board. The letters were waiting for him when he got home Tuesday night. Then things blew up with Benton on Wednesday, and he was gone—probably lying low while figuring out his escape plan.”

  “They usually give you a month or so to report,” said Fitz, “so he’d have time to make arrangements. There are organizations that help draft dodgers get fixed up in Canada.”

  “If he’s going to leave the country,” reasoned Ellen, “why would he risk another run-in with Benton? I can’t believe he’d come back to the League just to have it out with him, much less to kill him.”

  Fitz decided to be blunt. “Revenge, that’s why. Don’t look shocked, it happens all the time. When people get angry or frightened they do things you’d never expect. From what you say, your friend Bill was both. I’ve been on the force for thirty years, and I know it all too well. So does Nita, don’t you, honey?”

  “Fitz is right, Ellen. No matter how close you are to Bill, you have no idea what he might be capable of under the circumstances. Think about it. He’s already feeling desperate, then Benton calls him a homosexual in front of everybody in the lunchroom and gives every indication that he’s going to have him arrested for a federal crime. It takes him a few days to arrange the trip to Canada, then when he’s ready to leave he takes his revenge on Benton and gets the hell across the border. It’s only a day’s train ride to Montreal, so he’s probably there by now.”

  Ellen looked so dejected that TJ couldn’t resist putting his arm around her shoulders. Since his parents were there, it clearly wasn’t a come-on, and she accepted it as a genuine gesture of comfort. She leaned into him. Fortunately she didn’t look up or she would have seen his face flush.

  He wanted to follow up with reassurance, but what could he say? Don’t worry? Totally lame. It’s probably all a mistake? Equally dumb. He can take care of himself? Not helpful. We’ll find him? How?

  Fitz came to his rescue. “Tell you what. In the morning I’ll call over to Midtown North and speak to Jake Kaminsky. Find out if they’re after Millstein, or if he’s in custody. He’s in trouble for burning the draft card anyway, so there’s probably a warrant out if they don’t have him already.”

  Ellen sighed, and a tear ran down one cheek. She quickly wiped it away. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said weakly. “I guess that’s all you can do. Don’t think I’m not grateful, but I hate to think of him in jail.” She straightened up, and TJ discreetly removed his arm. She looked Fitz in the eye. “And I don’t care what you and Mrs. Fitzgerald think. I know he didn’t kill Mr. Benton.”

  Nita smiled. She reached across the table, took Ellen’s hand, and said, “Then we’ll just have to find out who did.”

  TJ kicked himself mentally. Shit, he thought, that’s exactly what I should have said.

  Twenty-Four

  Friday, November 3

  When Hector Morales’s popular Forensic Psychology class, “Inside the Criminal Mind,” let out at noon, TJ stayed behind.

  “Professor Morales,” he began, but Morales stopped him before he could say another word. A beaming smile accompanied his admonition to the young man he’d known since his protégée Juanita Diaz Fitzgerald gave birth to him nineteen years earlier.

  “I’m off duty, Juanito, so Tío Hector will be just fine.”

  TJ returned the smile. “Okay, Tío Hector, I’ve got a question for you. It has to do with the Thomas Hart Benton killing, I’m sure you’ve heard about it. Do you have time now?”

  “I have another class at one. Let’s grab some lunch, and we can talk in the dining hall. No one will overhear us.” John Jay College shared the Police Academy’s military-style cafeteria, where the raucous crowd and resonant acoustics made it difficult, if not impossible, to eavesdrop on adjacent tables.

  It being Friday, the dining hall was relatively quiet, and they managed to find a table to themselves, out of earshot of others. Not that TJ’s queries were all that private, but they were personal, and he preferred not to broadcast his close relationship with Morales in case his fellow students thought he had an inside track on good grades.

  Such favoritism never would have occurred to Morales, whose reputation for rectitude had earned him the nickname Spic and Span four decades ago, when he was a lowly patrolman in his East Harlem neighborhood. He had worn the offensive sobriquet as a badge of honor, joking that he was the only clean cop in the Twenty-Third Precinct, though he was relieved when it was replaced by El Zorro—the fox—a label he proudly accepted as a testament to his investigative prowess. He was renowned for his ability to collect and evaluate evidence, and his reputation as an interrogator was legendary.

  Once they had their food and were settled at the table, TJ outlined the Benton case, at least as much as he knew. Morales listened with interest, especially as he described Ellen. When he confessed that he was smitten with her, Morales came back with “¡Bien hecho, Juanito! It’s about time you stopped fooling around and got yourself a steady girlfriend.”

  After TJ finished blushing, he told Morales about their encounters with the abrasive artist, and about Breinin’s public outburst when the body was being removed. Then he got around to Bill’s predicament, and what he had heard about his run-in with Benton in the League cafeteria.

  “Of course that’s only hearsay,” he added, well aware that such evidence is questionable at best. “But if it’s true, then what happened to Benton points the finger at Bill, and he’s made himself look even worse by running away. But that may have nothing to do with Benton. He’s on the run from the draft board.”

  “That’s certainly a complication,” said Morales. “Also, from what you tell me, he knew the place like the back of his hand. He knew where the knife was kept. He probably would have been able to enter the building, commit the crime, and leave without being noticed. So what’s your question?”

  “Why would he do it? If he’s on the run, why would he make himself even more of a wanted man? Now it’s not only for draft dodging, but for murder, too. No way he wouldn’t be suspect number one.”

  “Did you talk this over with Nita?” TJ said he had. “What does she think?”

  “Actually it was Dad who said he could have done it for revenge, and Mom backed him up. He said it was such a strong motivation that people sometimes do stupid, irrational things. If what Ellen told me is true—and she got it secondhand—Benton called Bill a coward, a homo, and a kike. Bill tried to stab him there and then, but his buddies stopped him. So then he cools down, he has to work on the getaway to Canada, why wouldn’t he just cross it off? Why would he have waited until he was ready to run and then settle the score?”

  “Because he wanted revenge, like Fitz said. He and I have both had cases where the most mild-mannered, unassuming people turned into cold-blooded killers when sufficiently provoked. And often it’s not a spur-of-the-moment thing. They plan it out. I’m not talking about a professional criminal organizing a hit, like the sort of cases we’re analyzing in class. These are ordinary people who get pu
shed over the edge but can’t retaliate immediately, so they figure a way to get even later on. Sometimes they never go through with it because they don’t get the opportunity. Maybe their target goes away, or dies. Sometimes they think better of it, for fear of the consequences, and live with the anger and humiliation. That often happens when it’s a wife or girlfriend with kids—she swallows it for their sake. But a guy like Bill, who’s getting ready to disappear, maybe he figured he’s got nothing to lose.”

  “Por Dios, Tío Hector, you’re painting a pretty damning picture. I was hoping you’d say he’s not the type to do such a thing, but you’re telling me that anybody could, even a sweet, gentle guy like Bill.”

  “Sí, Juanito, I’m afraid that’s just what I am telling you.”

  * * *

  When Fitz finally rolled in around seven, he found TJ waiting anxiously for a report.

  “Hold your horses, buddy,” he said as TJ pressed him, “let me get my coat off, for Pete’s sake. And I’d kill for a beer—well, maybe I wouldn’t go quite that far. Anyway, let’s get a couple, and I’ll tell you what I found out.”

  Fitz’s call to Kaminsky had yielded significant details that were not public knowledge. Before he relayed them to TJ, he made his son promise not to share them with anyone, even Ellen.

  “I don’t want this getting around the school,” he said sternly. “What Jake told me is confidential information related to an open investigation. I’m sharing it with you because I trust you, and I think you can use what you know to mitigate Ellen’s fears without giving anything away. Will you agree?”

  “Of course, Dad. You know I won’t let anything slip, promise.”

  “All right, then. Jake told me that there are a few suspects, not only Bill, though he’s the prime one because he’s done a bunk. There are others who had motive and opportunity.”

  “Can you tell me who?”

  “You probably already know they’re looking at the Russian guy, Breinin, because he freely expressed his hatred of Benton. What you don’t know is that the knife they found in Benton’s chest belongs to Breinin. It’s an antique dagger, called a kinzhal, that the Cossacks carried back in the nineteenth century. He used it as a still life prop. It was either right there in the studio prop cabinet, or Breinin had it on him. Thing is, he has an alibi, says he was home with his family when Benton bought it. They’re trying to check that out, find people other than the wife and kid who can corroborate his story.”

  Fitz took a swig of beer. “They haven’t ruled out Christopher Gray, the guy who found the body. It’s kind of a long shot, but there’s a theory that Benton might have been against him becoming a professional muralist, so Gray got into a fight with him, knocked him out, and he died as a result. Then Gray tries to make it look like somebody else killed him with the kinzhal. But it’s pretty tenuous. Why wouldn’t he just leave the body for someone else to find? They don’t much like him for it, but he’s still on the list.”

  “I’ve met Chris,” said TJ. “He’s the one who told me about Bill’s boyfriend in Nam and the fight in the cafeteria, though he didn’t go into detail about the nasty names Benton called Bill. It’d take a lot of evidence to make me believe he’d get physical with a guy Benton’s age. The old lush probably had a bad heart, and God knows what his liver looks like, maybe Swiss cheese.”

  Fitz chuckled. “Dr. Helpern is probably slicing it up right now. Anyway, there’s more.” He took another swallow of his Schaefer.

  “Turns out the League isn’t the only place Benton made trouble. Couple of years ago he had a run-in with the head of the American Academy, Lewis Mumford. He took exception to Mumford’s political views, tried to assault him in public, and resigned his Academy membership. Then he gets himself reinstated over Mumford’s objections. Mumford’s furious, so he quits in protest.”

  “I know about that,” TJ interjected. “Benton actually bragged about it when he came to our class, though he didn’t mention the guy’s name.”

  “No love lost there,” Fitz continued, “and maybe resentment deep enough to inspire a lethal payback, so they’re checking on Mumford’s whereabouts on Wednesday evening. And that’s not all. A couple of weeks ago, Benton got into a shouting match at the Whitney with Andy Warhol and that bunch of weirdos who hang around with him. Jake tells me his source said it got pretty rough. One of the weirdos threatened Benton quite explicitly. Called him a scumbag, and said she’d exterminate him with a six-inch blade, which is actually what killed him.”

  “A woman?” said TJ.

  “Hard to tell with the Warhol crowd, but Jake says he was assured it was in fact someone of the female persuasion. So he’s following up, sending a detective to Warhol’s place to nose around, see if he can find out who it was gave Benton the death threat. I wish the sorry bastard luck!”

  Twenty-Five

  After his phone conversation with Fitz, Kaminsky looked over the duty roster and picked the sorry bastard.

  At twenty-nine, Angelo Valentino was the youngest detective in the precinct. With the movie-star looks and suave manner of his namesake, he’d been dubbed Sheik by his fellow cops. Kaminsky figured he should be able to penetrate Warhol’s headquarters, known as the Factory, without attracting any negative attention. He hit the intercom buzzer.

  “Sheik in the squad room?” he asked the desk sergeant. “Good, I got a job for him. Send him in.”

  Casually dressed in a sports jacket, open-necked shirt, and slacks, Valentino looked like an NYU grad student—which in fact he was, putting himself through law school at night. His apparent informality disguised a formidable talent for evidence gathering, backed up by remarkable intuitive powers of deduction. If he graduates from law school and becomes a prosecuting attorney, thought Kaminsky, defendants beware.

  “Detective Valentino front and center,” he said, coming to what passed for attention and shooting Kaminsky a saucy salute. “What’s up, Jake?”

  “Take a load off, Sheik,” said the inspector, pointing to a chair. “I got a case I think will interest you.” Valentino raised his eyebrows and lowered his body onto the offered seat. He crossed his legs, leaned back, and listened attentively as Kaminsky ran through the case history.

  “We gotta check out this Warhol business,” he said, “and that’s where you come in. I want you to go over to the Factory and nose around, see if you can get an account of what went down at the Whitney. Ever been there?”

  “The Whitney, or the Factory?”

  “Either or both.”

  “Matter of fact, I’ve been to the Whitney and seen the Benton show. I took my kid there to see the toy circus by Alexander Calder, the guy who makes the mobiles. They told her about it in school, and she nagged me until I gave in. Actually it’s a really clever thing, all handmade. They got a TV monitor with a film of Calder playing with it, so you can see how it works, and we both thought it was fun. Since we were there we had a look around the museum and kinda stumbled onto the Benton show. Angie, that’s my girl, she liked Benton’s pictures but I didn’t go for ’em. Anyway, that’s the first time I been in the new building, which I also wasn’t crazy about. You been there?”

  “No, not yet, but I’ve seen it from the outside. Not very inviting, is it?”

  “All the charm of a bunker, outside and in.”

  “Been to the Factory?”

  “Nope, but I’ve heard plenty about what goes on there. They’re making porno films and trying to pass them off as art, for Chrissake. Add the drugs, and you got a heavy scene, man. The boys in the Seventeenth have raided it a few times.”

  “See if you can find out who threatened Benton. Supposed to be a woman, but could be a tranny. It helps that you’ve actually seen the show. Maybe you can get them talking about it.”

  The young detective stood. “Give it my best shot,” he said, and headed out.

  * * *

  The fifth-
floor loft in a seedy commercial building at 231 East Forty-Seventh Street had been Warhol’s headquarters since 1963, when he was transitioning from a lucrative career in commercial illustration to fine art, with no guarantee of financial or critical success. For a man who wanted to be rich and famous, it was a risky proposition, but by the time Sheik took the freight elevator up to Warhol’s workshop, the gamble had paid off. Leo Castelli, one of the top dealers in contemporary art, was shrewdly marketing Warhol’s paintings, and his place in the Pop pantheon was secure.

  Sheik had heard about the Factory from his buddies at Seventeen, so he stopped off at home to change into a turtleneck sweater, black Levi’s, and harness boots, topped off with his black leather motorcycle jacket. They had told him what to expect, so he wasn’t surprised to find the whole place, including the elevator, covered in silver paint, tinfoil, and cracked mirrors. Warhol had a reputation as an onlooker who instigated activity and then, distant and detached, watched it through his camera lens. A fully reflective environment seemed perfectly suited to his passive voyeuristic persona.

  Raucous music was audible even before Sheik reached the top floor. As he stepped out of the elevator, he saw a large open space. At one end of the loft, a band was practicing. At the other end, a spaced-out couple was lounging on a large red sofa. Apart from a few rickety wooden chairs and a table holding a Bell & Howell movie projector, the couch seemed to be the only significant piece of furniture. A few people were fooling around with camera equipment and silkscreens, and a man was styling the bleached blond hair of a kimono-clad woman seated in front of one of the fractured mirrors.

  No one paid any attention to him. People wandered in and out all day long, regulars and strangers came and went—the place was Liberty Hall. He assumed Warhol must be around somewhere, and sure enough he spotted a guy who fit his description talking on what looked like a pay phone on the back wall. When he got closer he could see that the coin box was missing, so the artist had evidently rigged it to a conventional phone line. Just one of the many playful touches that distinguished Warhol’s world from the real one.