Murder is an Art (3 page)

“Then you heard wrong,” Troy said.

Troy liked gossip, but he always liked to think that his version of events was the correct one, whether it was or not. He didn't like to be contradicted.

“Tell us what you heard,” Sally said, always ready to get a new slant on things involving Jorge. She was intimidated by him, but she had to admit that he was interesting.

“I heard he killed some kid with a baseball bat,” Gary said.

“An aluminum bat or a wooden one?” Troy asked, possibly in revenge.

Gary looked thoughtful, the way he might if some student in his class had raised his hand in the middle of a discussion of cognitive dissonance to ask when the winter break began.

“Gee, that's a very good question, Troy. I never thought about it before. It was probably wood, but it might have been aluminum. Either way, the results were the same.”

“So tell us the story,” Vera said. She didn't like interruptions unless she was the one doing the interrupting.

“It happened when he was just a kid,” Gary said. “In San Antonio; some kind of gang-related thing. Some other kid had raped Jorge's sister—”

“Typical of a male gang member's aggression and hostility toward women,” Vera said.

“Sure,” Gary agreed. “Anyway, the cops couldn't pin it on him. He got some of the other gang members to swear he was playing cards with them when it happened, and it came down to her word against his and eight or ten other guys'. Jorge started in on the witnesses first, beating them up and making them promise they'd recant. When the rapist heard about it, he went after Jorge with a gun.”

“Gun versus bat for the honor of a woman,” Troy said. “Sounds like the plot of a bad black-and-white American-International movie from 1957.”

“Were there any good American-International movies?” Vera asked.

“We could ask Jack Neville,” Sally said.

Neville was as much a product of the fifties as Borden was of the sixties. He could spend hours arguing whether Fabian's musical efforts had held up better after forty years than Frankie Avalon's.

“I'd rather not,” Gary said. “Do you want to hear about this or just forget it?”

“I'm sorry,” Sally said. “I want to hear about it.”

Gary looked at Troy, who nodded. Vera just smiled, cruelly, which was the only way she
could
smile.

“All right, then,” Gary said. “The way I heard it, the other kid shot Jorge twice, but Jorge still managed to get to him with the bat. Smashed his head like a pumpkin.”

“Smashing Pumpkins,” Troy said. “Sounds like a good name for a singing group.”

Gary looked at him blankly.

“Never mind,” Troy said. “I forgot that you were a Moby Grape fan.”

“Tell us more about smashing the head,” Vera said.

There was a look in Vera's eyes that made Sally feel vaguely queasy, though not as queasy as the image of Jorge bleeding from his not-quite-mortal bullet wounds as he stood looking down at the crushed head leaking blood and fluid out onto the dark concrete of some back alley in San Antonio. She wondered if Troy had seen the bullet scars in the gym, but this probably wasn't the time to ask.

“That's the whole story,” Gary said. “More or less, anyway. Somebody took Jorge to the emergency room, and the cops arrested him.”

“Couldn't be true,” Troy said. “The way you tell it, it was a clear-cut case of self-defense. Jorge would never have been sent away for murder if it had happened that way. It happened the way
I
said. Trust me.”

As colorful as both stories were and as convincing as they sounded, Sally wasn't sure that either of them was even vaguely connected to reality. She'd heard other stories, too, and most of them were just as sensational as the two Troy and Gary had told. But nothing she'd heard had the ring of absolute truth. Someday, maybe she'd find out what had really happened.

But not right now. Right now she had to deal with Fieldstone.

4

Eva Dillon was behind her desk when Jorge and Sally entered the Ad Building. Sally thought she detected a telltale trace of chocolate at the corner of Eva's mouth, but she didn't mention it.

She said, “Dr. Fieldstone wanted to see us.”

Eva nodded. “Go right in.”

Sally opened the door and preceded Jorge into the president's office. The dark wood walls were covered with plaques presented to Fieldstone by various civic groups, interspersed with enlarged photographs of Texas wildflowers taken by Fieldstone himself. An avid amateur photographer, he took weekend trips every spring to get his glossy shots of bluebonnets, Indian paintbrushes, and Indian blankets.

Fieldstone sat behind a desk that wasn't quite as large as the deck of an aircraft carrier, in a chair that made Sally's executive model look as if it had been put together by the only English major in a high school crafts class. Fieldstone was wearing a dark suit that must have cost at least nine hundred dollars, along with a starched white shirt and an Endangered Species tie.

On the couch to his left sat Val Hurley and James Naylor, the academic dean, while on the couch in front of the desk was a man Sally recognized, though she had never met him.

His name was Roy Don Talon, and he was a local automobile dealer who'd made a fortune thanks to a series of TV ads in which he told potential customers in Houston to “Drive to
Hughes
for
huge
savings.”

Sally would have liked to blame Talon for the fact that something like sixty percent of her students spelled the name of the school “Huge Community College,” but it probably wasn't entirely his fault.

The fact that he dressed like a performer on the Grand Ol' Opry in the 1950s
was
his fault, however. He wore a sequined Western-cut jacket, matching pants, and cowboy boots—the same outfit he wore for his commercials. His ten-gallon hat was beside him on the couch. Maybe he was keeping up his image, but Sally thought it was a little much.

All four of the men stood when Sally walked into the room, a gesture that she knew was meant in the best possible way, so she didn't take offense. Vera Vaughn would probably have cut them off at the knees.

“Dr. Sally Good, chair of Arts and Humanities, and Mr. Jorge Rodriguez, who's in charge of our prison program,” Dr. Fieldstone announced. “You two know Dr. Naylor and Mr. Hurley. This is Roy Don Talon.”

“Howdy, ma'am,” Talon said, sticking out his hand to Sally, who shook it quickly and let it go. It was cool and dry, and she felt as if she were shaking hands with a lizard.

Jorge didn't let go of Talon's hand quite so soon, and Sally noticed a narrowing of Talon's eyes. She wondered if Jorge was showing off his grip.

“Everyone have a seat,” Fieldstone said.

Hurley and Naylor sat back on the couch behind them, so Sally was forced to sit beside Talon, who picked up his hat and set it on his knees. Jorge sat beside Sally, and her arm brushed against his. For some reason, she felt as if she might be blushing.

“Mr. Talon has come to us with a problem,” Fieldstone said. “A somewhat serious problem.”

“What problem?” Jorge asked.

“Satanism,” Dr. Fieldstone said. “At least that's what Mr. Talon is calling it.”

“That's not what I'm
callin'
it,” Roy Don Talon said. His voice was rough but sincere, a good voice for selling cars. “That's what it
is,
plain and simple. What I want to know is, what are you-all gonna do about it?”

“It's not Satanism,” Val Hurley said. “It's just a painting of a goat.”

Hurley looked a little like a goat himself, Sally thought. Or a satyr. He was short, with a triangular face, and his hair, which was wavy and parted in the middle, twisted on his forehead into two hornlike curls.

“Sure it's a goat,” Talon said. “And the goat is a well-known symbol of Satanism and witchcraft. You can ask anybody that knows, and they'll tell you that. And what about those numbers on his head? Huh? What about 'em?”

“Numbers?” Hurley said. “What numbers?”

“Those numbers on that goat's head. Six-six-six, plain as day. The Number of the Beast. Right out of the book of Revelations.”

Sally thought about telling him that the biblical book was actually “The Revelation of St. John the Divine” and that there was no
s
on the end of the word, but she didn't. It wouldn't have done any good, and besides, Talon didn't give her a chance. He just kept right on talking.

“Don't tell me you don't know about those numbers,” he said. “They're right there for ever'body to see. I came out here to the art show because I like to support the college when I can, but seeing that picture gave me a shock, I'll tell you.”

So that's what this was about, Sally thought. The student art show. She decided it was time to speak up.

“I didn't see any numbers,” she said.

“You been to the art gallery?” Talon asked.

She said, “Yes. I go to all the exhibits.”

“Did you see the picture of that goat?” Talon asked.

“Yes,” Sally said, trying to remember if she actually had. If so, the painting hadn't impressed her, but she wasn't going to admit it.

“Then you've seen the numbers,” Talon said. “Case closed.”

Sally wasn't going to be talked to like that, even if Talon was one of the biggest taxpayers in the district. She stood up and asked, “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Now, now,” Fieldstone said, standing as well. He walked out from behind his desk, the top of which was as clean as the floor of a compulsive's kitchen. Sally thought about her own desk, which by comparison looked like an explosion in a paper-recycling facility.

“No one's making any accusations,” Fieldstone went on. “Mr. Talon is—”

“Mr. Talon is making accusations,” Jorge said.

He didn't have to stand up to get anyone's attention. He was a commanding presence even while he was sitting down.

Talon said, “Damn right I am.” He glanced at Sally. “Pardon my French, ma'am. But there's Satanism goin' on here, and I aim to put a stop to it.”

“I think we should all have a look at the painting,” Jorge said. “I haven't had a chance to visit the art exhibit yet.”

“Very well,” Fieldstone said. “You should see it before forming an opinion. It was done by one of our prison students, after all.”

That explained why Jorge had been asked to come to the little meeting. Val Hurley was chair of the art department, Sally was his immediate supervisor, Naylor was
her
supervisor, and Jorge oversaw the prison programs. Nothing like spreading the blame around. That way, even if the painting had something to do with black magic or Satanism, which Sally seriously doubted, none of the blame would stick to Fieldstone.

“Let's all step over to the gallery,” Fieldstone said. “And have a look at the painting.”

Jorge was the closest to the door, and when he opened it, Sally thought she saw Eva Dillon hastily shove what looked like the remains of a Snickers into a desk drawer. Sally gave her a thumbs-up and led the way to the gallery, which was upstairs in the Art and Music Building next door.

Jorge followed her up the stairs, and when they went through the gallery's doors, she said, “You might want to sign the guest book, Jorge. The students appreciate your support.”

Jorge said nothing, but he smiled, revealing teeth almost as white as Fieldstone's. Sally had heard that dental students got part of their training by doing work in the prisons. Evidently they did a good job.

The gallery was a long, narrow room, shaped like a capital
T.
The entrance doors were at the foot of the
T,
and there was a small white pedestal to the right. The guest book sat atop it.

Jorge glanced down the length of the gallery.

“Which painting is Mr. Talon objecting to?”

Talon, who had come in behind him, said, “That one right down there.”

He pointed to the end of the room, at the crossbar of the
T.
Sally looked in that direction and saw what might have been a section of a goat's head in a painting that was partially concealed by the wall. She vaguely recalled having seen it on her previous visit, but she certainly didn't remember any numbers on its forehead. Of course, she wouldn't have been looking for them. Goats weren't her favorite animal.

“Let's have a closer look,” Jorge said, leading the way down the narrow room.

The walls on both sides held paintings, watercolors, and drawings done in pencil, charcoal, and pen and ink. Many of them were amateurish, but a number showed real promise, or so Sally thought. However, she wasn't much of an art critic; her tastes ran to the sweeping landscapes of the Romantic era, and there was nothing like that on display. Instead, there were still lifes of fruit, some teddy bears, several portraits, and lots of cow skulls.

The middle of the room was filled with sculptures, mostly free-form, some of them ceramic, others plaster, and some made from metal that seemed to have been scavenged from a junkyard. Sally was careful not to brush them as she passed. Most of them seemed precariously balanced on their white pedestals.

When they had all gathered at the end of the gallery, Roy Don Talon stood in front of the painting of the goat and pointed in triumph.

“There it is,” he said. “Plain as day—six-six-six. The Number of the Beast!”

Sally looked at the forehead of the goat. As far as she could tell, there was nothing there at all.

5

“I don't see any numbers,” Jorge said, leaning toward the painting. “And it doesn't even look much like a goat. It could be a buffalo, maybe.”

Sally was glad to hear him say it; the animal didn't look much like a goat to her, either. It looked more like a sheep with horns.