Sins of the Flesh (8 page)

Having read about him in a journal in 1962, Jess Wainfleet worked indefatigably to have Walter Jenkins transferred to the Asylum. Crossing state and federal jurisdictions was nightmarish, but no prison wanted him, and the Asylum, specially renovated for the Walter Jenkinses of the penitential world in 1960, actually made money for the state by taking inmates, federal and state, from elsewhere in the country. Warden Hanrahan did a deal that saw the Asylum staff increased, and Jess Wainfleet got Walter Jenkins. The chief cause of her excitement lay in two factors: the first, that the neurosurgeons had decided he was not a candidate for prefrontal lobotomy, and the second, that, in order to establish the condition of his brain, he had been fully investigated with every test known during a heavily medicated trip to Montreal. As far as angiograms, pneumoencephalograms, ventriculograms and all the other tests could ascertain, Walter’s brain was normal.

The story of Dr. Wainfleet’s humanizing of this monster was legendary in certain circles, though it hadn’t happened overnight. It took four years. At the end of those four years, Walter was a reasoning human being who couldn’t be provoked into manic rage; he was highly intelligent, and a capable man who read good books, enjoyed classical music, and was intriguingly articulate. This last, his ability to talk well, was astonishing, for it indicated that, even in his worst furors, some part of his brain had still retained logical thought.

His “cure” was now almost three years old, and had seen no hiccoughs of any kind. His status as a trusted prisoner had progressed to his becoming an unofficial aide to Dr. Wainfleet, whose methods and techniques he knew even better than her fellow psychiatrists did. She had written a total of nine papers on him over the years and now used him as proof positive of her theories, which were all to do with forcing well-known neuronal pathways into channels far removed from their known functions. Of course she brought to her work on Walter one asset nobody else in the field could hope to match: her knowledge of cerebral anatomy, especially of nuclei and areas below the brain’s neocortex. Jess Wainfleet was more than a psychiatrist. She was also a neuroanatomist and a neurosurgeon.

In a way, Walter was famous, though his kind of fame was that of a medical “first” and would never be sung to the multitudes. To Jess, Walter was the equivalent of splitting the atom.

Her safe was closed—bless Walter! If he hadn’t come in, she would have gone to sleep at her desk surrounded by files only she (and Walter) had access to. Anyone might have raided them and used the photocopier ….

It was no one’s business save hers what, for instance, Walter’s I.Q. was, or how her primate study of rage centers was going—a long, long list of data gathered here in these files alone. Hers was the overall command, and she intended to keep it firmly hers. In which resolution, Walter Jenkins was her most valuable ally.

Ivy arrived for lunch, though Delia had wondered whether she would, given the direction her confidances seemed to be taking at the salon. Still a little intoxicated by the music and the company, Delia hadn’t gone to much trouble over her luncheon menu—just toasted cheese sandwiches, mineral water, and good coffee.

“It’s changeover Monday tomorrow,” Ivy said, professing rather grateful pleasure at the menu’s simplicity, “and Rha is still in summer mode for the dresses. Jane Austenish sprigged muslin for the bridesmaids, though of course what Jane Austen called muslin is a far cry from ours. Mabel won’t complain, but Mavis and Margo will whine dreadfully.”

“Mabel? Mavis and Margo?” Delia asked blankly.

Ivy laughed. “The window mannequins, dear! Mabel is the bride, Mavis and Margo the bridesmaids. I
love
weddings!”

Yesterday’s mood was entirely gone; today’s Ivy was happy and content. That put Delia in a quandary: ought she bring the matter up, or leave it lie? Ivy’s attitude suggested leaving it lie; Delia decided to see where today’s conversation went, now the sandwiches were eaten and they were seated at the window.

“How long have you been at Rha Tanais Bridal?”

“Since it opened—fourteen years,” Ivy said, face glowing. “It’s every woman’s big day, and I get to plunge into the middle of the plans, the arguments, the dreams, the impossibilities as well as the possibilities. Rha Tanais Bridal patrons don’t just buy a wedding gown and something for the bridesmaids, you know. We mostly clothe the mother of the bride and the mother of the groom as well, not to mention have a whole department to coordinate color themes, recommend venues, give ball-park figures for cost. You have no idea how much people are prepared to pay to throw a wedding, and I always feel it’s a part of my function to make sure they know what the cost is going to be.”

“Well, it’s a little like sending a child to college, isn’t it?” Delia asked, fascinated. “There must be heaps of hidden expenses. I’m glad someone tells them what the bill is going to be before they really incur the debt.”

“The loveliest weddings are often the less expensive ones, as a matter of fact. Big splashes scatter farther, and some of the places the water lands don’t bear being on display.”

A novel thought had occurred to Delia. “Ivy, do you actually attend the weddings?”

Ivy looked surprised. “If they’re within reach, always. I keep scrapbooks and albums. The albums can be very useful, since a lot of brides don’t have much idea what they want. I sit them down with a couple of albums of weddings in their price range and tell them to show me the look they like.”

“And to think all of this originally started so a man could be sure his bride was an untouched virgin!”

“Well, isn’t that another way of saying, that a man’s children are his? To be sure of it, he must marry a virgin and then make sure she can’t cheat on him,” Ivy said.

“How depressing!”

“But a very human conundrum, you must agree, Delia. A man yearns to know his children are his, and tries his hardest to ensure it.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s going to be long before there’s an ironclad test for paternity,” Delia said. “Paul Bachman of our forensics lab says the discovery of DNA and RNA are breakthroughs in all sorts of directions, and won’t prove dead ends.”

She looked at today’s Ivy with a twinge of regret, for she had made up her mind; yesterday’s subject had to be laid bare. “When I saw you yesterday, Ivy dear, you were very upset, and started to tell me about your father, Ivor. But when you told me that he was both heterosexual and homosexual, I cut you short—it wasn’t the right place or time for that story. Now here I am today reminding you of your unhappiness for one reason only—I’m convinced you need to share whatever it is with
me
. Why that is, I don’t know, but I want to hear the story. Tell me!”

To Delia’s surprise, Ivy’s mood didn’t flatten or plummet; she looked relieved, even eager.

“Thank you for bringing it up, Delia. I confess that if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found the courage to broach it. Ivor! My terrible father …. The thing I find hardest to fit into my picture of him was our mother. I’ve racked my brains trying to find a reason why he, of all people, should have married an oversized simpleton, but I can’t. He didn’t treat her like a wife, yet he made no secret of the fact that she was his wife.”

“Did you like her, Ivy? Did you call her Mommy?”

“Oh, I was so confused, Delia! Children have no parameters beyond their own experiences, and I never saw other children or even other adults than those who lived in Busquash Manor and Little Busquash. I was told this enormous, bumbling woman was my mother, but I called her Marm, which was what the servants called her. As to what I felt—she frightened me. Oh, not in a malignant way! But one couldn’t really have a conversation with her, especially on a child’s level. People think that’s odd, they seem to believe Marm’s own childishness would have made it easier to communicate with children, but it wasn’t so.”

“You remembered events that happened when Dr. Nell was alive, you said yesterday,” Delia prompted.

“Oh, I remember events before Antonio the Third died in 1920!” Ivy said, adding years to her age that Delia just couldn’t credit, looking at her. “Ivor was always in command, of Antonio, and then of Dr. Nell, and then, later, of Fenella, who was the second Nell. I told you that he went slightly crazy after Dr. Nell vanished, looking for a will that was never found, but once Fenella was installed, he came into his own again. Looking back, it’s obvious that he had an affair with Dr. Nell, and another with Fenella, but he also had affairs with beautiful young men.”

Fascinated but bewildered, Delia frowned. “Where did the beautiful young men fit into the scheme of things?” she asked.

“Ivor drew them to him like moths to a lamp,” Ivy said. “I suppose he went somewhere they congregated and picked one out, then brought him home to Little Busquash. From the time that Dr. Nell inherited, my mother lived in Busquash Manor as a kind of helper or companion—maybe Dr. Nell pitied her, I don’t know. Fenella let her stay, and that meant Little Busquash was always where Ivor conducted his affairs with the young men.”

“Where did you live, Ivy?”

“In Little Busquash. I hated Busquash Manor, I think because it was where Marm lived, and to this day I hate that place! The Ivy you met there last night was the Ivy of Dr. Nell and Marm and Fenella. The moment I enter, the memories come back like women at a sale.” Ivy smiled, her cornflower blue eyes tranquil. “Oh, except if I cook,” she added. “Cooking makes the Manor bearable.”

“Finish your story,” said Delia. “You haven’t, yet.”

“You won’t let go, will you? And yes, it isn’t finished,” Ivy said. “Marm became pregnant with Rha, who was due toward the end of 1929. About three months before that, Fenella was located, and inherited Dr. Nell’s estate. Fenella was pregnant too—their babies were born about an hour apart on November second. Fenella’s was Rufus. Marm died falling down the grand staircase when Rha was a few months old. Fenella took Rha and raised him with Rufus as a brother, so my contacts with the child Rha were limited. I was stuck in Little Busquash with Ivor and his current beautiful young lover—sometimes a female, more often a male.”

“Which beautiful young man did you love?” Delia asked. “You may be statuesque, Ivy, but you’re extremely attractive. If Ivor was bisexual, it’s certain some of his young male lovers were too.”

“Right on!” Ivy cried, striking her hands together. “His name was Lance Goodwin, he was as beautiful inside as he was on the outside—dark hair, dark eyes, an olive skin, a magnificent body. And a gentle, loving soul, Delia, that was what I really fell for! Of course he had aspirations to go on the stage—that was usually how Ivor caught them. People are so naive, especially beautiful ones. Lance’s personality attracted Ivor even more than his looks did—he liked corrupting the innocent, so most of his young men were inexperienced. Perhaps that accounted for Marm as well? Ivor trying to corrupt someone infantile?”

“Yes, it’s possible,” Delia said, “but not provable.”

“He succeeded in corrupting Lance, who ended in spurning me in favor of my father. Horrible, isn’t it? I was devastated at the time, and cut my wrists. I was slow to recover.”

“But eventually you did, except for visits to Busquash Manor.”

“It helped that Ivor died in 1934.”

“When did you get to know Rha and Rufus?”

“After Ivor died, though Fenella never loved me, and didn’t encourage sibling intimacy. Really, I didn’t get to know Rha and Rufus until after Fenella died in 1950. Since then, we’ve more than made up for the lost years.”

“It must thrill you to be a part of Rha Tanais Inc.,” Delia said, “not to mention the weddings.”

“I could write a book about weddings,” Ivy said, laughing.

“Why don’t you?”

Ivy looked shocked. “No, never! The worst tragedies would make the most interesting reading.”

“One doesn’t think of weddings as tragedies, Ivy dear.”

“I’ve seen two girls widowed before they could leave the church. One poor groom died of a heart attack at the altar, and one was shot dead by his wife’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Brr! The grubby side of life can intrude anywhere.”

That set Ivy chuckling. “Delia dear, beneath the surface of the glossiest, most gorgeous wedding there simmers God knows what, from the groom’s mother’s resentment of the bride to the maid of honor’s despairing she’ll ever be a bride. For all that, I love my work, I adore my brother and his world, and I pity the grim compulsion in Jess that leads her to flog herself for, I suspect, few thanks.”

“And how do you feel about Delia the Detective, who winkled your story out of you?”

“I love her, but I don’t pity her.”

And that, thought Delia after Ivy left in mid-afternoon, is a compliment. Interesting, that she pities Jess.

A
wed and astonished, Abe Goldberg stared at the four acrylic portraits on the slanted drawing table. Depicting head, neck and base of the shoulders only, Hank Jones had made them the size of Rha Tanais’s head, more generous than the customary 8 × 10-inch photograph. And how right the quirky young guy was! In color, opaquely rendered by what Abe suspected was a masterly hand, the four Does were
dramatically
different from each other despite the obvious similarities.

“James Doe’s natural hair color had enough red in it to hint at freckles,” Hank was saying, “so I gave him a powdering of them—not the awful freckles of a carrot-head, just the fainter ones of auburn hair. John Doe Three and John Doe Four both had a few strands of fair hair embedded in their skulls, which is why in the end I did four portraits—John Three, John Four, James, and Jeb. I did pencil sketches of Jeb as well, to let you see with your own eyes that color is far better.”

“They’re brilliant, Hank,” Abe said huskily, dazzled by the vistas this Monday morning was opening up. He’d survived the whole weekend without a single cigarette, now here he was gifted with work of this quality—! Even his ears and neck felt great: he’d found time to have a decent haircut. Let the teenyboppers sport the Prince Valiant haircuts! Betty had been told that from now on he was sticking to short-back-and-sides.

The four Does had been epicenely beautiful, though age would have decreased the feminine in them as full maturity progressed. At twenty, a man was far from physiologically mature; he would be in his early thirties before he “set.”

Jeb’s hair was a 1969 style and length, mouse-brown streaked from the sun, and his skin was lightly tanned, his mouth full and dark reddish-pink; he had a crease in his right cheek and a dent in the middle of his chin, and his nose in the penciled profile Hank had also drawn was ruler-straight, an ideal length. The eyes, fringed with long blackish lashes, were a vivid blue beneath arched dark brows.

James was the auburn-haired one with the light sprinkling of freckles; his skin was pinker and more luminous, his nose an enviable retroussé, and his brows peaked rather than arched. Hank had given his eyes a touch of green, but they were still blue. He had a dent in his right cheek and a dented chin.

John Doe Four had blond hair, a darker skin, very blue eyes, a faintly aquiline nose, dimples in both cheeks, and arched brows, but had no dent in his chin. John Doe Three had streaky brown hair, a straight nose, blue eyes, arched brows, and dents in his right cheek and chin.

“I’ve done another one based on Jeb,” Hank said then, his tone diffident, “but you can burn it if you like, Abe. It’s the person I think the killer is trying to make them over into, if you get what I mean. Black hair, f ’r instance. Seemed to me that he liked a dent in the chin and a dimple in the right cheek, and arched eyebrows ahead of peaked ones. I’ve given it the bluest of blue eyes, and I call it Doe the Desired.”

Hank laid another painting down. He had tried to give it a personality, yet it curiously lacked one; the mystery was deeper than Hank’s brushes could go. The drama of the coloring made the portrait spectacularly handsome, though it was unfired clay.

Liam and Tony stepped up to have their turns inspecting the board; neither said a word, just exchanged glances. This weird kid was a genius.

“I’ll have Photography duplicate them,” Abe said, “but I can tell you where the originals will wind up.”

“In the files at Caterby Street,” said Hank, unconcerned.

“Far from it. They’re going to be a joint Christmas present from ME and Detectives to the Commissioner. His office walls need some decent art, and he’ll be tickled that it’s cop art.”

“Abe too can brownnose,” said Liam with a grin.

Busy placing blank sheets of tracing paper between each of the paintings, Hank went quite pink from pleasure. Wow! His art on the Commissioner’s office walls!

They met Delia on the way to Photography.

“Down in the mouth, Deels?” Abe asked.

“Utterly. The studio portraits mean nothing, I’m sure.”

“Cheer up, there’s an answer somewhere.”

Rha and Rufus prepared to receive Abe Goldberg, which chiefly consisted in making sure the hard rolls were freshly baked and the lobster salad perfectly seasoned; he was coming to lunch.

Feeling like an old hand, this time Abe demanded the grand tour of Busquash Manor, and was conducted everywhere.

“Having these premises turned out to be a godsend,” said Rha as he led Abe around the top floor. “In its heyday it took thirty-three indoor servants to run the place—upstairs, downstairs, in milady’s chamber, da de da de da. Six pairs of hands in the kitchen alone! This floor was a warren of pokey little rooms I’d sooner call oversized closets, though the sinful sexes were segregated—the butler was always a drunk, but the housekeeper was a prison warden who ruled with a rod of iron. When we inherited it had been closed up, but it was in good repair, and we found it a wonderful repository for our costumes—in fact, having this floor enabled us to go into the costume-hire business.”

He opened a door that said VALHALLA to reveal racks of what Abe supposed were Viking outfits, complete to winged or horned helmets. “They get an airing every time an opera house puts on Wagner’s
Ring
cycle,” said Rufus. CRUSADES revealed knightly armor, including for several horses, and CAVALIER held the satins and laces of Stuart England. “Women’s costumes are stored separately from men’s,” said Rha. “Opera houses in particular love us.”

“Maintaining all this must be an horrific exercise,” Abe said, staggered. “Cleaning, repairs, logistics—!”

“We own an apartment building in Millstone to accommodate our staff—one reason why we have a proper parking lot. Management don’t live there, but there are always young people looking for work on the fringes of show biz, and they do learn things while they’re here. Rha and I hold lots of classes.”

“I never thought of you as a big employer, Rha.”

“Few people do, but why should they, really?”

They sat in what Abe privately called the Mae West Room to eat lunch, drinking sparkling mineral water as well as coffee; then it was down to business.

“I need a blank section of wall or a screen about six feet wide,” Abe said, patting his solid briefcase, “in something close to daylight. I’ll stick them up with plasticene, guaranteed not to stain. Show me where, then leave me to it until I’m finished. I don’t want you to get a snatched glimpse ahead of time, okay?”

“Okay,” said Rufus gravely.

Having shown Abe a skylit hallway that ended in a blank wall ideal for his purposes, Rha and Rufus went off to clear away the lunch remains.

“Okay, I’m ready!” Abe called.

The pity of it was that the corridor was too narrow to see their faces full on as they gazed at the paintings; Abe had to content himself with antennae tuned to breathing, tiny movements, vibrations in the air. Not that it turned out to matter.

“Jesus!” Rha exclaimed.

“Jesus!” Rufus echoed.

“Who of these people do you know?” Abe asked.

“All of them!” Rha cried, and swayed. “I’m going to have to sit down, Abe. The bigger you are, the harder you fall. Please!”

Rufus moved against Rha’s side and took a part of his weight, careless of Abe, shoved aside. “Bring the pictures,” he said.

Half supported, Rha groped along the wall past several doors before Rufus opened one and led him into a sitting room that also functioned as a library; Rufus maneuvered him into a lounger chair, got his feet up and his knees bent, while Abe found a bar cart and poured cognac into a snifter.

“Here, Rha, drink a little. It’ll brace you.”

“Yes, Rha, drink it—
now!
” Rufus snapped. Over his shoulder he said to Abe, “He’s like all huge people, there are pieces that don’t work too well.”

“A doctor?”

Rufus cast his friend a piercing look, then shook his head. “No, the brandy will do the trick.”

“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have been so up-front if I’d suspected the pictures would come as such a shock. Honest, guys, it wasn’t a cop trick, I wouldn’t do that to people I’d broken bread with,” Abe said, feeling wretched—but also triumphant.

“We know that,” Rufus said, trying to smile. “Jesus, Abe, what a shock! Those delightful young men—they’re
victims?
”

“Is Rha up to this? Should I come back later?”

“Fuck that!” said Rha, color stealing into his face. He let the foot of the lounger down and sat up straighter. “I’m fine, Abe, and I’d much rather we got this over now.” He groped for Rufus’s hand and clutched it. “Sit down, both of you. I’m fine, just give me a couple of minutes to get my breath back.”

Sinking into a chair, Abe decided the time would go faster if both Rha and Rufus had a moment to compose themselves that was not focused on the Does. His bright eyes fixed on Rufus. “You don’t seem too keen on your new Broadway musical production, am I right?” he asked.

“About as keen as an epicure on a piece of dry toast, and dry toast it is,” Rufus said, getting Abe’s drift. “The times are changing, Abe. Put on
Annie Get Your Gun
in 1969, and I wonder how big a hit it would be?
Hair
started a new trend, and the off-Broadway shows are becoming racier by the month. Sex and nudity are what people are beginning to want, though the authors of our production have a great track record and it won’t lay an egg, that’s for sure. If you asked Dr. Jess Wainfleet, she’d probably tell you that our brains are evolving to process information at an ever-increasing rate, so the old ‘stop for a number’ kind of show is dying. People want the action to continue through the number more and more.
West Side Story
had more than Romeo and Juliet going for it—Jerome Robbins made dance really exciting, and Bob Fosse has galvanized Broadway.
King Cophetua
feels old and tired to us, Abe, that simple. It’s a 1950s kinda show.”

“Enough, enough!” Rha said, and transferred his six-plus feet to an ordinary armchair.

“I’ll send you and your wife best-seat tickets for opening night,” said Rufus.

“Being 1950s show goers, we’ll love it. Ready, Rha?”

“A bit weepy, but yes, I’m fine.” Rha held out his hands and took the four pictures from Abe. He held up Jeb Doe. “This is Nick Moore. Age, about nineteen. He was with us for about six months, left last March to go to L.A. and try his luck with the movies.” He waited for Abe to finish writing in his notebook, then held up James Doe. “This is Gene Bierbaum. Aged twenty-one. He was with us for—oh, three or four months last year, quit in September of 1968 after he successfully auditioned for a lead part in a play in Calgary, his home town. Quite a lot of our youngsters come from Canada.” He held up John Doe Four. “This guy was a Canadian. His name was Morgan Lake. Age, as I remember, was just twenty. He was from Toronto, stayed with us for nine months, then went back north of the border. He would have quit about the end of 1967. Nic Greco will have all their details—Social Security numbers, W-2 form copies. We’ll call him and make sure he knows to cooperate.”

Abe scribbled busily, then stopped and looked enquiring.

Rha held up John Doe Three. “This isn’t a spitting image, but would you say, Rafe Caron, Rufus?”

“Yes, I’d say that’s Rafe,” Rufus said quietly.

“Then he was with us early in 1967, left around February. He was about twenty. So ambitious he was frightening, I remember that about him. A dancer, and a good one, but cursed with skinny legs—he was forever trying to bulge up his calves. I think he went to the West Coast.”

“None of these faces or names were in our Missing Persons.”

“Frankly, it would have surprised me if they were,” Rha said, looking quite himself again. “At that age, and looking like that, kids of both sexes have wanderlust. The early twenties are the years of looking for the big break, which of course can’t come when they’re so young—you have to work at your act and image, casting directors have to see your face enough times, agents take you on—the traps and pitfalls are legion. Always add five years minimum to the age at which success is said to have occurred. Rock stars are younger, but that particular specimen doesn’t hang around stage doors and casting couches. And while it’s usually the girl wannabees wind up the subject of journalistic tragedies, there are just as many boy wannabees come to grief. And I guess that these poor boys didn’t even make beautiful corpses.”

“Anything but,” Abe said. “I take it that their parents may not even know they’re missing?”

“Few of the kids who come through here even admit to having parents,” Rufus said. “A career based on the face and figure is usually not parentally sanctioned. Moms and dads want their kids in steady jobs with promising futures. As a result, most leave under a cloud of disapproval, if not a bitter quarrel.”

“Yes, I can see that. There’s no one else you suspect might be missing?”

“No one springs to mind, Abe.”

“How many of these youngsters pass through Busquash Manor in any given year?”

“In 1968, the total was forty-two. One stayed a week, the longest stayed ten months,” Rha said. He began to get to his feet. “I’ll call Nic Greco for you.”

“In a minute. I have a fifth painting, of a hypothetical person no one thinks exists at all,” Abe said, diving into his case for Doe the Desired. “Our police artist studied the changes made to the bodies of the young men, and produced a picture of the man he thinks the killer was seeing in his mind.” Abe removed a big flat envelope and handed it to Rufus, closer to him.

This room too was well lit, including from a skylight, but as the envelope left Abe’s hand there was a sudden wild flurry of rain drumming against glass; Rufus, Abe and Rha jumped at its unexpectedness, then Rufus laughed, as if ashamed of his jitters.

When the painting came out of its envelope it was Rufus’s turn to look faint; he gave it to Rha and sank against Rha’s shoulder, his face buried in the side of Rha’s neck. Left arm around Rufus, Rha used his right to hold the portrait out.

“First name, Un, and last name Known,” he said in a steady voice. “This is Mr. Un Known, Rufus’s father.”