See Jane Die (4 page)

Monday, October 20, 2003
2:00 p.m.

T
he Crimes Against Persons division of the DPD was located in the Municipal Building on Commerce and Harwood Streets, downtown. The building was classic urban public services, gray and grim but serviceable. On the first floor traffic fines were paid, traffic court dates arranged. The upper floors housed traffic courts, police headquarters and the offices of a number of city officials. Crimes Against Persons was located on three. The MB, as Stacy called the Municipal Building, never lacked for business.

She and Mac wound their way through clots of people, heading for the elevators. Snatches of conversation, some in Spanish, others English, reached her ears.

“Hijo de una perra!”

Living in Texas all her life, she had a working knowledge of Spanish. That gentleman, judging by his vocabulary, was having a particularly bad day.

Of course, the MB and bad days went hand in hand. If you darkened its doors, you were in for some inconvenient shit. Or in the case of those who worked under its roof, you were putting up with someone else's inconvenient shit.

In her and Mac's case, that shit was murder.

Damn inconvenient, indeed.

Stacy caught a whiff of an expensive perfume; it mingled unpleasantly with body odor and the stench of a multi-pack-a-day smoker. Dallas, home to the rich and poor, the glamorous and toothless. And eventually, in one way or another, sooner or later, they all ended up here.

Nodding in greeting to the officer standing beside the information desk, they stepped into the elevator alcove. The stainless steel doors, with their vertical row of gold stars, slid open.

Stacy stepped on and Mac followed. He turned to her. “What are you thinking?”

“We fill the captain in, ask for some help with the tapes. Our guy's on one of those tapes and I want him.”

The car rumbled to a stop, and they alighted on the third floor. A sign hanging from the ceiling warned: Authorized Personnel Only. Along the wall opposite the elevators stood a row of bent, broken and listing desk chairs. When one gave up the ghost, the detective simply rolled it out to the graveyard, as they called this stretch of hallway, and there it sat.

They entered the division and collected their messages. Stacy flipped through hers. “Captain in?” she asked the secretary, not lifting her gaze from the message slips.

“Yup,” the woman, named Kitty of all things, said. She snapped her gum and Stacy noted it was the same pink as her angora sweater and lipstick. “He's expecting you. Hi, Mac.”

At the invitation in the young woman's voice, Stacy glanced up.

“Hello, Kitty. You having a good day?”

“Great.”

She drew out the
gr
to a purr. Stacy rolled her eyes.

“Glad to hear that. Gotta go.”

They turned and headed back toward their captain's office. When they were out of the secretary's earshot, Stacy leaned toward Mac. “Hi Mac,” she murmured, imitating the other woman. “Grrreat.”

“She's just young.”

“So why're you blushing, McPherson?”

“Killian! McPherson! We got a bone to pick with you.”

The playful challenge came from Beane, one of the other detectives. His partner, Bell, stood beside him. The two, affectionately known as B & B around the department, looked as if they'd had a rough morning.

“Yeah? And that would be?”

“How'd you two rank La Plaza? We spent the last four hours with a stiff at the Bachman Transfer Station.”

Bachman Transfer was one of three garbage-collection points for the city of Dallas. “You smell like it, too,” Stacy tossed over her shoulder. “I'd do something about that if I were you.”

“I'm pretty sure it's discrimination,” Bell called after them. “It's because you're a girl.”

“Get over it,” Mac returned, chuckling. “You're just jealous.”

“Beane here retires, I'm partnering with a chick, too. Just watch me.”

Still chuckling, they went in search of their captain. Tom Schulze, a twenty-year veteran of Homicide, had proved to be a tough but fair superior. During the course of their association, Stacy had learned to respect not only his faultless instincts but his explosive temper as well. Pity to the detective on the receiving end of that temper.

She tapped on his door casing. He was on the phone but waved them in. Mac took a seat. She chose to stand.

A moment later, he ended the call. In the ten years she had known the man, his light red hair had thinned and faded to gray, but his eyes remained an almost electric blue. That startling gaze settled on her now. “Fill me in.”

Stacy began. “Vic's name was Elle Vanmeer. Looks like she was strangled. Pete promised us his report before morning.”

The captain arched an eyebrow at that. “Go on.”

Mac took over. “She checked in about eight last evening, alone. The housekeeper found her around 11:15 a.m. today.
Hotel management refused to let us canvas the guest rooms or question any of the guests.”

“However,” Stacy jumped in, anticipating his reaction, “we did convince the general manager to turn over security tapes from the elevators and stairwells.”

“How many elevators?”

“Two public. One service. Three stair exits.”

Captain Schulze did the math. “Depending on when Pete sets the TOD, that's fifteen and a quarter hours of surveillance each tape. Same for the stairwells.”

“He estimated she'd been dead ten to twelve hours.”

“That helps.”

“Seems Ms. Vanmeer was a La Plaza regular. Had a standing order for fresh flowers, champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries in her room.”

“Thoughts?”

“Definitely there to meet a lover. My suspicion is one or both of them were married.”

“Traveled light,” Mac offered. “Just the stuff she needed to horizontal mambo.”

“You think her lover's our guy?”

“Yes.” Stacy glanced at her partner. “Or a jealous mate.”

“You'll need help reviewing the tapes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll give you Camp, Riggio, Falon and—”

“Falon's out with the flu,” Mac offered. “So's Moore.”

The captain swore. A virulent stomach flu had been running rampant through the department. Some divisions were operating half staffed, officers who were healthy were pulling double shifts.

“Then make do.” He reached for the phone, indicating their meeting was over. “This one feels like a no-brainer. Let's get it closed.”

Monday, October 20, 2003
3:15 p.m.

J
ane peered through the video camera's viewfinder. Her subject, a woman named Anne, sat on a platform ten feet in front of the camera. Jane had covered the platform in white fabric. A roll of white seamless paper provided the backdrop.

Jane wanted the lighting to be as stark as possible. Unrelenting, even cruel. She wanted her subject to be stripped naked. Of all the devices she would normally hide behind—soft light and shadows, cosmetics, clever clothing, coiffed hair.

Instead, the woman's face was bare, her hair slicked back into a tight knot; she wore nothing more elegant than a hospital gown, belted at the waist.

Total exposure. Psychological. Emotional.

“Ted,” Jane said, glancing at her studio assistant, standing to her right. “Could you adjust the light on the right? There's a slight shadow across her left cheek.”

He did as she requested and waited as she checked the viewfinder again.

Ted Jackman had approached her a couple of years ago about a job. He had seen an exhibition of her work, he'd said,
and loved it. She hadn't been actively looking for an assistant, though she had been tossing around the idea of hiring one.

She had decided to give it a try; Ted had proved to be a find. Efficient. Loyal. Smart. She trusted him completely. When Ian expressed doubts about Ted's character, she reminded him that Ted had been with her longer than he had.

Although she didn't share her husband's worries, she understood why he might have them. Ted had packed a lot of experience into his twenty-eight years of life, including a stint in the navy, lead guitarist for a moderately successful, local garage band, a turn in rehab and, before he came to her, a gig as a makeup artist for a mortician.

Physically, he was both beauty and beast. Classically proportioned, muscular and lean, with dark, almost hypnotic bedroom eyes, Ted was also heavily pierced and tattooed and wore a his dark hair long, streaked in front with patches of white.

Beauty and beast. Not so different from herself.

“Should I sit like this?” Anne asked, curling her legs under her on the hard platform.

“Whatever's comfortable for you.”

She squirmed, her gaze touching on Ted, then moving back to Jane. “I must look terrible.”

Jane didn't comment. The woman reached up to fluff her hair, only to drop her hand as she remembered that Jane had pulled back her luxurious mane of auburn hair. She laughed nervously and clasped her hands in her lap.

Most artists strove to put their subjects at ease, make them feel relaxed and comfortable. She strove to do the opposite.

She meant to plumb the dark places. To communicate fear, vulnerability and despair.

Jane began. “Tell me what you're afraid of, Anne. When you're alone with your thoughts, who's the monster?”

“Afraid?” the woman repeated nervously. “You mean like…spiders or something?”

She didn't, but told her to begin there if she'd like. Some of her subjects knew exactly what she was after; others, like
Anne, had answered her ad, knowing nothing more about the artist Cameo than that she paid a hundred bucks for a few hours' work.

Jane's subjects had been of all ages and from all races. They had run the gamut from anorexic to obese, drop-dead gorgeous to painfully disfigured.

Interestingly enough, they all shared a common fear, a thread that seemed to bind all women to one another.

“I hate spiders,” she said.

“Why, Anne?”

“They're so…creepy. So ugly.” She paused, then shuddered. “They've got those little hairs on their legs.”

“So it's a visual thing? A physical response to the creature's appearance?”

She frowned but the flesh between her eyebrows didn't wrinkle. Botox, Jane realized, recognizing the effect.

“I never thought of it that way,” she said.

“Do you have that response to people who are ugly or deformed? People who are obese?” Jane hated the words, the labels. She used them now, purposefully, for effect.

Anne's cheeks reddened. She shifted her gaze.

She did, though she was embarrassed to admit it
.

A form of discrimination, one Jane was quite familiar with
.

“Tell me the truth, Anne. That's what we're here for. It's what my work's about.”

“You won't like me. You'll think I'm stuck up.”

“I'm here to document, not judge. If you can't be honest with me, tell me now. I won't waste our time.”

Anne hesitated a moment more, then met Jane's direct gaze. “I know it's wrong, but it's like…it hurts to look at them.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“I think you do.”

Anne shifted uncomfortably. “When I look at those people, I…in a way I hate them.”

“Hate's a strong emotion. Maybe stronger than love.”

Anne didn't respond. Jane went on. “Why do you think you feel that way?”

“I don't know.”

Jane paused, collecting her thoughts. She tried another tact. “Do you think you're a beautiful woman, Anne?”

“Yes.” She flushed. “I mean, for my age.”

“For your age?”

She looked away, then back. “Well, I'm not twenty anymore.”

“No one stays twenty forever.”

“Right,” she said, an edge in her voice. “Growing old. That's the way God intended it.”

“Yes.” Jane carefully modulated her voice, working to keep it neutral, nearly expressionless. She had found that in some subjects her lack of emotion fueled theirs.

“How old are you?” Anne asked.

“Thirty-two.”

“A baby. I remember being thirty-two.”

“You're only slightly older than that.”

“I'm forty-three. A lifetime from thirty-two! You don't know. You can't because—”

She bit the words back. Jane zoomed in on Anne's face; it filled the frame. The tape recorded the tears in her eyes. The desperate vulnerability. The way her lips trembled, how she pressed them together.

Honest, Jane thought. Powerful.

Jane focused on Anne's mouth. She wetted her lips, then began to speak.

Jane shifted the camera's eye to her subject's. “Every morning I look in the mirror, studying. Searching for the signs of aging. I focus on each new line, each crease. The softening line of my jaw.”

She fisted her fingers. Jane caught the reflex on tape.

“I can't eat anything because it either goes straight to my gut or makes me retain water. As for drinking—” She laughed, the sound angry. “One too many cocktails and my eyes are puffy for days.”

Jane understood the way fears and insecurities could become a great, clawing desperation. Or worse, self-hatred.

“Do you have any idea how many hours I've spent in the gym? On the stair machine and treadmill? How many buckets of sweat I've poured out in an attempt to stay a size six? Or how much money I've spent on collagen injections, Botox and chemical peels?”

“No,” Jane murmured, “I don't.”

The woman leaned forward, arms curved tightly around herself. “That's right, you don't. You can't. Because you're
thirty-two
. A decade younger than I am. A
decade
.”

Jane didn't respond. She let the silence grow between them, edgy and uncomfortable.

When Jane spoke, she repeated her earlier question, bringing them full circle. “What are you afraid of, Anne? When you're alone in the dark, who is the monster?”

Tears filled her eyes. “Getting old,” she managed. “Becoming soft. And lined. And—” She drew a quick breath. “And ugly.”

“Some would disagree. Some see the progression of time on the face as beautiful.”

“Who?” She shook her head. “The day you're born, you begin to die. Think about that.” She leaned forward. “Don't you find that depressing? Physically, you're most perfect at birth.”

Jane worked to hide her excitement. This piece may prove to be one of her best. It felt that good. Later, she would make that determination by studying the tape for powerful subtleties: the way emotions played over her subject's face, the way her body language mirrored—or contradicted—her words.

“That's it, Anne,” Jane said, wrapping the session.

“It's over? That was easy.” She scooted off the table. “It went okay?”

Jane smiled warmly. “It went great. I'm thinking I might use it in my upcoming show, if I can get the corresponding reliefs done in time. Ted will schedule your sittings.”

During those sittings, Jane would make a plaster mold of Anne's face and various parts of her body. She would then
cast them using molten metal, dripped into the mold. The liquid material formed a lacy, meshlike relief—the organic effect caused by the slipping, sliding and pooling of the metal over the subject created a dramatic contrast to the rigid quality of the material itself. Critics had called her work both lyrical and stark. Feminists had lauded it as both an indictment of society and a gross exploitation of women.

Jane thought of it as neither—her art was simply the visual expression of what she believed to be true. In this case, that Western society valued beauty to an unhealthy degree, especially in women.

The visual artist, like the writer, musician and even standup comedian, used her own experiences to say something about the human condition. Sometimes what she had to say didn't go down easy; it spoke differently to each individual, never the same to all. And yet the universality of the message was what made it powerful. That indefinable something that touched many, yet no one person in the same way.

Anne motioned the dressing room. “Mind if I get changed?”

“Please do.”

The woman looked at Ted as she backed toward the dressing room. “I'll just be a few minutes.”

As the door snapped shut behind her, Ted met Jane's eyes. “I have that effect on a lot of your subjects. My mother says I'm scary.”

“Mother knows best.”

Although she said the words lightly, he frowned. “Do I frighten you, Jane?”

“Me? The original Bride of Frankenstein? Hardly.”

“I hate when you talk about yourself that way. You're beautiful. A beautiful person.” Ted motioned the dressing room. “Now her, I feel sorry for.”

“Anne? Why?”

“Not just her. Most of your subjects. Their view of life is so narrow.” His expression altered subtly. “Women like her, they don't feel anything authentically. They don't know what real pain is, so they make some up.”

The simmering anger behind his words caught her off guard. “Is that so bad? Who are they hurting besides themselves?”

“You tell me. Would you give away your pain to become like her?”

Anne emerged from the dressing room before Jane could answer, clothes artfully arranged, face done, hair coifed. “That's much better, don't you think?”

“You look gorgeous,” Jane said.

She beamed and turned expectantly toward Ted.

Instead of offering a compliment, he turned away. “I'll get the appointment book.”

After he'd made the appointments, Jane showed the woman out, thanking her again, assuring her that the session had been a huge success.

When she returned to the studio, Ted was waiting where she had left him, expression strange.

“Is something wrong?”

“She was looking for a compliment,” he said. “Women like her always are.”

“Would it have hurt you to give her one?”

“It would have been a lie.”

“You don't find her beautiful?”

“No,” he said flatly, “I don't.”

“Then you're probably the only man in Dallas who doesn't.”

He looked at her, his expression somewhat ferocious. “She can't see beyond the surface. All I see is inside. And what I see in her is ugly.”

Jane didn't know quite how to respond. His feelings, their depth, surprised her.

“If you give me the go-ahead,” he said suddenly, “I can have the invitations to your opening party in the mail by noon tomorrow.”

She glanced at her watch, relieved he had changed the direction of their conversation. “I'm meeting Dave at the Arts Café for coffee. I'll do it when I get back.”

“In the meantime I'll finish cataloging the pieces for the show.”

Jane watched him walk away, an unsettled feeling in the pit of her gut. She realized she knew little about his personal life. His friends, whether he dated, how he spent his leisure time. Until today, he had never mentioned family.