John Verdon - Think of a Number

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For Naomi Contents Part One Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 - photo 1
For Naomi Contents Part One Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 - photo 2

For Naomi

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part Two

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part Three

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Prologue

Where were you? said the old woman in the bed. I had to pee, and no one came.

Unruffled by her nasty tone, the young man stood at the foot of the bed, beaming.

I had to pee, she repeated, more vaguely, as if she were now unsure what the words meant.

I have good news, Mother, said the man. Soon everything will be all right. Everything will be taken care of.

Where do you go when you leave me? Her voice again was sharp, querulous.

Not far, Mother. You know very well I never go far.

I dont like to be alone.

His smile broadened, was almost beatific. Very soon everything will be all right. Everything will be the way it was supposed to be. You can trust me, Mother. I found a way to fix everything. What he took he will give, when he gets what he gave.

You write such beautiful poetry.

There were no windows in the room. The sideways light from the bedside lampthe sole source of illuminationemphasized the thick scar on the womans throat and the shadows in her sons eyes.

Will we go dancing? she asked, staring past him and past the dark wall behind him to a brighter vision.

Of course, Mother. Everything will be perfect.

Wheres my little Dickie Duck?

Right here, Mother.

Will Dickie Duck come to bed?

To beddy-bye, to beddy-bye, to beddy-bye.

I have to pee, she said, almost coquettishly.

Part One

Fatal

Memories

Chapter 1
Cop art

J ason Strunk was by all accounts an inconsequential fellow, a bland thirty-something, nearly invisible to his neighborsand apparently inaudible as well, since none could recall a single specific thing hed ever said. They couldnt even be certain that hed ever spoken. Perhaps hed nodded, perhaps said hello, perhaps muttered a word or two. It was hard to say.

All expressed a conventional initial amazement, even a temporary disbelief, at the revelation of Mr. Strunks obsessive devotion to killing middle-aged men with mustaches and his uniquely disturbing way of disposing of the bodies: cutting them into manageable segments, wrapping them colorfully, and mailing them to local police officers as Christmas presents.

D ave Gurney gazed intently at the colorless, placid face of Jason Strunkactually, the original Central Booking mug shot of Jason Strunkthat stared back at him from his computer screen. The mug shot had been enlarged to make the face life-size, and it was surrounded at the borders of the screen by the tool icons of a creative photo-retouching program that Gurney was just starting to get the hang of.

He moved one of the brightness-control tools on the screen to the iris of Strunks right eye, clicked his mouse, and then examined the small highlight hed created.

Better, but still not right.

The eyes were always the hardestthe eyes and the mouthbut they were the key. Sometimes he had to experiment with the position and intensity of one tiny highlight for hours, and even then hed end up with something not quite what it should be, not good enough to show to Sonya, and definitely not Madeleine.

The thing about the eyes was that they, more than anything else, captured the tension, the contradictionthe uncommunicative blandness spiked with a hint of cruelty that Gurney had often discerned in the faces of murderers with whom hed had the opportunity to spend quality time.

Hed gotten the look right with his patient manipulation of the mug shot of Jorge Kunzman (the Walmart stock clerk who always kept the head of his last date in his refrigerator until he could replace it with one more recent). Hed been pleased with the result, which conveyed with disturbing immediacy the deep black emptiness lurking in Mr. Kunzmans bored expression, and Sonyas excited reaction, her gush of praise, had solidified his opinion. It was that reception, plus the unexpected sale of the piece to one of Sonyas collector friends, that motivated him to produce the series of creatively doctored photographs now being featured in a show headlined Portraits of Murderers by the Man Who Caught Them, in Sonyas small but pricey gallery in Ithaca.

H ow a recently retired NYPD homicide detective with a yawning uninterest in art in general and trendy art in particular, and a deep distaste for personal notoriety, could have ended up as the focus of a chic university-town art show described by local critics as a cutting-edge blend of brutally raw photographs, unflinching psychological insights, and masterful graphic manipulations was a question with two very different answers: his own and his wifes.

As far as he was concerned, it all began with Madeleines cajoling him into taking an art-appreciation course with her at the museum in Cooperstown. She was forever trying to get him outout of his den, out of the house, out of himself, just out. Hed learned that the best way to stay in control of his own time was through the strategy of periodic capitulations. The art-appreciation course was one of these strategic moves, and although he dreaded the prospect of sitting through it, he expected it to immunize him against further pressures for at least a month or two. It wasnt that he was a couch potatofar from it. At the age of forty-seven, he could still do fifty push-ups, fifty chin-ups, and fifty sit-ups. He just wasnt very fond of going places.

The course, however, turned out to be a surprisein fact, three surprises. First, despite his pre-course assumption that his greatest challenge would be staying awake, he found the instructor, Sonya Reynolds, a gallery owner and artist of regional renown, riveting. She was not conventionally beautiful, not in the archetypal Northern European Catherine Deneuve mode. Her mouth was too pouty, her cheekbones overly prominent, her nose too strong. But somehow the imperfect parts were unified into a uniquely striking whole by large eyes of a deep smoky green and by a manner that was completely relaxed and naturally sensual. There were not many men in the class, just six of the twenty-six attendees, but she had the absolute attention of all six.

The second surprise was his positive reaction to the subject matter. Because it was a special interest of hers, Sonya devoted considerable time to art derived from photographyphotography that had been manipulated to create images that were more powerful or communicative than the originals.

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