Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

“Why don’t you tell us?”

“Leon would probably have killed Frank by now if it wouldn’t put him in Angola penitentiary for life. It would make him a three-time loser, you see. They’d never let him out again.”

“Tell us about Gaines.”

Wheaton sighs loudly enough for it to reach us over the transmitter. “Leon is a very simple man. Or very complicated. I haven’t been able to decide. He’s a tortured soul who’ll never rid himself of his demons. Not even through his art, which is certainly violent enough to exorcize a few demons.”

“Are you aware that Gaines beats his girlfriend?”

“I have no idea what Leon does in his spare time, but nothing would surprise me. And his paintings are full of that kind of thing.”

“Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

“We’re all capable of killing, Agent Kaiser. Surely you know that.”

“You served in Vietnam,” Kaiser says, taking a cue from Wheaton’s reply. “Is that right?”

“You must know I did.”

“You had quite a distinguished record.”

“I did what was asked of me.”

“You did more than that. You won a Bronze Star. Do you mind telling me how you got that?”

“Surely you’ve got hold of the citation somehow.”

Daniel Baxter shakes his head beside me. “Wheaton’s getting comfortable. He’s turning the questions back on John.”

“Citations never quite tell the story, do they?” asks Kaiser.

“You were there, weren’t you?” Wheaton replies.

“Yes. I was a Ranger. H Company, Ninth Cav. You were a Marine?”

“Third Division.”

“They didn’t hand out medals for digging foxholes.”

“No. It was a straightforward enough action. My company was pinned down in a paddy near Quang Tri. Our sergeant had stepped on a mine that took off his leg above the knee. Two men went out after him. Both were shot dead by a sniper in the tree line. The weather was too bad to call in napalm on the sniper, but it was clear enough for him to shoot. Our artillery couldn’t seem to get him either. The sergeant screamed that if anyone else came out after him, he was going to pull the pin on one of his own grenades. I thought he might actually do it, but he was bleeding to death, so I went and got him.”

“Just like that?”

“That’s how it is sometimes, isn’t it? The sniper shot at me but missed.”

“The citation said you killed the sniper as well.”

“I think getting the sergeant back alive gave me delusions of invulnerability. Did you ever get that feeling over there?”

“Only once, thank God. It’s a dangerous feeling.”

“Yes. But I used it. I borrowed a grenade launcher from a corporal and made a dash across the paddy-”

“Which was mined?”

“Yes. But as I zigged across the paddy, the sniper kept shooting and missing. That allowed me to get a fix on his muzzle flash. When I got within range, it was too late for him to move. He was stuck up in his tree. Tied in, actually. I just planted my feet and gave it to him. I was lucky that day. He wasn’t.”

“That’s the way it was, all right. What about the rape incident?”

More dead air as Wheaton adjusts to the shift of conversational gears; Kaiser has gone from comrade-in-arms to adversary in two seconds.

“What about it?” asks Wheaton.

“It must have cost you some friends in your company, to push it as far as you did.”

“I didn’t have any choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was raised to treat women with respect, Agent Kaiser. No matter what language they speak or what color they are.”

I feel like cheering aloud.

“And this wasn’t a woman,” he adds. “She was a child.”

“Was it an attempted rape, or a fait accompli?”

“I walked in on the crime in progress. We were checking a ville for weapons caches, and I heard screams from a hootch near the back.”

“I see. Two perpetrators?”

“That’s right. One was sitting on her chest with his knees on her arms, holding her down. The other was… committing the act.”

“And what did you do?”

“I told them to stop.”

“But one of them was your superior, right? A corporal?”

“That’s right.”

“Did they stop?”

“They laughed.”

“What did you do then?”

“I held up my weapon and threatened to shoot them.”

“Your M-16?”

“I carried a Swedish K-50 at the time.”

“Sounds like you knew your weapons.”

“I didn’t want to die because my M-16 jammed when I needed it. I bought the K off a Lurp on leave in Saigon.”

“What happened next?”

“They cursed me and threatened to kill me, but they stopped.”

“Would you have shot them?”

“I’d have wounded them.”

“You reported the incident right then?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you make any attempt to comfort the girl?”

“No. I didn’t want to turn my back on those two.”

“Sounds like a smart decision.”

“The girl’s mother was in the hootch. They’d knocked her cold, but she was waking up by then. Is this relevant to your investigation?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Wheaton. But we have to ask about everything. I appreciate your being frank with us, though. That says a lot in your favor.”

“Does it?”

The sound of fabric rubbing against the mike tells me Lenz is moving around the room.

“Get ready,” says Baxter beside me.

“Mr. Wheaton,” says Lenz. “I must tell you, I’m floored by this work-in-progress. A return to your original inspiration will turn the art world on its ear.”

At this remove, it’s easy to hear the culture and education in the psychiatrist’s voice as compared to Kaiser’s.

“That’s something I wouldn’t mind doing,” says Wheaton. “I don’t think about critics much, but I don’t like them. They’ve always been kind to me, but they have savaged work by people I admire, and I won’t forgive them that.”

“What did Wilde say about critics?” asks Lenz. ‘“Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming’?”

“Yes!” cries Wheaton, bright pleasure in his voice. “You sound like Frank. He’s a big fan of Wilde.”

“Really? I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly, then.” More shuffling from Lenz’s clothes. “Mr. Wheaton, as a forensic psychiatrist, I’m also a medical doctor. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask about your disease, and how it’s affected your work.”

“That’s something I’d prefer not to talk about.”

Lenz doesn’t immediately reply, but I can imagine the laserlike stare that must be searching Roger Wheaton’s face at this moment. “I understand,” the psychiatrist says finally. “But I’m afraid I must insist. Such diagnoses deeply affect human psychology, as you know too well, I’m sure. Did you know that Paul Klee also suffered from scleroderma?”

“Yes. His work suffered equally.”

“I see you’re wearing gloves. Has the move south relieved your Raynaud’s phenomenon to any degree?”

“Somewhat. But more because the university has done so much to protect me. A prerequisite of joining my lecture class was an agreement to attend it in a hall without air-conditioning. In New Orleans that can be quite a hardship. But no one seems to mind too much.”

“I wouldn’t think so. You’re a very famous man.”

“In some circles. I still have frequent episodes of Raynaud’s, to answer your question.”

“Have you had permanent tissue damage to your hands?”

“Again, I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

“I’ll be as brief as possible. Are you being treated here in New Orleans?”

“I visited the rheumatology department at Tulane once. I was not impressed.”