Unknown - The Genius

He wants to follow Freddy on these walks but he does not dare. He can imagine what Freddy would say. Get back in there. Get back you piece of shit. Freddy’s moods make him use bad language, and he does not notice the deep dents he puts in Victor’s heart. If anything Victor’s sadness makes Freddy angrier. Victor does not have the words to describe what is happening between them. But things have changed. He misses the old days when they lay together for hours and Freddy talked to him about things he’d done, tricks he’d pulled and would pull. Now Victor sees that his body repulses Freddy. He stops trying to touch Freddy, and when Freddy shifts around in the bed and splays his legs greedily across the mattress Victor rolls out and sleeps on the floor.

You dumb piece of shit. You worthless son of a bitch.

Freddy’s voice becomes Victor’s own, a voice that Victor carries around with him all the time. It tells Victor that he is stupid and it tells him when he is doing something wrong, which is all the time. Though this voice says things that hurt Victor, he still prefers it to silence.

One night Freddy comes home with another man. He is short and has big red lips. Look at what I drug in. Freddy laughs like a horse and the man takes off Freddy’s shirt. They begin kissing and Victor sits on the edge of the bed, feeling hot. The man gets on his knees and opens Freddy’s pants. Freddy moans. Victor does not watch. The man leaves and Freddy is angry. Whassa matter. Something wrong with me? You got a problem you fuckin faggot? He slaps Victor and then he laughs. He falls on the bed and Victor tucks a pillow behind his head.

A FEW WEEKS LATER Freddy comes home in a rare good mood. He holds up a can of oatmeal. Remember this? We used to eat this shit for breakfast every day. I can’t believe how much of that I ate. Well let’s have it for old time’s sake huh?

Victor hates oatmeal as much as he hates anything in the world; but he loves Freddy more, and so he and Freddy use the hotplate to make oatmeal for breakfast. This happens for a week. Then Freddy says You know what I can’t stand this shit. He throws the can out and they don’t eat any more oatmeal.

Soon afterward Freddy comes home with another newspaper. He shows Victor a picture of a boy with light blond hair and a square nose. His name is Alexander Jendrzejewski, a name that makes Victor’s head hurt to look at it.

Time passes. Freddy comes and goes, Victor lives and dies. Twice more Freddy shows Victor pictures. Victor keeps them all. He wants to ask Freddy what they mean but he understands that they are a gift, they are special and that to ask is to spoil the surprise. He feels jealous of the boys.

Freddy spends a lot of time talking about them and about the weather. Who are they? Victor wants to know. But he does not ask.

One day Freddy says I need money.

Victor goes to the box where he keeps the money Tony sends him. He has spent so little that by now he has a bunch as big as his fist. He gives it all to Freddy, who says Christ amighty.

Freddy never comes back. One month passes, two months, six months, a year, two. Victor begs, he pleads, he confesses. He hurts himself. He moans and prays and bargains. If You will, then I will. Time passes. Loneliness settles on him like dust. He is so lonely that he reaches for the phone.

Tony Wexler.

Victor says nothing.

Hello?

Victor hangs up.

Then he makes his most daring offer yet. If You will, then I will. He shakes hands with God and then he takes all his drawings, box by box, down to the basement, where he feeds them into the incinerator. He cries as he does it but he does it all the same. Everything he has drawn in five years goes into the fire until there is nothing left. He takes the elevator to his room and waits for God to fulfill His end of the deal.

But Freddy does not come.

Victor feels lost. He does not eat. He does not leave the apartment. He grows ill. He has dreams, he sees Freddy getting on a bus and driving away. In the dreams Freddy will not look at him. Victor wakes up wet from head to toe. He has the same dream every night for three weeks, and at the end he rises up and takes a shower. He goes to the restaurant. He has eleven dollars left in his pants pocket that he forgot to give to Freddy. He eats slowly, his stomach aches. With the remaining money he goes back to the store and buys a lot of new paper and some new markers and pencils. He carries everything back to his apartment. It is difficult because he is so weak. But he does it and then he sits down and begins to draw himself a new map.

22

f I m still writing a detective story—and I’m not so sure that I am—I believe that we’ve come to the part of the book where I tie up all the loose ends and reassure you that justice was served. Those of you expecting a bang-up finish might be a little disappointed with me. I apologize. You haven’t read this far without the right to expect some sort of fireworks. I wish this final chapter had more guns and explosions; I wish there was a knife fight. I actually thought about making something up. That’s how eager I am to please. I’m no novelist, but I could probably spin together an action-packed conclusion. Although—seriously—knowing what you know about me, can you see me rolling through the dirt, both barrels blazing? I didn’t think so.

The bottom line is, while I’ll do my best to keep you entertained, I’m writing this to get down the unvarnished truth, and even if I’ve summarized, I haven’t flat-out lied.

Now, if I’m keeping track of my story—and really, you have no idea how difficult this is, keeping everything straight—there are several outstanding questions. There’s the question of who jumped me and stole my drawings, if not Kristjana. There’s the question of how Marilyn and I turned out, what happened to Sam and me, the question of Frederick Gudrais, and finally there’s the question of Victor Cracke. Let’s go one by one, and let’s start with our killer.

f I’m

HE HAD A RECORD, and not a short one.

“Assault, assault, animal cruelty, loitering, indecency, public drunkenness, sodomy, assault.” Sam looked at me. “That’s just the early work.”

“Before he fell under Monet’s influence.”

She smiled sweetly. “You’re a twit, you know that?”

“Where is he now?”

“His last conviction was in”—flipping pages—”1981. Aggravated sexual assault. He served six of a twelve-year sentence. Well, that’s a crying shame. These days they’d take a DNA sample, it’d be mandatory. I guess he’s either slowed down in the last twenty years or gotten smarter… . But it’s academic. First let’s find out if he’s even alive. I have a last known address for him out on Staten Island, and the name of his parole officer.”

In his most recent mug shot, Gudrais was smiling mightily, a five-hundred-watt leer that would have creeped me out even if I hadn’t known who he was. His date of birth was May 11, 1938, which made him over forty in the photo, yet his skin was surprisingly smooth, like he’d never worried about anything in his life. We scanned the image and sent it to James Jarvis, who once again confirmed that we had the right man.

When we spoke to Gudrais’s parole officer, she jumped to his defense, swearing up and down that Freddy had been out of trouble for years, that he was employed and living quietly right where his record indicated. She also told us something surprising: Gudrais had a daughter.

“My understanding of the situation is they aren’t on too good terms,” said the PO.

At this point, I assumed we would go storming in like gangbusters. Sam was far more circumspect. To begin with, there was nothing we could do with Jarvis’s testimony. At that time, New York had a five-year statute of limitations on rape—one of the shortest in the country and a justifiable source of outrage for feminists, who would manage to get the law changed the following year. But when Sam started building the case, she was forced to admit to Jarvis that he had no recourse; his portion of it was closed and buried. I had an idea that we could call him as a character witness—an anti-character witness, really—but she said that whatever he offered would likely be thrown out as immaterial or speculative.