Authors: Alafair Burke
“Excuse me?”
“The Redemption of Christ Church alleges that one of the models in Schuler’s series is a teenage girl. That would make the photographs in violation of criminal law, unprotected by the First Amendment.”
She immediately swiveled her chair to face one of Schuler’s photographs, the one called
First
. The flat chest. Thin, boyish hips. Flawless pale flesh.
“No comment.”
A
lice had been hunched over her laptop so long that the small of her back ached. When she lifted her wrists to work out the kinks, she saw a crease in her skin from the pressure of her forearms against the edge of her pine breakfast table.
Despite all of her online digging, she still had no one to contact about the growing public relations disaster besides Drew Campbell, who was not answering his phone.
As a car commercial faded out on the television, she heard the familiar staccato theme music of the Channel 7 news. She reached for the remote control to crank up the volume.
A male anchor in a light blue suit with a plastered mushroom of thick black hair introduced the story. “City officials and local religious leaders are weighing in on the elusive line between art and obscenity tonight, thanks to a controversial exhibit at a new gallery in Manhattan’s Meatpacking District. The Highline Gallery has not yet been open a week and already has the city in an uproar.”
The screen flashed to images pulled directly from Hans Schuler’s Web site, and the audio switched to a female correspondent’s voice.
“Blood. Saliva. Nudity.” The camera tightened in around each referenced image, cropping any nudity they could not air. “Unknown artist Hans Schuler calls the photographs in his SELF series ‘a portrait in radical introspection.’ A growing chorus of critics, however, say Schuler has crossed a line into obscenity.”
Flash to a female protester. “Those pictures are disgusting. They shouldn’t be in a gallery, and they shouldn’t be on the Internet.”
“Of course, nudity in the art world is nothing new,” the correspondent announced. “The Museum of Modern Art created headlines last year with a show featuring live nude models, but the only point of contention was making sure that observers didn’t touch the art. The image that brought these protesters to Manhattan is this one, called
First
, which the protesters claim is an image of a minor.”
The screen cut to the gaunt man who led the protests, the caption identifying him as George Hardy, Pastor, Redemption of Christ Church. “Just looking at the picture is enough to raise questions about the age of that so-called model. But the artist won’t answer those questions. The lady at the gallery won’t come outside, won’t answer the question, and won’t assure us she’s
not
selling child pornography. Well, my daddy always used to tell me, where there’s smoke there’s fire. If they’ve got nothing to hide, they could put this thing to rest right now.”
Now the screen changed to a pan across the piece of art in question. The correspondent narrated. “We at
Eyewitness News
have blocked out almost the entire photograph because we have also been unable to confirm the age of the depicted model. Some local officials are calling for the exhibit’s removal pending verification of the model’s age.”
The multiple black bars pasted across the photograph created the impression of more tawdriness than the collage actually contained.
“The manager of the Highline Gallery declined our request for an on-camera interview, but the gallery did release a written statement: ‘The Highline Gallery promotes the work of provocative, cutting-edge artists who, like Hans Schuler, create art that makes us think, react, and sometimes even become uncomfortable with our own thoughts and reactions. We of course condemn and would never agree to display indecent depictions of minor children, but we have heard no evidence to support these disturbing allegations. Absent some articulation of a good-faith basis for the accusation, we respect the First Amendment rights of our artists.’
“For now, it sounds like the city’s mayor agrees.”
Alice wanted to believe she was managing the public relations aspect of this disaster as well as could be expected, on her own, isolated from the information that actually mattered. She had issued the written statement. She had stopped answering the gallery phone, letting all calls go to voice mail with the same statement recorded as the outgoing message. Last time she checked, she had received not only that first call she had answered from the
Daily News
, but also calls from the
Post
,
Times
,
Sun
,
Observer
, and a place called Empire Media.
The film cut to an image of Mayor Michael Bloomberg stepping from the backseat of a town car. “This isn’t the first time someone’s been offended by art. I support artistic freedom, and I support the First Amendment. If there is evidence that laws have been broken, we will take that evidence seriously and prosecute offenders under the law.”
“It seems the one person who
isn’t
commenting tonight is the artist himself. According to his Web site, Hans Schuler communicates with his followers only on the Internet so as not to taint the world’s perception of his art. Although the origin of this photograph might still be a mystery, one thing is certain: with this level of controversy, Hans Schuler isn’t likely to remain unknown for long.”
“We’ll keep an eye on this one, Robin. Sounds like it could turn into a real wrangle.”
“Sure thing, Andy. One interesting side note about the gallery. Its manager is Alice Humphrey, the daughter of Frank Humphrey and his former leading lady, Rose Sampson.”
Great. Apparently there was icing to go on the cake.
“Oh, sure. She was the kid in that show about the single father—what was it called?—
Life with Dad
.”
“Before my time, I’m afraid, Andy, but importantly, Alice Humphrey’s own father is no stranger to scandal. His acclaimed film
The Patron
was boycotted by the Catholic Church for its depiction of a steamy affair involving a Catholic bishop. It was his long and seemingly devoted marriage to the beloved actress Rose Sampson that often softened a public persona defined by his explicit films and controversial public statements, but of course that all changed when several women came forward last year with evidence of multiple extramarital affairs with Humphrey over the years. So far, his wife has been standing by him, and the family had begun to fade from the headlines until this new story involving his daughter—”
Alice couldn’t stand it any longer. She hit the mute button and was relieved when the broadcast moved on to a story that appeared to be about the beneficial health effects of red wine.
She returned her attention to her computer.
Schuler had not responed to any of her many texts, and a call to the number she’d been using for their texts went unanswered. She’d made no progress finding additional contact information for the artist online. Other than his Web site, the man was a ghost.
More creatively, she’d been trying to track down the gallery owner using the few facts she’d gleaned about his biography from Drew. Moneyed. Maintained a part-time presence in Tampa since Drew was a kid, making him a considerably older man. Plagued by long-whispered rumors about his sexuality. Presumably here in New York. Sufficiently well known for the name to be familiar.
She prided herself on pretty clever Googling skills, but so far, she’d come up with squat.
She tried Drew’s number for the umpteenth time. Straight to voice mail once again.
Moving her cursor to the search window, she typed in “George Hardy,” and then clicked to review recent news articles. The first cluster of hits linked to stories covering that afternoon’s protest outside the Highline Gallery. But as she scrolled through a series of pages, she learned more about the Reverend Hardy and his Redemption of Christ Church. Based out of southern Virginia. Founded by Hardy only a decade earlier. They’d made a name for themselves protesting seemingly everything—abortion clinics, “antifamily” movies, same-sex commitment ceremonies, and the funerals of American soldiers for defending a depraved nation that had lost its way.
Her cell phone rang.
Blocked call.
She answered.
“Hey, it’s Drew.”
“Thank God. I’ve been calling you all day. I put out a statement, but we need to reach Schuler. Call the gallery owner. Make Schuler prove the model’s age.”
“There’s something I need to tell you. I’ll meet you at the gallery tomorrow morning. Early. Seven, okay?”
“Wait. I need to know—”
But somehow she knew in the silence of the receiver he was gone. “Drew? Hello? Are you there?” She called his cell, but once again, she immediately heard his outgoing message. She hit redial for another hour until she finally forced herself to go to bed.
H
ank Beckman made it to Jersey before the crack of dawn, determined to return to the city with the vehicle identification number of Travis Larson’s newly acquired BMW. He parked across the street from the apartment complex, tucked the slim jim up his coat sleeve, and stepped out from behind the wheel.
He kept his eye on Larson’s front door as he made his way into the parking lot. He was within fifteen feet of the car, slipping the slim jim from its hiding place, when he saw movement at the top of the stairs.
Saying a silent thank-you for the pricks who still drove gas guzzlers, he dodged behind a GMC Yukon and bent down next to the tire, faking a tie of his shoelaces in case a neighbor caught a glance. He heard Larson’s footsteps move quickly down the stairs and across the concrete. Larson wasted no time hopping into the driver’s seat and firing up the BMW’s engine, not bothering to signal when he pulled out of the lot.
Hank trotted back to his own car, flipped a quick U, and headed after the BMW. By the time he reached the T at the end of the road, Larson was already gone. Hank played the odds and hung a right, heading for the city.
It was just past six in the morning, but traffic was already starting to accumulate outside the Lincoln Tunnel. His eyes scanned the lanes of cars lined up to pay their tolls, searching for the gray sedan in what seemed like a sea of light-colored luxury cars.
Then he thought again about his previous glimpse through Larson’s dash. He prided himself on his photographic memory. He could pull mental images from his past and display them like a virtual snapshot against the blackness of his closed eyelids. How many times had he pictured Ellen beaming across the table from him, a bright smile above her wine glass, as she announced her engagement to the man sitting beside her? The man who just hadn’t rubbed Hank right. The man who was too young. The man whose name turned out not to be Randall after all.
He shook the image away as if it were sand in an Etch A Sketch and instead pulled up a visual of Larson’s front window. Pictured the
New York
magazine, the one with the funny looking black-and-white dog on the cover, concealing the VIN. Saw the gray pebbled console. The black rearview mirror. And the unoccupied glass around it.
Larson hadn’t had an E-ZPass, the automated toll-payment device users mounted to their front windshield. Hank moved two lanes to the left, pulling himself closer to the Cash Only toll lanes. He spotted Larson two lanes over, about six car lengths in front of him.
No problem. Hank inched up, watching his progress against Larson until he merged into his E-ZPass lane.
By the time the gray BMW emerged from the tunnel, Hank was lingering in the right lane, ready to pull in behind him.
He worried about the man spotting him. Hank had made the trip in his personal vehicle, confident from his past rounds of surveillance that Larson would be dead to the world this early. He found comfort in Larson’s speed. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to traffic around him. He didn’t act like a man worried about a tail.
Larson drove north on Sixth Avenue, then curved into the West Village on West Fourth Street. Hank forced himself to remain a block and a half behind the BMW on the narrow streets, still quiet this time of morning. When he spotted the glow of Larson’s brake lights midblock past the stop sign at Bank Street, he immediately hit the button to roll down his window as he pulled to the curb on Washington. He watched as Larson parallel-parked. Leaned his ear outside as Larson hopped out of the car, looking both ways before crossing the street. He saw Larson disappear into a storefront, but couldn’t identify the business from this vantage point.
Hank pulled forward to the stop sign, hung a left on Bank, and then circled around to park north of the BMW and head south on foot. He took the red wool scarf he’d brought for the occasion—remembered Ellen giving it to him for Christmas—and wrapped it around his cheeks. Slipped the slim jim up his coat sleeve.
He paused at the curb beside the BMW. Did a quick visual of the interior. Nothing. He was relieved to see that Larson had removed the magazine from the dash. He had a clear look at the VIN and jotted it down.
He felt the slim jim against his forearm. It was an unnecessary risk, but he was moving too fast now to rethink his decision. He hadn’t heard the
beep-beep
of an activated alarm when Larson left the car. The sidewalks were still empty. It was now or never. Just one quick peek.
He forced the slim jim past the rubber seal of the driver’s side window. Allowed himself to exhale when no alarm blasted the neighborhood silence. He began to jiggle, counting off the passed seconds in his head. One, one thousand, two, one thousand. He had vowed to give himself only fifteen seconds before hightailing it back to his own car.
Thirteen thousand. He felt the lock release.
Still seeing no one, he popped the glove box. Completely empty. Pulled the lever for the trunk, shut the door, and headed to the rear of the car. Also empty.
He clicked the trunk shut and made his way north to his Toyota Camry. Made three left turns: Greenwich, to Bethune, and back onto Washington.
As he cruised past the parked BMW, he checked out the storefronts across the street. He identified what looked like a flower shop and a shoe store as candidates for Larson’s location, a closed-down storefront separating the two.
Nice car. Pretty girl. Early-morning drives. And absolutely nothing in his ride, not even an owner’s manual or registration.
The next step was to run the VIN.