“You’re investigating every artist in America who uses Kolinsky sable brushes?”

“No, that would be too big a job, even for us. But these weren’t ordinary Kolinsky sable. They’re a very fine grade – the finest, actually – produced by one small factory in Manchuria. There’s only one U.S. importer, and he sells a very limited quantity. To select customers.”

“And Tulane University was one of those customers. Now I see. Of course. I placed that order. For obvious reasons, I hope.”

“Could you tell us why, obvious as it may be?”

“They’re the finest brushes in the world. Highly resilient. They’re generally used for watercolor, but they’re adaptable to any medium. I use them for fine work in my oils.”

“Your students use them as well?”

“Had I not ordered them for this program, two of my students wouldn’t be able to afford such tools. That’s one of the benefits of an academic setting.”

“That would be Ms. Laveau and Mr. Gaines?”

Wheaton chuckles. “Yes. Frank could buy a Manchurian sable ranch if he chose to.”

“You’re referring to Mr. Smith?” asks Kaiser.

“Yes. Frank Smith.”

“Is that a Kolinsky brush you’re using now?”

“No, this is hog bristle. Crude-sounding, isn’t it? But a fine brush all the same.”

“Have you always used the rare Kolinsky brushes?”

“No.” This time the pause seems interminable. “Three years ago I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that affects my hands and fingers. I’ve had to alter the mechanics of my brush stroke to remain consistent with my own style. I experimented for a while, and finally discovered the special Kolinskys. They worked so well that I encouraged my students to try them.”

“I see. How many people have access to these brushes?”

“My graduate students, of course.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well… this isn’t a high-security area, as you can see. Anyone could walk in here and take one if they really wanted to. Undergraduates frequently come through to see my work in progress. We’d have to have twenty-four-hour guards to keep them out.”

“Mr. Wheaton,” Kaiser says in an apologetic tone, “I hesitate to ask this, but would you have any trouble providing alibis for a group of dates over the past eighteen months?”

“I’d have to see the dates. Are you saying I’m a suspect in these terrible crimes?”

“Anyone with access to these brushes is by definition a suspect. Do you know where you were three nights ago, after the opening at the museum? Say from eight forty-five to nine-fifteen?”

“I was at home. And I foresee your next question. I was alone, as it happens. Should I contact an attorney?”

“That’s your prerogative, sir. I wouldn’t want to influence you either way.”

“I see.” Wheaton is answering more slowly now, his words preceded by careful thought.

“Would you mind telling us how you selected each of your students?” asks Kaiser.

“I suppose not. Each applicant submitted paintings for review. There were quite a lot to go through. I initially looked at photos sent through the mail. Then I flew down and examined a group of paintings by each of the finalists.”

“Did you use any criteria other than the applicants’ paintings?”

“None.”

“Did you have biographical information on the applicants?”

“I believe I had a brief sheet on each one. A CV of sorts, though with artists that’s not a very formal document. Leon Gaines’s resume made interesting reading.”

“I imagine it did.” Kaiser is trying to sound friendly, but there’s no hiding the fact that this is an interrogation. “What was it about the work of each that impressed you?”

“I don’t think I can give you a short answer to that,” Wheaton replies.

“Could you give us a verbal sketch of each student?”

“I really don’t know that much about them.”

“Frank Smith, say.”

Another long silence, but whether it’s caused by reluctance to comply or by Wheaton searching for words is unknowable from the isolation of the van.

“I’m very fond of Frank,” Wheaton says finally. “He’s a talented boy. He’s never known financial hardship, but I think his childhood was difficult. He had one of those fathers, you know. Great expectations, of the conventional kind. Frank’s talent and dedication are unbounded, and he’s only going to get better. He’s meticulous in technique and fearless in dealing with his subject matter. I don’t know what else to say. I’m not a critic. And I’m certainly no detective.”

“Of course. Have you ever seen Frank Smith get violent?”

“ Violent? He’s passionate about his work. But violent? No. He hasn’t much respect for other artists’ work, I can tell you that. He rubs a lot of people the wrong way. Frank knows just about everything there is to know about art history, and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You can imagine how that affects a man like Leon Gaines.”

“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?”