all we know, Trafficant disappeared because he died.
Blew all his dough on dope and OD’d. He was a psychopath loser. Don’t they
always end up doing something self-destructive?”
“Usually. But still, the idea of him and
Lucy, up there at the same time, her blocking out that summer, and now she’s
dreaming about a dead girl.... I could call Trafficant’s publisher and see if
they know where he is. If you feel up to it, you could run a background check.”
“Sure, why not.... Best-seller.” Shaking
his head. “What is it with these intellectuals anyway? All those fools marching
for Caryl Chessman as if he was a saint. Norman Mailer with his pet
creep, William Buckley rooting for that asshole Edgar Smith—beat a
fifteen-year-old girl to death with a baseball bat.”
I thought about that. “I suppose artists
and writers can lead a pretty insulated life,” I said. “No freeway jams or time
cards. Getting paid to make things up, you could start to confuse your
fantasies with reality.”
“I think there’s more to it, Alex. I think
the so-called creative bunch believe they’re better than everyone else,
don’t have to play by the same rules. I remember once, when I was first on the
force, I pulled jail duty down at the Hall of Justice, and some sociology
professor was leading a tour—earnest students, pens and notebooks. They walked
past one asshole’s cell and it was full of drawings—bloody stuff but very well
done; the guy had real talent. Not that it stopped him from robbing liquor
stores and pistol-whipping the owners. Prof and the kids were totally blown
away. How could someone that talented be in there. Such injustice! They started
talking to the guy. He’s a stone psychopath, so he immediately smells an
opening and plays them like guitars: Mr. Misunderstood Artist, poor baby robbed
’cause he couldn’t afford paints and canvas.”
He shook his head. “Goddamn professor
actually came up to me and demanded to know who the guy’s parole officer
was. Letting me know it was criminal for such a gifted fellow to be shackled. That’s the equation they make, Alex: If you’re talented, you’re
entitled to privileges. Every few years you see another bullshit article, some
idealistic fool setting up a program teaching inmates to paint or sculpt or
play piano or write fucking short stories. Like that’s going to make a damn bit
of difference. Truth is, there’s always been plenty of talent in jail. Visit
any penitentiary, you’ll hear great music, see lots of nifty artwork. If you
ask me, psychopaths are more talented than the rest of us. But they’re
still fucking psychopaths.”
“There’s actually a theory to that
effect,” I said. “Psychopathy as a form of creativity. And you’re right,
there’s no shortage of artistically brilliant people who had low moral IQ’s:
Degas, Wagner, Ezra Pound, Philip Larkin. From what I hear Picasso was pretty
hard to live with.”
“So why are people so goddamn stupid?”
“Naiveté, wanting to believe the best
about others—who knows? And it’s not just the creative bunch who buys into it.
Years ago, social psychologists discovered something called the halo effect.
Most people have no trouble believing that if you’re good at one thing it
transfers to unrelated areas. It’s why athletes get rich endorsing products.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Trafficant shoulda stuck
around. Somebody would have paid him to endorse cutlery.”
“Lowell set him loose on society. Dropped
him in a totally unstructured situation full of booze, dope, groupies. And cute
little kids.”
He laughed wearily. “Get us together,
feeling like failures, and we do build a nice house of cards. I’ll grant you
it’s interesting—scumbag on the loose almost always spells some kind of
trouble. But like you said, Lucy could have read about him or heard about him
from her brother. Maybe the goddamn dream is pure fiction.”
“Could be,” I admitted. “He got plenty of
media
Blew all his dough on dope and OD’d. He was a psychopath loser. Don’t they
always end up doing something self-destructive?”
“Usually. But still, the idea of him and
Lucy, up there at the same time, her blocking out that summer, and now she’s
dreaming about a dead girl.... I could call Trafficant’s publisher and see if
they know where he is. If you feel up to it, you could run a background check.”
“Sure, why not.... Best-seller.” Shaking
his head. “What is it with these intellectuals anyway? All those fools marching
for Caryl Chessman as if he was a saint. Norman Mailer with his pet
creep, William Buckley rooting for that asshole Edgar Smith—beat a
fifteen-year-old girl to death with a baseball bat.”
I thought about that. “I suppose artists
and writers can lead a pretty insulated life,” I said. “No freeway jams or time
cards. Getting paid to make things up, you could start to confuse your
fantasies with reality.”
“I think there’s more to it, Alex. I think
the so-called creative bunch believe they’re better than everyone else,
don’t have to play by the same rules. I remember once, when I was first on the
force, I pulled jail duty down at the Hall of Justice, and some sociology
professor was leading a tour—earnest students, pens and notebooks. They walked
past one asshole’s cell and it was full of drawings—bloody stuff but very well
done; the guy had real talent. Not that it stopped him from robbing liquor
stores and pistol-whipping the owners. Prof and the kids were totally blown
away. How could someone that talented be in there. Such injustice! They started
talking to the guy. He’s a stone psychopath, so he immediately smells an
opening and plays them like guitars: Mr. Misunderstood Artist, poor baby robbed
’cause he couldn’t afford paints and canvas.”
He shook his head. “Goddamn professor
actually came up to me and demanded to know who the guy’s parole officer
was. Letting me know it was criminal for such a gifted fellow to be shackled. That’s the equation they make, Alex: If you’re talented, you’re
entitled to privileges. Every few years you see another bullshit article, some
idealistic fool setting up a program teaching inmates to paint or sculpt or
play piano or write fucking short stories. Like that’s going to make a damn bit
of difference. Truth is, there’s always been plenty of talent in jail. Visit
any penitentiary, you’ll hear great music, see lots of nifty artwork. If you
ask me, psychopaths are more talented than the rest of us. But they’re
still fucking psychopaths.”
“There’s actually a theory to that
effect,” I said. “Psychopathy as a form of creativity. And you’re right,
there’s no shortage of artistically brilliant people who had low moral IQ’s:
Degas, Wagner, Ezra Pound, Philip Larkin. From what I hear Picasso was pretty
hard to live with.”
“So why are people so goddamn stupid?”
“Naiveté, wanting to believe the best
about others—who knows? And it’s not just the creative bunch who buys into it.
Years ago, social psychologists discovered something called the halo effect.
Most people have no trouble believing that if you’re good at one thing it
transfers to unrelated areas. It’s why athletes get rich endorsing products.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Trafficant shoulda stuck
around. Somebody would have paid him to endorse cutlery.”
“Lowell set him loose on society. Dropped
him in a totally unstructured situation full of booze, dope, groupies. And cute
little kids.”
He laughed wearily. “Get us together,
feeling like failures, and we do build a nice house of cards. I’ll grant you
it’s interesting—scumbag on the loose almost always spells some kind of
trouble. But like you said, Lucy could have read about him or heard about him
from her brother. Maybe the goddamn dream is pure fiction.”
“Could be,” I admitted. “He got plenty of
media
Similar Books
