***
Our separate interrogations with the DeKalb cops were held at the Kokomo, Indiana Police Headquarters. I was asked the usual questions about my whereabouts at the time of her murder: Did I have an alibi? Did I know her? Did I attend classes with her? Had I ever visited Douglas Hall? Did I kill her? Would I consent to a polygraph exam? I agreed to take the exam. I suspected Wooly was being asked similar questions and wondered how he was holding up emotionally. I’d later learn he didn’t do so well. Fortunately, I wasn’t told not to leave town because our next jump was only a few days away.
Wooly told me he was flustered under police questioning. He said the two detectives did a Mutt and Jeff routine: the good cop and the bad cop. He wasn’t sure what he’d told them, but said he didn’t kill Alison. Wooly claimed they twisted his words and outright lied to him on occasion to elicit a confession. He was frightened of them and unsure if he could get through another interrogation. He mentioned he’d taken valium and smoked a joint before reporting to the station and said his nerves were shot to hell: Drac, the note and now the cops.
***
Heidi Caruthers was a lot lizard who operated a notch joint out of the backend of her beater minivan. Her burned-out van was found on the outskirts of Kokomo with her inside. She’d been known to the local police and had been busted a couple times for soliciting before she turned nineteen. The night of her murder she was working the backyard lot of the show and probably bribed someone for the privilege of parking there. It was a lucrative business if you were young, blond, pretty and willing to take risks. By all accounts, she met all the criteria. Her autopsy disclosed her face was dissolved by formic acid post mortem, but it was the crushing of her hyoid bone in her neck that was the presumptive cause of death. She’d been strangled. The subsequent burning of her body was an attempt to eliminate any forensic evidence left by her murderer. I learned that formic acid was used in leather production and in the processing of dyeing and finishing textiles. I’d seen a large bottle of it in Wooly’s camper and now pondered about reporting the fact to the cops. He’d been my friend and I was torn about ratting him out.
When I asked Wooly about the bottle of formic acid, he said he used it from time-to-time to tan leather accessories as well as on the fabrics to create the puppet costumes. He mentioned that he must have used more than usual since the bottle was now two-thirds empty and he couldn’t remember why he’d used such a large quantity. I knew, but he didn’t have a clue why I asked him about it, now believing Wooly was guilty of the murders of two young women. Given his mental condition, he’d likely blocked out the horrific events: sort of self-induced, selective amnesia. I was also convinced he’d murdered Drac and wrote the note to himself while in an altered state of mind.
Big Jim Morgan was understandably upset with the police attention his carnival had been getting and urged every carny to report any relevant information to the cops. This was very bad for business and only invited more scrutiny of his performers (and his) sketchy operations. He relied on anonymity to grease the palms of the local authorities to make an honest buck. After Heidi Caruthers murder, attendance and gate receipts had fallen off. Big Jim couldn’t wait to jump to the next town and put all of this nastiness behind him. He rightly worried that his show could be embroiled in a scandal that might, just might, put him out of business. He’d worked too hard and long to let that happen. He was a pragmatic businessman when it came down to the bottom line and his carnival’s financial viability. It was all about show business and not show art as Big Jim liked to remind. I was the one who saved his carny from financial ruin and Jim’s been indebted to me ever since. I was to be his savior and Wooly’s Judas.
***
I contacted the DeKalb detectives and Kokomo police after I received Big Jim’s plea for cooperation. The two organizations had joined together to create a taskforce because of the strong similarities between the two murders and the belief someone at the carnival was responsible. I didn’t enjoy the experience, but knew it had to be done to prevent future murders. Wooly needed to be stopped before he could kill again. It was a moral duty as I saw it and one I couldn’t shirk no matter how much it pained me. I had no choice but to report what I knew and believed about Wooly and his crimes.
My story to the cops was pretty straightforward: Wooly was mentally unstable; he had a penchant for the macabre: he was at the sites of the two murders; he engaged in violent role playing with his puppets; and he had a bottle of formic acid in his little trailer with a large portion of it unaccounted for. It was all circumstantial evidence, but sufficient for an arrest warrant. Wooly was placed under arrest and again questioned, but this time more vigorously. The poor schmuck didn’t bother to ask for a lawyer. It was a slam dunk situation for the cops. After relentless badgering, Wooly broke down and confessed what he’d done. He claimed he must have blocked out the events because he couldn’t remember any specifics of the acts. He acknowledged what the police already knew: he was one very sick pup who needed help.
I visited Wooly in jail once before he was extradited back to Illinois to face the charge of aggravated murder in the death of Alison. He was confused and not particularly lucid which wasn’t surprising given the circumstances. He’d been put through the ringer by the cops and it showed in his bloodshot eyes and haggard face. The phrase “deer in the headlights” came to mind when I looked at him. Wooly said he didn’t understand what was going on and simply wanted to go home to his children. I told him that wasn’t possible now and maybe never. The best he could hope for was a judgment of insanity and I thought he had an excellent shot at avoiding the death penalty. Before I left, he asked if I would adopt his family and care for his children as he would. I readily agreed. It was the least I could do for my best friend and mentor. I wished him well.
***
Wooly was such an easy mark to score and manipulate to my ends. Early on I pegged him as having a borderline personality disorder given his reclusive, almost paranoid behavior. He was emotionally unstable to begin with and my plan was to push him over the edge into madness. Looking back, the strategy worked well and much faster than I expected. I was the one who broke into Wooly’s camper and murdered Drac after learning from other carnies he was Wooly’s favorite puppet. I wrote the cryptic note to ratchet up the pressure on him and to keep him off balance. I anonymously tipped the police about Wooly and myself as persons of interest. I stole the formic acid and used it for good purpose. Oh, by the way, I murdered the two young women and disfigured their faces. All-in-all, I’d done well or so I thought.
We sociopaths have no compunctions about killing because we lack the so-called qualities of empathy and remorse. Pathological lying was another of our virtues. I didn’t hesitate to submit to a polygraph test when asked by the cops. I knew what the outcome would be ahead of time. I passed with flying colors as the expression goes. Most importantly, I had successfully placed the blame for my crimes squarely on the shoulders of my good friend Wooly.
***
I needed to quickly get out of DeKalb before the police discovered Alison’s body and put out a dragnet to snare suspects. Joining Big Jim Morgan’s Thrills and Chills Amusements was the perfect opportunity to escape. It had worked well, but I expected the cops might eventually be able to place me at the scene of the crime through the use of some forensic mumbo jumbo. I needed a plausible scapegoat and Wooly was the perfect candidate for the job. Alison was my second victim having killed another young woman about a year before in Sycamore, Illinois and been questioned by the cops and released for lack of evidence. I’d bashed her face in with a Louisville Slugger until it turned to messy pulp. The ceaseless battering of her head finally dissipated my fury and I felt normal again. It took the coroner about a week to identify her. I couldn’t take the chance they’d come after me again.
It was my rage that got me into trouble. When it reached the boiling point I had to release it by killing attractive, young women who reminded me of my mother.
Oh, mommy dearest, what a miserable cunt you were. I didn’t even bother attending her funeral some years ago since I didn’t mourn her passing in the slightest. Good riddance to bad rubbish. The bitch deserved to die a painful, horrible death. Thankfully, that happened as the cancer slowly ate away at her once beautiful body. But it was her dark, cold soul that I so well remembered as a child.
My mom, Greta Larsen, was gorgeous; a classic Swedish woman with a petite body, blue eyes and blonde hair. She was a looker as the word was used back then. She was a slut as the word is used now. She and my dad married straight out of high school and I was born a year or so later. I was to be their only child. My father inherited the dairy farm from his parents. His life revolved around the cows. My mom’s life revolved around the randy farm hands. Thinking back, I wasn’t sure who sired me.
It started when I was about four years old or that was the age I remembered her first servicing the farmhands. My loving mother locked me in the bedroom closet while giving a quickie to one of the workers who lingered awhile after lunch while my dad and the other hands returned to the milking barn. I could hear the grunting, moans and disgusting exclamations from their rutting even when I held my hands over my ears. I could still hear them today in my mind. At first, I thought someone was hurting my mother, but learned later the truth of the matter. I was confused and conflicted about what was happening on the other side of the door. She’d forgotten the old door had a skeleton keyhole and I watched her sexual escapades and cuckolding of my father. I came to learn my mom wasn’t being punished, but rather pleasured by the man in bed with her. After each tryst, she would beat my butt with a wire coat hanger until it welted to remind me not tell my father about our little secret. Her duplicity and fucking continued for another couple of years until I went to kindergarten when she would no longer have a coconspirator or witness around to tattle on her. My dad was completely oblivious of her extracurricular activities and just as well because I think it would have killed him. He was truly in love with her. On the other hand, she was truly in love with young, stiff dicks and there were no dearth of them on our farm.
As a result of the physical scars and emotional trauma as a child, I grew up to be a bona fide, over-the-top misogynist. I hated women, especially good looking ones with yellow hair. My rage would wax and wane for reasons I didn’t understand. Something or someone acted as a trigger and I’d boil over with irrepressible anger. It was then I felt the urge, the need to kill and obliterate the faces of my victims. With practice, I was getting better and better at disfiguring and killing my mother. As she’d say over and over again about my homework, “Sven, practice makes perfect.” I didn’t plan to disappoint her and looked forward to my next adventure.
***
Big Jim was very appreciative of me removing a bothersome thorn from his side: Wooly and the negative publicity for the carnival following his arrest. Ironically, the press coverage drew more patrons than it turned away. Always the showman, Jim built a new joint featuring Wooly and his murderous exploits as a serial killer of young women. It was a flashy, lurid display in every respect and the rubes loved it. As for me, I was rewarded by taking over Wooly’s show. I’d gotten pretty good with the puppets, although it would be a one man show with Wooly gone. No matter, I was confident I could do it and do it well. Eventually, I’d have to hire and train an assistant, but there was no hurry.
I was no longer Golly, but back to Svengali, the Master of the Macabre and Puppeteer Extraordinaire! I moved Wooly’s operation to a larger, more prominent venue along the alley of freaks and geeks. The spot was next door to the anatomical wonder sideshow. Performers would do stunts such as “the man without a stomach” act where a freak pulled in his gut until the backbone showed or pulling themselves through a coat hanger or tennis racket or other India Rubber Man tricks. It was a solid attraction and I’d get the overflow of Lookie Lou’s for my joint.
***
It was to be my first performance using Wooly’s children. I practiced by fitting a puppet over each hand to get a feel for them. I did get a feel, actually a weird, tingling sensation each time I put them on. Perhaps some of Wooly’s karma or spirit or whatever remained. Regardless, I was happy to be finally working them.
The first and last performance of the day began well. I had a good size crowd in the tent and looked forward to the take. About halfway through my gig, it suddenly happened. It started with the tingling sensation, but quickly turned into something much more to my amazement and shock. Instead of following my Hansel and Gretel script, the puppets moved of their own volition, repeatedly punching me hard in the face. I tried to remove them, but couldn’t since they had compressed their costume sleeves around both of my arms like long, blood pressure cuffs. They squeezed and squeezed some more until I lost all sensation between my wrists and elbows. They were vise-like grips on my forearms and I couldn’t shake them loose. The puppets had extraordinary strength and the more I fought them the harder they squeezed until my blood pressure shot up and exploded through my brain. I died of a stroke on the spot. However, it wasn’t all bad news since it turned out to be one hell of a curtain call. With Big Jim, it was always about the entertainment value of an act and I’d put on a great show! For once, the suckers got their money’s worth and then some at Big Jim Morgan’s Thrills & Chills Amusements.
Wooly’s children believed in retribution and they now had avenged their father’s honor. As a dutiful son, I’d done the same for my father.
The Sad Tale of Klowntown
Cuddles and Jimbo had been ambushed and murdered by the Haters’ bounty hunters before they had a chance to defend themselves.
The professional, amateur and wannabe clowns along with their families had begun gathering at Klowntown shortly after the outbreak of the pandemic of 2016. It would be four more years of bloodshed before America regained its collective sanity. No one was safe from the “The Phobia” which had spread quickly from coast-to-coast in a matter of a few months and then moved abroad to affect others. Many people were immune from its malevolent influence and almost as many people not. Over time, a sizable number of clowns had migrated to Klowntown for mutual protection; as a safe-haven from the hysteria which now ran rampant across much of the country.
The two clowns, with wives and children in tow, had been traveling to Baraboo, Wisconsin seeking sanctuary at Klowntown. They’d almost made it to the city limits before their minivan was intercepted by the bounty hunters and forced off the road. Both clowns were roughly pulled from their vehicle and forced to kneel before the Haters’ agents of death. Each was dispatched with a single bullet to the back of the head while their families watched in horror. Their ears were cut off and taken as trophies and proofs of kills. A few of the more crazed, mercenary hunters would string them together and wear them as necklaces. The clowns’ remains were then soaked with gasoline and set alight. Their wives and children were made to watch the gruesome ritual, one repeated throughout the country many times. It was an all-out war on clowns and the Haters relentlessness would rage on until the entire clown population was exterminated once and for all time. That was the Haters stated mission: eliminate all clowns and make sure no one would dare to take up their profession. So far, their plan was working well.
***
It began innocently enough with kids and some adults dressing up as clowns and scaring the citizenry by lurking around wooded areas and near playgrounds, just long enough for children to glimpse them and run in terror to report the sightings to their parents. It was a funny head game for these ersatz clowns. It turned out to be deadly for the real ones. Like many things, the pranking fad spread from West to East to the point the authorities started cracking down on the pranksters when they could catch them. Ordinances were enacted banning clown costumes and face makeup with relatively stiff fines imposed, especially at Halloween. However, the ban backfired on the authorities and the incidences of pranks grew exponentially. More and more imposter clowns were now taunting the
police and many of the pranks had become more threatening and malicious rather than good natured spoofing. It seemed, at least to many Americans, that defiance of the clown laws was fast becoming a popular, civil disobedience movement.
The 2016 clown sightings, as they were called, involved sightings of people dressed as evil clowns in incongruous settings, such as near forests and schools. Many incidents were reported in the United States and subsequently in other Western countries as well as the Far East. The sightings were first reported in South Carolina when a nine-year-old boy told his mother that two males dressed as clowns tried to lure him into the woods. By mid-October 2016, the sightings had been reported in nearly all U.S. states, nine out of thirteen provinces and territories of Canada, and eighteen other countries.
Prior to the spate of incidents in 2016, numerous sightings of people dressed as clowns in odd circumstances had occurred throughout the world since 2013. The proliferation of videos and images of these precursor sightings spread through social media posts and viral sharing of the content.
While some of the 2016 incidents appeared to be wholly unsubstantiated or lacked evidence of criminal activity, a few led to arrests. Some people were cited or arrested for making violent threats to schools, and some incidents involved robberies and assaults on both children and adults.
In mid-October, in the wake of hundreds of clown sightings in the United States and Canada, the phenomenon had spread from North America to Europe, Australia, New Zealand, Singapore and Latin America. The sightings had become a worldwide nuisance and, to some, a menace.
***
Macabre Memories Page 8
