by Alex Jameson
“Mm. Don’t call me that, jerk,” she murmured.
Lynn—or rather, Miss Hunter—was a librarian at Kingston High, which was a source of unending amusement for Jake, who believed everything he saw in internet porn and was therefore convinced that she was a closet nymphomaniac and that her and Sam’s love life was rife with leather and chains. Not true, of course, though one time they did try some role-playing, with Sam getting detention and Miss Hunter doling out his “punishment.” It was fun at the time, but afterward Lynn admitted it felt a bit “icky.” They never did it again, and he was no longer allowed to call her “Miss Hunter.”
Still, it was much to Sam’s delight that the budding teenage boys at Kingston considered Miss Hunter the resident hot teacher, or more aptly, “hot librarian”. Aiden had sheepishly confided in Sam one evening while bowling that his friends frequently found some excuse to go to the library during study hall periods just to check her out. It made Sam grin with smug satisfaction. He was dating the hot teacher.
He kissed her on the forehead and made his way out to his truck. Miss Hunter never made it into work that day. The school remained vacant, cancelled in the early hours of the morning in the wake of a tragedy that shook the town to its core.
***
Sam liked his job. He found it easy, if not a bit repetitive—okay, very repetitive, but the longer he did it the better he got at it. Even better, the time flew by week after week with the laundry list of responsibilities he shouldered. Each day he would unwrap the slabs of meat that were received vacuum-sealed in plastic. He’d cut steaks for the display case, grind chuck, check the shelves for anything that went out of code—beyond its “sell by” date—and replace it when necessary. Anything that was close to its date was marked down. He cubed beef for stew meat; separated breasts from thighs from legs, wrapped everything in Styrofoam and cellophane and put a sticker on it.
Uncharacteristically, he especially liked helping customers. Three years ago, when he started this job, he thought that would be the part he disliked most, but he found it nice to interact with people just a little bit at a time, to be such a minor part of so many lives. The people he liked most were the regulars, the handful of people that would buy their meat fresh daily. Recently he’d started stowing the best cuts in the back, just so that when those familiar faces came in to ask for “the usual” he could wink and say, “Let me get you something special from the back.”
Sam was in by six and out by two thirty most days—which was perfect, since Lynn was out of school by around three thirty, except on Tuesdays, when she ran the student book club after hours. They had their afternoons and evenings free, then they’d each call it an early night and return home to do the whole thing over again the next day.
He joked a lot about being old, especially around Aiden, and at times he felt old—or rather, out of touch—but in truth he liked it that way. His existence had become something simple. In maybe three years he could be managing the seven-person department, making good money, and then, who knows? Maybe buy a house. Maybe get married. He wasn’t sure kids were in the cards, but the future was wide open.
The one hang-up in all this was that Lynn had a desire to travel, to see the world. Sam had seen enough of the world, thank you—in six years he’d been to Germany, Brazil, Guam, Alaska, South Korea, Japan, Iraq, and Afghanistan, twice.
“None of those count,” Lynn would protest. “You only saw the negative side, the terrible stuff. Don’t you want to see Rome, or Paris, or Nassau?”
Nassau—now that was something he could get behind. A tropical island. He resolved to save enough money to surprise Lynn with a vacation, and was well on his way, though it was not at all lost on him that it would be much easier to do so if they were only paying one lease instead of two, but that was another matter.
Recently he’d discovered online that they could take a cruise ship from Charleston to the Bahamas, and it wouldn’t be that much more expensive than flying down. Now that was a vacation. He imagined himself on a beach, in his mirrored aviators that Lynn always made fun of, working his way slowly through a bucket of beers with limes wedged in the neck, listening to the surf roll in…
The overhead intercom crackled to life. “Sam, call on line one. Sam, call on line one.”
It was Sherri’s voice, the assistant manager of the store. He checked his watch; it was only seven thirty. Who would be calling him at work this early? Probably Lynn to make sure he was alright. She’d been mostly asleep when he left.
He picked up the black receiver from the phone mounted on the wall and pressed the blinking orange button. “Hi, this is Sam.”
“Sam.” It was Jake. “I need you to come down to the police station right now.”
His voice was low and even and he spoke slowly. For Jake, that meant something big was up.
“What is it?”
“I’m not going to tell you over the phone. Just get here.”
“Jake, if it’s an emergency, I want to know—”
“Just. Get. Here.” Jake hung up.
Shit. Sam tore off his apron and practically ran to the front of the store. He poked his head into Sherri’s office and told her he had to leave—family emergency. He didn’t actually know that it was family, but why else would Jake call him?
“Go. I’ll cover until Travis gets here,” Sherri told him.
He drove downtown like a maniac, blowing two red lights and very nearly t-boning a sedan pulling out of a fast-food drive-through. The whole way his mind raced with possibilities. His first thought was of his parents. Mary Asher had just celebrated her sixtieth birthday, and Sam’s dad was sixty-two. Something could have happened to either of them—or even both of them. Or Sarah. Or Aiden.
It wasn’t until he was only a block from the police station that his mind cleared enough to realize that Jake had asked him to come to the station, and not the hospital. Which meant that someone wasn’t hurt—they were either in trouble or dead. The morgue was in the basement of the station.
And Jake wouldn’t have called him and had him rush over there just because someone got arrested.
He didn’t have to wonder for long; he knew the answer as soon as he got out of his truck. Jake waited outside for him, in uniform, standing on the concrete handicap ramp that led to the glass double-doors of the station and leaning against the railing with both hands. He wouldn’t look at Sam in the eye. And even from outside, even through two sets of doors, Sam could hear Sarah’s anguished wails.
***
At six fifteen that morning, a man walking his dog in the woods about a half-mile from his home discovered the body. At first he thought it was a Halloween prop, some sort of prank by some kids or something. A bloody clown. He watched the news; he knew what was happening all over the country. His dog flattened its ears against its head and whimpered. He called 911.
At seven o’clock, Jake Asher arrived at the station, bleary-eyed and monosyllabic from being out too late the night before. He carried a twenty-four-ounce coffee and took large, liberal gulps from it. The station was already abuzz with the news of the murder, but Jake was barely awake yet.
At seven ten, the coroner’s van arrived with the body. Jake was the first to identify him. His fingers clenched around the Styrofoam cup so hard it crumpled in his grip, sloshing coffee all over the floor and down his pants. He was speechless for three minutes and had to sit down to avoid passing out.
At seven fifteen, Sarah McCreary entered her son’s bedroom to make sure he was awake. She knocked loudly and called out, “Aiden?”—a preamble they had mutually agreed on after she once walked in on him watching a video involving a trio of bikini-clad co-eds. He was normally up by ten after; they lived a short walk from the school, and Aiden liked to sleep in as much as possible and then walk hurriedly to his classes, frequently making it just as the bell was ringing.
He wasn’t in his bed.
At seven seventeen, a very desperate Sarah was searching the house and try
ing to call Aiden’s cell phone when she received a call from her brother Jake. She didn’t remember anything after that. She couldn’t recall him coming to get her in his police cruiser. She couldn’t remember the ride back to the station, or Jake trying to break the news as gently as he could without breaking down himself. She definitely did not remember screaming, flailing, collapsing, and then lying on the floor, denying over and over that it was him. Her husband, Pat, had to be the one to identify him. She just couldn’t.
Later, she would not recall Sam arriving, and wrapping her in a hug so tight that she could no longer scream. She only remembered checking Aiden’s empty room, and then later returning to the empty house, sitting at an empty dining room table with an empty box of tissues in front of her, staring at nothing with empty eyes.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
In the wake of Aiden McCreary’s death, the Kingston Area School District closed down for the day. Students were bused in only to turn around and go right back home. Rumors began to fly immediately: There was a bomb threat. Someone had brought a gun to school. Another 9/11 was happening.
Students, parents and teachers didn’t have to speculate for long. By eight thirty that morning, the news reported that a teenage boy had been found dead. The details of his identity and the nature of his death were kept guarded, at first, but the media could not, or would not, hide that he was found dressed in a clown costume. By two in the afternoon, the rest of the information leaked: Aiden McCreary, age sixteen, had been brutally murdered in the woods near Hollow Park. He had been stabbed thirty-seven times with an eight-inch serrated knife. Then, despite the fact that the boy was undoubtedly dead, his throat had been cut.
That night it was a top story nationwide. A brutal fatality in the clown epidemic. Social media exploded; Aiden McCreary trended on Twitter and Facebook. The comments were generally unfavorable.
Good riddance.
These kids think it’s all fun and games, until someone gets killed.
The parents are to blame. Obviously this kid had problems.
I bet it was drug-related.
Lynn saw a lot of these and warned Sam to stay offline for a while, but her warning only made him want to see for himself. His blood boiled at the comments on news stories and articles and social media. He wanted to respond to each and every one of them, but refrained from saying anything at all. He knew the truth. Aiden was a good kid. He didn’t deserve this. Some psycho had brutally murdered him, and for what? Because he dressed up like a clown on a lark?
Worst of all was the knowledge that Sam had condoned the action. He had no idea something like this would happen. He didn’t realize the full extent of how rabid people were already; how this clown thing had blown up into hysteric proportions.
That Tuesday, the day after Aiden’s body was discovered, school was cancelled yet again, this time for “clown-related threats.” Anonymous posts came through the school’s message boards threatening that kids were going to come to school armed and in clown costumes. The same thing happened the day after. What the hell was the world coming to?
On Wednesday, one of the five boys that had clowned around with Aiden came forward and squealed on Scott Allen and his crew. All five were arrested and questioned rigorously and separately. Their stories synced up; Aiden had showed up unannounced. They’d pressured him into being the first to frighten someone. He scared a couple of kids, and then he disappeared. The other five boys mulled around the park for another hour or so, but no one else came through, so they just went home. Scott Allen had wanted to stay out, to run through the streets and find other victims to terrify, but the other boys had started to feel stupid in their masks and costumes. And it was a school night.
Though no charges would be brought against them, all five of them were expelled from school in adherence with the district’s zero-tolerance policy on bullying.
Aiden’s funeral was on Thursday. More than a hundred and fifty students from Kingston showed up, as well as several dozen townspeople and the entire Asher family. Father Mason noted afterward that it was the largest funeral he’d ever administered.
Some friends, Sam thought bitterly during the procession. Where were they when he was alive? He scolded himself for thinking like that. They were just trying to show support.
He and Pat had to hold Sarah up for most of the funeral, propped between them so she wouldn’t crumple to the ground. In the days that followed, she remained in bed. It would be a week before she spoke again.
The night of Aiden’s funeral, the students held a candlelight vigil. They spoke highly of him, trading stories and talking about what a great person he was. How smart he was. How talented he was. How much potential he had.
On Friday an agent from the Department of Homeland Security came to Kingston. He identified himself as Agent Reidigger, and he spoke with Sarah, Pat, Sam, Jake, Scott Allen, the four other boys involved that night, the man who found Aiden’s body, and the local P.D. He watched each of them carefully, in turn, scrawling notes in shorthand in a spiral-bound steno book. He watched for body language, for lilts in their voice, for twitches of their eyes.
Reidigger visited Sam at his apartment. He sat in the leather La-Z-Boy as Sam sat on the sofa with his knees sideways so he could face the agent. The agent had full cheeks and a shining bald spot that made his whole head too round-looking compared to his lean physique and well-fitted black suit.
“Mr. Asher—”
“Just Sam.”
“Okay. Sam. I just want to ask you a few questions. I want you to know that you are in no way a suspect here, and that we should talk comfortably.” Reidigger spoke mechanically, as if this was a disclaimer that he had to say every time and was just trying to get it out of the way. “However, I also want to make it clear that anything we discuss here is admissible in my case file.”
“Sure.”
“I understand that you saw Aiden last Saturday, the day before his death.”
“That’s right. We went to a movie, and then got something to eat.”
“Can you give me more details?”
Sam sighed and told Reidigger the time he picked up Aiden. The movie they saw. Where they ate. What they ate. What time it was when he dropped Aiden off again.
“Thank you, Sam. I know this isn’t easy.”
There was zero comfort in Reidigger’s tone. The man was right; this wasn’t easy. But for some reason, unbeknownst even to Sam, he hadn’t yet shed a single tear over Aiden’s death. His heart was absolutely broken, not just for his nephew but for his entire family. He was grieving. But he hadn’t wept. That saddened him even further; it made him feel broken.
“And what did you discuss during your meal with Aiden?”
“We talked about school. About colleges. About Halloween…”
“And?”
Sam rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Look, Agent…”
“Reidigger.”
“Right. Is my sister ever going to see this case file?”
“Excuse me?”
“My sister, Sarah McCreary. Aiden’s mother. Or for that matter, anyone in my family. Are they ever going to see what goes into this file?”
“No, of course not. This is federal eyes only.”
“Alright.” Sam sighed again, heavier. “Aiden told me about the clown thing. He told me that he and some friends were going to go out and scare some people. I knew it was going to happen. I don’t watch the news… I didn’t know about this whole clown thing.”
Sam stared at a spot on the carpet as Reidigger watched him intently.
“I didn’t tell him he should do it. But I didn’t tell him he shouldn’t either. I just told him that if he was going to do it, that he should be safe about it.” Sam scoffed and shook his head. “I said, ‘Don’t piss off anyone you can’t outrun.’ That was my big advice.” He looked up and caught Reidigger’s eye. “If that makes me, like, an accessory or something, then so be it. Arrest me. But I don’t want my sister to know.”
“No. That was it. Do you have any leads or anything like that?”
“I’m sorry.” The agent rose and buttoned the top button of his jacket. “I can’t share that information.” He closed the steno pad and tucked it into a briefcase. “I understand you were a scout sniper with the Marines. Two tours of Afghanistan, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, thank you for your service. I worked in the embassy for a short period, during the height of it all. It was… unpleasant.” Reidigger handed him a business card, a plain white affair with only his last name and a phone number. Then he nodded curtly and lifted his briefcase. “Please give me a call if you think of anything else that can help. I’m sorry for your loss.”
***
“Hey.”
“Hey. Come in.” Jake moved aside so Sam could enter, and then he closed the door behind him.
Sam was surprised to see that the place was practically spotless. “You’ve, uh, been busy.”
“Yeah, well, needed something to keep my mind off of things. Cleaning kinda did the trick. Want a beer?”
“No, thanks.” Sam dropped himself onto the sofa and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Tell me you know something. Anything.”
“I’m sorry, bro. I got nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’re right in the middle of it all. You must know something.”
“Sam, I’m a beat cop. I handle domestic disputes and fistfights. The most exciting thing that happened to me last month was some douche trying to bust open an ATM with an ax. Homicide doesn’t share anything with us. Even if they did, it’d be a conflict of interest. I’m too close to it.”
“No, I don’t believe that. Come on. Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” Jake spread his arms out wide to his sides. “I don’t know anything!”
