by Dan Wells
else in town. Kids bused here from all over the county, and I guessed a good third of the students came from farms and townships outside the city limits. There were a couple of kids I didn't know—some of the outlying families homeschooled their kids up until high school—but for the most part the kids here were the same old crowd I'd grown up with since kindergarten. Nobody new ever came to Clayton, they just drove through on the interstate and barely glanced as they passed by. The city lay on the side of the highway and decayed, like a dead animal. “Who did you write about?” said Max. “What?” I hadn't been paying attention. “I asked who you wrote about for your essay,” said Max. “I'm guessing John Wayne.” “Why would I do John Wayne?” “Because you're named after him.” He was right; my name is John Wayne Cleaver. My sister's name is Lauren Bacall Cleaver. My dad was a big fan of old movies. “Being named after someone doesn't mean they're interesting,” I said, still watching the crowd. “Why didn't you write about Maxwell House?” “Is that a guy?” asked Max. “I thought it was a coffee company.” “I wrote about Dennis Rader,” I told him. “He was BTK.” “What's BTK?” “Bind, Torture, Kill,” I said. “BTK was how Dennis Rader signed his name in all the letters he wrote to the media.” “That's sick, man,” said Max. “How many people did he kill?” He obviously wasn't too disturbed by it. “Maybe ten,” I said. “The police aren't sure yet.” “Only ten?” said Max. “That's nothing. You could kill more than that robbing a bank. That guy in your project last year was way better at it than that.” “It doesn't matter how many they kill,” I told him. “And it's not awesome—it's wrong.” “Then why do you talk about them all the time?” asked Max. “Because wrong is interesting.” I was only partially engaged in the conversation; mostly I was thinking about how cool it would be to see a body that was all taken apart after an autopsy. “You're weird, man,” said Max, taking another bite of his sandwich. “That's all there is to say. Someday you're going to kill a whole bunclvof people—probably more than ten, because you're such an overachiever—and then they're going to have me on TV and ask if I saw this corning, and I'm going to say, 'Hell yes, that guy was seriously screwed up.'” “Then I guess I have to kill you first,” I said. “Nice try,” said Max, laughing and pulling out his inhaler. “I'm, like, you're only friend in the world—you wouldn't kill me.” He took a puff from his inhaler and tucked it back into his pocket. “Besides, my dad was in the army, and you're a skinny emo. I'd like to see you try.” “Jeffrey Dahmer,” I said, only half listening to Max. “What?”
“The project I did last year was on Jeffrey Dahmer,” I said. “He was a cannibal who kept severed heads in his freezer.” “I remember now,” said Max, his eyes darkening. “Your posters gave me nightmares. That was boss.” “Nightmares are nothing,” I said. “Those posters gave me a therapist.” I'd been fascinated—I tried not to use the word “obsessed”— with serial killers for a long time, but it wasn't until my Jeffrey Dahmer report in the last week of middle school that Mom and my teachers got worried enough to put me into therapy. My therapist's name was Dr. Ben Neblin, and over the summer I'd had an appointment with him every Wednesday morning. We talked about a lot of things—like my father being gone, and what a dead body looked like, and how pretty fire was—but mostly we talked about serial killers. He told me that he didn't like the subject, and that it made him uncomfortable, but that didn't stop me. My mom paid for the sessions, and I didn't really have anyone else to talk to, so Neblin got to hear it all. After school started for the fall, our appointments were moved to Thursday afternoons, so when my last class ended I loaded up my backpack with its way-too-many books and pedaled the six blocks over to Neblin's office. Halfway there, I turned at the corner by the old theater and took a detour— the Wash-n-Dry was only two blocks down, and I wanted to ride by the place where Jeb got killed. The police tape was down now, finally, and the Laundromat was open, but empty. The back wall only had one window, a small, barred, yellow one that I assumed belonged to the restroom. The back lot was almost completely isolated, which the newspaper said was making the police investigation pretty hard—no one had seen or heard the attack, even though they guessed it had happened around ten o'clock at night, when most of the bars were still open. Jeb had probably been coming home from one when he died. I half expected to find some big chalk outlines on the asphalt—one for the body, with another for the infamous pile of innards nearby. Instead, the whole area had been scoured with a high-pressure hose, and all the blood and gravel were washed away. I dropped my bike by the wall and walked around slowly to see what, if anything, I could see. The asphalt was shaded and cool. Part of the wall had been scrubbed as well, almost to the roof, and it wasn't hard to figure out where the body had been. I knelt down and peered closely at the ground, spotting here and there a purple smudge in the texture of the asphalt where dried blood had clung and resisted the water. After a minute, I found a darker stain on the ground nearby—a hand-sized splotch of something blacker and thicker than blood. I picked at it with my fingernail and bits of it came up like greasy ash, as if someone had cleaned out a charcoal barbecue. I wiped my finger off on my pants and stood up.
It was strange, standing in a place where somebody had died. Cars buzzed slowly by on the street, muted by walls and distance. I tried to imagine what had happened here—where Jeb had been coming from, where he was going, why he cut through a back lot, and where he had been standing when the killer attacked. Perhaps he had been late for something and rushed through to save time, or maybe he was drunk and weaving dangerously, uncertain where he was. In my mind I saw him red-faced and grinning, oblivious to the death that stalked him. I pictured the attacker, too, thinking—only for a moment— where I would hide if I were going to kill someone here. There were shadows all over the lot—odd angles of fence and wall and ground. Perhaps the killer had lain in wait behind an old car, or crouched behind a telephone pole. I imagined him lurking in the dark, calculating eyes peering out as Jeb stumbled past, boozy and defenseless. Was he angry? Was he hungry? The shifting theories of the police were ominous and tantalizing—what could attack so brutally, yet so carefully, that the evidence pointed to both man and beast? I imagined swift claws and bright teeth slashing through moonlight and flesh, sending arcs of blood high onto the wall behind. I lingered a moment longer, guiltily taking it all in. Dr. Neblin would wonder why I was late, and would chastise me when I told him where I had gone, but that's not what bothered me. In coming here, I was digging at the foundations of something larger and deeper, scratching tiny lines in a wall I dare not breach. There was a monster behind that wall, and I had built it strong to keep the monster at bay; now it stirred and stretched, restless in its dreaming. There was a new monster in town, it seemed — would its presence awaken the one I kept hidden? It was time to go. I got back on my bike and rode the last few blocks to Neblin's office. “I broke one of my rules today,” I said, looking down through the blinds over Dr. Neblin's office window to the street below. Bright cars rolled past in an uneven parade. I could feel Neblin's eyes on the back of my head, studying. “One of your rules?” he asked. His voice was even and steady. He was one of the calmest people I knew, but then again, I spent most of my time with Mom and Margaret and Lauren. His calmness was one of the reasons I came here so willingly. “I have rules,” I said, “to keep myself from doing anything . . . wrong.” “What kind of things?” “What kind of wrong things?” I asked, “Or what kind of rules?” “I'd like to hear about both, but you can start with whatever you want.” “Then we'd better start with the things I'm trying to avoid,”
I said. “The rules won't make any sense to you if you don't know those.” “That's fine,” he said, and I turned back to face him. He was a short man, mostly bald on top and wearing small round glasses with thin black frames. He always carried a pad of paper, and occasionally made notes while we talked. That used to make me nervous, but he offered to let me see his notes anytime I asked. He never wrote things like “what a freak,” or “this kid is
insane,” just simple notes to help him remember what we talked about. I'm sure he had a “what a freak” book somewhere, but he kept it hidden. And if he didn't have one yet, he was going to make one after this. “I think,” I said, watching his face for a reaction, “that fate wants me to become a serial killer.” He raised an eyebrow, nothing more. I told you he was calm. “Well,” he said, “you're obviously fascinated by them— you've read more on the subject than probably anyone in town, including me. Do you want to become a serial killer?” “Of course not,” I said. “I specifically want to avoid becoming a serial killer. I just don't know how much chance I have.” “So the things you want to avoid doing are, what—killing people?” He peered at me crookedly, a sign I had come to know meant he was joking. He always said something a little sarcastic when we started getting into the really heavy stuff. I think it was his way of coping with anxiety. When I told him about the time I dissected a live gopher, layer by layer, he cracked three jokes in a row and almost giggled. “If you've broken a rule that big,” he continued, “I am obligated to go to the police, confidentiality or no.” I learned the laws about patient confidentiality in one of our very first sessions, when I first talked about starting fires. If he thought that I had committed a crime, or that I was intending to, or if he thought that I was a legitimate danger to anyone, the law required him to tell the right authorities. He was also free under the law to discuss anything I said with my mother, whether he had a good reason or not. The two of them had held plenty of discussions over the summer, and she'd made my life hell because of them. “The things I want to avoid are much lower on the ladder than killing,” I said. “Serial killers are usually—virtually always, in fact—slaves to their own compulsions. They kill because they have to, and they can't stop themselves. I don't want to get to that point, so I set up rules about smaller things—like how I like to watch people, but I don't let myself watch one person for too long. If I do, I force myself to ignore that person for a whole week, and not even think about it.” “So you have rules to stop yourself from small serial killer behaviors,” said Neblin, “in order to stay as far away from the big stuff as you can.”
“Exactly.” “I think it's interesting,” he said, “that you used the word 'compulsions.' That kind of removes the issue of responsibility.” “But I'm taking responsibility,” I said. “I'm trying to stop it.” “You are,” he said, “and that's very admirable, but you started this whole conversation by saying that 'fate' wants you you to be a serial killer. If you tell yourself that it's your destiny to become a serial killer, then aren't you really just dodging reponsibility by passing the blame to fate?” “I say 'fate,'” I explained, “because this goes way beyond some simple behavioral quirks. There are some aspects of my life that I can't control, and they can only be explained by fate.” “Such as?” “I'm named after a serial killer,” I said. “John Wayne Gacy killed thirty-three people in Chicago and buried most of them in the crawl space under his house.” “Your parents didn't name you after John Wayne Gacy,” said Neblin. “Believe it or not, I specifically asked your mom about it.” “You did?” “I'm smarter than I look,” he said. “But you need to remember that one coincidental link to a serial killer is a not a destiny.” “My dad's name is Sam,” I said. “That makes me the Son of Sam—a serial killer in New York who said his dog told him to kill.” “So you have coincidental links to two serial killers,” he said. “That's a little odd, I admit, but I'm still not seeing a cosmic conspiracy against you.” “My last name is 'Cleaver,'” I said. “How many people do you know who are named after two serial killers and a murder weapon?” Dr. Neblin shifted in his chair, tapping his pen against his paper. This, I knew, meant that he was trying to think. “John,” he said after a moment, “I'd like to know what kinds of things scare you, specifically, so let's pull back and look at what you said earlier. What are some of your rules?” “I told you about watching people,” I said. “That's a big one. I love watching people, but I know that if I watch one person ' for too long, I'll start to get too interested in them—I'll want to follow them, watch where they go, see who they talk to, and find out what makes them tick. A few years ago, I realized that I was actually stalking a' girl at school—literally following her around everywhere. That kind of thing can go too far in a hurry, so I made a rule: If I watch one person for too long, I then ignore them for a whole week.” Neblin nodded, but didn't interrupt. I was glad he didn't ask me the girl's name, because even talking about her like this felt like breaking my rule again. “Then I have a rule about animals,” I said. “You remember what I did to the gopher.”
Neblin smiled nervously. “The gopher certainly doesn't.” His nervous jokes were getting lamer. “That wasn't the only time,” I said. “My dad used to set traps in our garden for gophers and moles and stuff, and my job every morning was to go out and check them and bash anything that wasn't dead yet with a shovel. When I was seven I started to cut them open, to see what they looked like on the inside, but after I started studying serial killers I stopped doing that. Have you heard about the MacDonald triad?” “Three traits shared by ninety-five percent of serial killers,” said Dr. Neblin. “Bed-wetting, pyromania, and animal cruelty. You do, I admit, have all three.” “I discovered that when I was eight,” I said. “What really got to me was not the fact that animal cruelty could predict violent behavior—it's that up until I read about it, I never thought that it was wrong. I was killing animals and taking them apart, and I had all the emotional reaction of a kid playing with Legos. It's like they weren't real to me—they were just toys to play with. Things.” “If you didn't feel that it was wrong,” asked Dr. Neblin, “why did you stop?” “Because that's when I first realized that I was different from other people,” I said. “Here was something that I did all the time, and thought nothing of it, and it turns out the rest of the world thinks it's completely reprehensible. That's when I knew I needed to change, so I started making rules. The first one was; Don't mess with animals.” “Don't kill them?” “Don't do anything to them,” I said. “I won't have a pet, I won't pet a dog on the street, and I don't even like to go into a house where someone has an animal. I avoid any situation that might lead me back to doing something I know I shouldn't do.” Neblin looked at me for a moment. “Any others?” he asked. “If I ever feel like hurting someone,” I said, “I give them a compliment. If someone's really bugging me, until I hate them so much I start to imagine myself killing them, I say something nice and smile really big. It forces me to think nice thoughts instead of bad ones, and it usually makes them go away.” Neblin thought for a moment before speaking. “That's why you read so much about serial killers,” he said. “You don't feel right and wrong the way other people do, so you read about it to find out what you're supposed to avoid.” I nodded. “And of course, it helps that they're pretty cool to read about.” He made some notes on his pad. “So which rule did you break today?” he asked. “I went to the place where they found Jeb Jolley's body,” I said. “I wondered why you hadn't mentioned him yet,” he said. “Do you have a rule to stay away from violent crime scenes?” “Not specifically,” I said. “That's why I was able to justify it to myself. I wasn't really breaking a specific rule, even if I was breaking the spirit of them.”
“And why did you go?” “Because someone was killed there,” I said. “ I . . . had to see it.” “Were you a slave to your compulsion?” he asked. “You're not supposed to turn that around on me.” “I kind of am,” said Neblin. “I'm a therapist.” “I see dead bodies all the time in the mortuary,” I said, “and I think that that's fine—Mom and Margaret have worked there for years, and they're not serial killers. So I see lots of live people, and I see lots of dead people, but I've never actually seen a live person turn into a dead one. I'm . . . curious.” “And the scene of a crime is the closest you can get without committing a crime yourself.” “Yes,” I said. “Listen, John,” said Neblin, leaning forward. “You have a lot of predictors for serial-killer behavior, I know—in
fact, I think you have more predictors than I've ever seen in one person. But you have to remember that predictors are just that— they predict what might happen, they don't prophesy what will happen. Ninety-five percent of serial killers wet their beds and light fires and hurt animals, but that doesn't mean that ninety-five percent of kids who do those things will become serial killers. You are always in control of your own destiny, and you are always the one who makes your own choices—no one else. The fact that you have those rules, and that you follow them so carefully, says a lot about you and your character. You're a good person, John.” “I'm a good person,” I said, “because I know what good people are supposed to act like, and I copy them.” “If you're as thorough as you say you are,” said Neblin, “nobody will ever know the difference.” “But if I'm not thorough enough,” I said, looking out the window, “who knows what could happen?” 3 Mom and I lived in a single-story apartment above the mortuary; our living room windows looked out over the front entrance, and our only door led down a set of enclosed steps to the side driveway. People always think it's creepy to live over a mortuary, but it's really just like any other house. Sure, we have dead bodies in the basement, but we also have a chapel, so it .all balances out. Right? By Saturday night we still didn't have Jeb's body.
