The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  She laughed uncomfortably. “I talked to the patrolman out front. I just heard more about the murder from friends at school today. I didn’t pay much attention before but—“ She didn’t finish the thought but her whole body shuddered.

  He gave her a big hug. “Kind of gives you the creeps, does it?”

  She nodded, following him into the kitchen, “I read the latest article in the newspaper.”

  “Don’t put too much stock in what you read. They don’t always get it right.” Slate fixed himself a whiskey and Diet Coke and washed down three aspirins to dull his headache.

  “I know that.”

  Slate put a pot of water on the stove to boil and while he sliced up fresh broccoli, carrots, mushrooms, and cauliflower, she began asking questions.

  “What got to me about that article in the newspaper was that letter. I just couldn’t stop worrying that some weird religious fanatic might hurt you. What about the phone call? Come on, tell me. I want to know.”

  Slate always told her about his most important cases, but he left out the gruesome details. Slate tried to reassure her about the situation by giving her his theories.

  “Nah. I don’t think the unsub we’re looking for is a religious nut case,” he told her, taking a sip of his drink.

  Jeanne confirmed her understanding “unsub” with “Unknown Subject!”

  “Right.” Slate said with a smile and went on, “I think we have a murder by someone who just snapped. I don’t think this is an inherently evil person. I don’t think it is a man with a mission. It’s not like Timothy McVeigh who did the Oklahoma bombing or Charles Manson or Son of Sam. This is probably—under normal circumstance—an average guy, but because of whatever stresses in his life, he just lost control. This is a volatile person. It is someone who has had minor explosions before. He’s gotten angry and violent. Maybe just busting a vending machine that stole his dollar. Maybe a physical fight with someone.”

  Since they were in the kitchen, Cain soon joined them and stretched out in the middle of the kitchen floor, taking a position that made it necessary for Slate to step over him every time he moved from the sideboard to the stove.

  As Slate offered his views, he cooked the vegetables in the microwave. He had worked out his own formula for the timing to insure that the vegetables were cooked appropriately with just a bit of crunch left. The thin slices of carrots were first. They got a minute alone. Next he added the broccoli and cauliflower for three more minutes. The mushrooms were thrown in for fifteen seconds. While these were cooking, Slate poured a cup of Alfredo sauce into another pan and added a cup of skim milk and some pepper. The Alfredo provided the wonderful flavor, but the skim milk cut down on the amount of fat and calories. He covered the pan and left it on low heat.

  “How do you find him?” Jeanne asked. Slate noticed how bright blue and pretty her eyes were. He was glad that she had insisted on laser surgery to correct her vision so that now she didn’t have to wear contacts or glasses.

  The pot of water suddenly bubbled over. Jeanne jumped up and turned the burner down. Slate added a teaspoon of olive oil and a pinch of salt to the water and added two quarter-sized bunches of linguine to the water.

  “We have to search out the behavior. We have to chase down each suspect and find out from those he had contact with if there are any indications of violence. We’re looking for someone whose life is out of balance.”

  “God, it’s scary.” Jeanne replied, her face muscles tight.

  “Yeah, it is.” He picked up his drink and swallowed twice.

  “We have to question everybody and find out what has been normal behavior and if there have been recent changes.”

  Jeanne took a slow deep breath. “Like someone who all of a sudden becomes very religious.”

  “Right, or like someone who has started drinking a lot. There has to be some red flags. This didn’t come out of nowhere.”

  Jeanne selected silverware from and grabbed two napkins from the top of the refrigerator. She set the table, poured each of them a glass of skim milk. “How do you think the killer is dealing with it—I mean—having to live with what’s he done. If he’s basically an average Joe—“

  “It’s just more pressure.”

  “He’s probably freaking out—terrified.” She commented.

  “I’m sure he is.” Slate watched her movements as she placed each fork, spoon and knife carefully. She was very graceful. There was also an economy of movement, nothing hurried, nothing careless, nothing dropped. She knew what she was doing. She was deliberate. The glasses of milk were placed precisely above each knife. Yet it was all unconscious as she listened to Slate expound on his views. “Usually—well, there’s nothing ever usual about this kind of thing—but from my experience with a few others, I’d say this guy didn’t think beyond the act itself. He didn’t think about the aftermath. He didn’t think about the boy’s family or his own. He didn’t think about spending the rest of his life in jail. He saw this as end to a problem.”

  “You think he’ll kill again?”

  Slate tipped up his glass and let the liquor slide down. His headache was going away. “It’s possible. We know he has poor impulse control, but it’s hard to know what state he’s in. He might be in total denial. He might not even remember, or he may be feeling really guilty. He might be even angrier, blaming all the people who have caused his troubles. If he feels cornered, who knows?”

  “So he could go postal.”

  Slate said hesitantly. “Yeah. Could. It’s always so damn complex. Why someone snaps is a combination of things. But it boils down to something like, ‘The world has turned against me, and I can’t deal with it anymore.” It could be relationship problems, school problems, problems at home, problems at work. It could be all of them together, but there’s one sore spot. It’s so sore the person can’t stand it and uses violence to stop the pain.”

  “Promise me you’ll be careful.” Jeanne pleaded, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Jeanne, believe me, I am careful—always. I wear that fucking bulletproof vest all the time. I don’t have to, but I do, even when it’s a hundred degrees.” He said emphatically, looking directly into her eyes. He wanted to soothe her fear as much as possible. As a single parent, he knew what she needed most was the reassurance that he would be there for her. They had had many discussions over the years about the dangers he faced, and they had developed a plan should anything ever happen to him.

  When the linguini was done, Slate served up the meal and they ate slowly, relishing the tastes and textures. Her immediate fears assuaged, Jeanne was happy to discuss school, her summer job at Racquet Club, and plans for attending the university in the fall.

  Cain joined them in the breakfast nook, waiting for his brushing. Tonight he was preoccupied. Having seen a spider running across the floor, he pounced. He then lay down, keeping his paw on the spider. Every few moments he’d let the spider go for a moment and capture it again. This continued until all movement from the spider ceased.

  After dinner Slate called his mother to find out how she was doing. Until two years ago she had been a fitness freak, exercising to Jane Fonda and walking three or four miles every day. With the onset of Wegener’s disease, she was so weak she spent most of each day resting. The disease had caused inflammation of the blood vessels, skin rashes, cataracts, pain in her muscles and joints and a continuous sinus infection. The treatment was almost as horrible as the disease itself. Once a month she had chemotherapy. Each session lasted two or three hours as she was given an IV with a drug called cytoxin. This was followed by eight days of additional injections to build up her blood. She also had to take heavy doses of Prednisone. On the bright side, however, after two cataract operations, she could now at least read some of the time.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Oh, hi, Ricky.”

  Slate had never outgrown his childhood nickname as far as she was concerned.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “My
eyes are bothering me.”

  “I thought they were better.”

  “Well, they were after the surgery. I had to be real careful for two weeks, not to bend over. I went back to the doctor last week. He said my right eye was still a little irritated but that was normal.”

  “You using eye drops?”

  “Yes, and they were fine, but Saturday I cleaned out the garage. Your father wanted to sell some of the old parts. He had junk everywhere. Ever since, my right eye’s been different. I can’t see as good.”

  “You probably over did it.”

  “The doctor said I could get back to my usual routine.”

  “He didn’t tell you to clean the garage.”

  “I had to. Your father went out there and I couldn’t leave him alone. He couldn’t do it. You know how he is.”

  “You have to say no.”

  “I tried. I told him we should wait until we could get some help. Charlie, the man he used to work with, comes by now and then, but he wouldn’t wait. He started banging on the table with his good hand and just kept yelling, “Now, now, now.”

  “How are you feeling otherwise?”

  “Better,” she said. “We finally got some in home care. A girl started on Monday. Shelly. She comes everyday from eight to one.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She’s nice, but she has back problems. She said she hurt her back about four years ago, working in a hospital. I don’t know what happened, but it bothers her a lot now. She’s good though. She gets Dad’s breakfast and fixes our lunch, does the dishes.”

  “I’m glad. That should make it easier.”

  “Oh, it does. When I have to fix his breakfast, I’m so tired, I have to go lay down.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “About the same. But he likes her. He likes having more people around. Yesterday I was able to go to Walmart and the library. I feel better just being able to get out. I suppose you were right out straight all week—working that murder.”

  “Busy, yeah.”

  “You’re always busy.” I read about that murder at the university. You are on that case, aren’t you?

  “Yes.”

  “I knew you would be.”

  “It’s fine.” His mother didn’t like to hear about his work.

  She had always been afraid that some criminal would shoot him.

  “Well be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “How’s Jeanne?”

  “She’s great. Looking forward to graduation.”

  “Tell her I’ll send her some money. That’s the easiest thing I can do.”

  “Well, you don’t have to.”

  “Of course I do. It’s her graduation.”

  “We’ll come up and see you soon.”

  “Let me know. I’ll have Shelly cook enough for all of us.” Slate mumbled an okay, and she went right on. “Have you heard from Beth?”

  “Yeah, she called last night. She was upset about her new job. Lots of anxiety—doesn’t think she can do it.”

  “She’s always worried.”

  “Well, I told her how proud of her I was and tried to make her feel better. As long as they don’t fire her, she’ll be fine. It just takes her time to learn everything.”

  “Of course it does. It does anyone in a new job.”

  They talked a few more minutes about the weather and Slate promised to call again on Sunday.

  CHAPTER 18

  THREATS AND LIGHTFOOT

  The next morning as Slate sat down at the table to eat his cereal and read the newspaper, he nearly choked to death. He was so surprised to find that the Wichita Eagle had found out and printed every detail of the previous day that he inhaled cereal into his lungs instead of swallowing. After a coughing fit that lasted for about five minutes, he dumped the cereal into the sink and took off for work, taking the newspaper with him.

  When he got to the corner of Hillside and 17th Street, he realized it was too early for his partner to be at the station so he pulled into the McDonalds’ drive-thru and ordered some breakfast to go. He was just finishing his second Egg McMuffin at his desk when Remy and Tiffany arrived.

  Slate, his mouth still full, pointed at the headline, reading it aloud: “Search for Killer Continues.” “What the hell is this?”

  “What are you talking about?” Tiffany bristled, setting down her purse.

  Slate swallowed, “I’m talking about this fucking article. You guys call ‘em up or what?”

  “No, that reporter came by right as we were leaving.” Remy explained.

  “So you just spilled your guts? Jesus.” Slate threw the Styrofoam and napkin into the trash can.”

  Remy frowned, “No, we didn’t tell him anything.”

  Tiffany snarled at the same time, “We didn’t spill, nothing. And don’t you go treating us like street punks.”

  Remy grabbed the paper and looked at the by line. “Tim Larimer. That’s the one.”

  “Well, who the hell talked to him?” Slate yelled out.

  Tiffany’s anger matched Slate’s. “It wasn’t us, goddamit. “We didn’t tell him a thing.”

  Slate grabbed the newspaper from the desk and read the lead paragraph aloud. “Police revealed that the prime suspect may have taken a bus near the scene of the crime. A bus driver has come forward since the sketch of the suspect was released. The bus driver believes that he took the man from Hillside Avenue to the Towne East Mall shortly after the time of the murder.” He threw the newspaper back on to the desk.

  “Well, he got this from someone. And who the hell is the prime suspect?”

  Slate watched as Tiffany picked up the newspaper to read it for herself. “You wanna know who’s the prime suspect. It’s whoever the man is that rode that bus.”

  “Right,” Slate growled, “and now he’s been warned by this shit.”

  Tiffany turned to Remy. “Look at this. That son-of-a-bitch must have been hiding and listening to us yesterday.”

  Remy joined Tiffany and read more of the article, disbelief growing with each sentence. “Inquiries are now being focused on Davis’s activities the day before the murder. Police have admitted that a gap exists in their knowledge of his movements from about eleven a.m. to four p.m. You don’t think Jerry said anything?”

  Tiffany continued to read, “The police have identified several suspects, but are continuing the investigation and have not made any arrests.”

  At the same time Slate answered Remy. “Jerry hates their guts. They screw things up and make us look bad. We’ve talked about it a dozen times. According to the fucking paper, the police are always to blame. We’re to blame if we defend ourselves. We’re to blame if we’re too easy or too careful or not careful enough. Jerry wouldn’t give them the time of day.”

  Tiffany threw down the paper. Suddenly she yelled, “Look. It’s all right there.” She pointed to the bulletin board by Slate’s desk. They looked. On the board were the lists of students they’d gotten from the Dean, photos, a copy of the sketch, and the time table.

  “She’s right,” Slate agreed. “All someone had to do was look at this.”

  “No reporters are supposed to be back here.” Remy noted.

  Tiffany snorted derisively. “Yeah, and no sharks are supposed to be near the beach.”

  “Well, what’s done is done.” Slate pulled the lists and photos from the board and stuffed them into a file. “Look, guys, I apologize. I hope that Tim Latimore—“

  “Larimer,” Remy corrected.

  “Larimer,” Slate continued, “gets a yeast infection so bad that it makes his dick fall off.”

  “Oooh,” Tiffany smiled, “I like that. A man after my own heart with a vocabulary to match.”

  Slate looked through his rolodex, found what he was looking for and punched in the numbers. “Tim Larimer please” he said in a pleasing tone to the receptionist who answered.”

  “One moment please.” The phone rang. A male voice answered. “Tim Larimer.”


  “Nice article in today’s paper,” Slate said.

  “Thanks,” the voice replied.

  “If you ever come back here near my desk again, you mother-fucking little twerp, I’ll twist your balls off with my bare hands.” Slate hung up.

  Tiffany applauded.

  Slate smiled, slapping his hands on the desk. “Okay, let’s get down to work,” he said, wanting to get back to serious business. “I think we need to track down this Lightfoot. Have we heard from surveillance?”

  Remy looked at Tiffany. “No one’s checked.” He admitted.

  “Well, we can’t do everything all at once. We can only do what we can do.” Slate smiled. He wanted to convey that he was happy to work with them and that everything was all right. “Go see if there’s anything, and Tiffany how about if you get in touch with the Blackwell police and see if they have a file on him or anyone in his family.” She nodded and went to her computer. Remy disappeared down the stairs. Slate picked up the phone and dialed Jerry. He was worried. His partner was generally on time and more than likely to be at work early. The phone rang and rang. No one answered. Slate decided to check his messages.

  He had five. One was a call from a reporter at Channel 3 who wanted to set up an interview. Another was from President Harmon at the university who wanted to know what progress he was making. The third call was short but it took Slate’s breath away. A disguised, gravelly voice said, “I know where you live. Don’t make me come there.”

  Slate felt his blood run cold. His first thought was for the safety of his daughter, then came the anger. He slammed the phone down, forgetting all about Jerry. “Who was it? Who? Who?” he kept repeating to himself over and over, and in his mind he could visualize Joe Moss saying it and Robin Lightfoot and even Aaron Biggs. It could be anyone. It could be a joke, but he didn’t think so.

  He punched the code to listen to the message again. “Tiffany,” he called, “Come listen to this.

  “What is it?”

  “I guess you’d call it a threat.”

  He played the call through the speaker on his desk. “I know where you live. Don’t make me come there,” said the voice again.