The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  “Sonofabitch! I’m gonna have to wash my car again,” Lawson grumbled.

  Through the dust the Ford became visible again and Lawson sped up, pulling along side the Ford. The Ford slowed down. Lawson shot ahead into the middle of the road, blocking the Ford from passing, and slowed down even more. Suddenly the Ford turned left into the field. Lawson slammed on the brakes, threw the car in reverse. He backed up and pulled on to the rutted path through the field evidently made by tractors and other farm machinery.

  The Ford bounced as though it had no shocks, but the Cadillac’s ride was still pretty smooth in spite of the road. Lawson pulled up behind the Ford and rammed it, banging it once lightly and then again harder. The Ford bounced to the right, the driver obviously losing control, and flew off the road into the field of corn which quickly brought it to a stop. Lawson slammed on the brakes. Slate and Jerry jumped out. Woody leaped from the Ford, but it was too late.

  Slate yelled “Freeze” as he and Jerry both leveled their guns at him. He held up his hands. They grabbed him, turned him around. “Hands on the car.” They frisked him and slapped on the handcuffs as Lawton came walking up to them.

  “Woody, I’d like you to meet detectives Slater and Blake.” He said with a lopsided grin, the cigarette handing from his lip. He turned the man around. Woody said nothing. “Gentlemen, this here’s Woody Lightfoot.”

  “Why’d you run?” Slate asked.

  “Answer the man,” Lawton growled with intensity.

  “Look, I seen you coming with two strangers, I know it ain’t something good.” Woody spat out.

  “You guilty of something?” Lawson said, dropping his cigarette on the ground and crushing it with his heel.

  ”I don’t have to be guilty of nothing. I know you bastards.” Woody shook a clump of hair from his face that had come loose from the rubber band.

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “We just want to ask you about your brother.” Slate interjected.

  “I ain’t seen ‘im.” Woody said. He stood impassively, looking at them indifferently.

  “He’s missing. You got any idea where he is?” Jerry jumped in.

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Jerry continued.

  “Four or five weeks. At my sister’s.”

  “Where were you yesterday?” Lawton asked.

  “Working.”

  “At the Amoco station?”

  “Where else?”

  “All day.”

  “All day.” Woody stood there defiant. His feet apart, his head up.

  “We can check, you know.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You know anything about a Trans Am?” Slate asked.

  “Yeah, I know a lot about Trans Ams. Timing chains break on ‘em all the time.”

  “What about a specific blue-gray Trans Am that happened to go missing yesterday in Kechi.”

  “That I don’t know about.”

  Jerry took a step closer. “We got an eye witness says otherwise.”

  Woody’s face flickered and a smirk twisted across his mouth. “Shit. We all look the same. You got some white asshole looks at us can’t tell one from another. Just like the niggers.”

  “Still it’s mighty suspicious you running like that.” Lawson kicked at the dirt.

  “Look, Lawson, you and I both know that around here, we ain’t innocent until proven guilty. We’re guilty until proven innocent.”

  “An innocent man has nothing to fear.”

  Woody didn’t smile. “And what fairy tale is that from?”

  Lawson paused as if trying to decide what to do next. “You boys want me to take him in for questioning?”

  Slate and Jerry looked at one another. It seemed pointless.

  “Course I could take yah in for reckless driving.”

  Woody said nothing. His eyes flashed, but he stood defiant and unmoving, waiting. Lawson looked first at the handcuffs and then at Jerry. He flicked his head as if to say take ‘em off. Jerry unlocked the cuffs and took them back. Woody rubbed his wrists.

  Lawson, a warning in his voice, said, “Don’t go anywhere, Woody. We know where to find you if we need to.”

  Woody said nothing. Lawson started to move back to the car, then turned. “We’ll wait to see if you can get that piece of shit outta the field.” They climbed back into the car and watched.

  Woody got into his car and backed up. One wheel spewed some of the soft dirt for a moment, but Woody carefully rocked the car back and forth and maneuvered it out of the field. Finally he took off, another cloud of dust rising behind him. Lawson looked at Slate. “Warms your heart, don’t he?” Lawson chuckled, waiting until the wind had carried most of the dust away before he started off.

  Both Slate and Jerry were depressed. The whole trip to check out Robin Lightfoot had been a bust. He was still a suspect, but Slate felt in his gut after the new information they had learned that Lightfoot was innocent. In fact since Lightfoot was still missing, Slate was more concerned now than before about the voice on the student’s answering machine.

  Jerry wanted to talk on the way home. He told Slate how his wife Karen had been so bubbly when he’d first met her, how she had always seemed like a ray of sunshine when they dated, and how it had changed after they got married.

  “She said I snored,” Jerry said. “And I kept her awake half the night. She wanted me to sleep in the other bedroom. At first I teased her and told her to just poke me. Well, she poked me all right. Poke and nag and poke and nag. After a week of that I said to hell with it. I moved into the other bedroom.”

  There was nothing for Slate to say so he just listened, nodding and responding in a word or two now and then to show he understood.

  “In the mornings she’d come in and give me a blow job. I’d wake up with her hot mouth on my cock. That was okay. I mean it felt good, but she didn’t want to have real sex, you know—intercourse. A blow job is fine—you know—once in a while, but I also wanted a good fuck. She’d get all pissed off, said she had serviced me and I should be satisfied with that. She’d be totally hostile for days until I said I was sorry. Then she’s be all sweet and give in and we’d have regular sex, but sooner or later we’re right back to the same old thing. Over and over. Christ, what did I get myself into?”

  Slate wanted to tell him that he had made his own choices, but he didn’t. Instead he talked about himself and what he was learning from Wally. He explained what the doc had said about his mother and the Boss. They had a good talk, the best in a long time.

  CHAPTER 26

  SLATE HELPS GEORGE

  When George began asking questions about detective work, Slate was candid about the demands of the job. The next morning he managed to check out George’s personnel file during lunchtime. Slate considered George a good candidate for a detective position. He had been a uniformed officer for five years. His annual reviews had been extremely positive about his motivation, his organizational and communication skills, and self-discipline. He also had the education. What he needed was to pass the detailed written civil service test and hope for either a retirement in the department or an expansion.

  Slate had agreed to coach George for the Detective’s Exam, but now he wished he hadn’t offered. It was a dismal, grey Saturday. When the alarm went off at eight, he wanted to go back to sleep. Now here he was driving across town to meet George at the university’s library. He traveled his usual route across town on 13th Street to Hillside. He hated the pot holes that he had to maneuver around, but he knew where every bump and hole was located. He turned left on to Hillside and then right on 17th, which took him past Duncan Auditorium. He parked behind the library. Although the rain had stopped except for a fine mist, he took his umbrella and carefully made his way to the front of the building. George was nowhere in sight. He waited for about fifteen minutes and was just about ready to leave when George came running around the corner with a notebook in his hand. As he saw Slate, he slowed down to catch
his breath and slowly strolled over to him, a big grin on his face.

  “Well, Slate, old boy, I made it.”

  “Made it, hell. You’re an hour late. That’s not keeping a promise.”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Slater.” George made a mock deep bow.

  Slate kept a straight face but he was enjoying the game. “Fuck off, you gutter junkie, you maggot meat eater.”

  George responded, “Oh, when he’s mad, he’s fierce. I love a hot man.” Changing to a more down-to-earth manner he said, “Now, hear me out, I had to change a ti—“

  Slate cut him off. “Look George if you’re gonna be late, you call. How the hell am I supposed to know what’s going on with you? You know what I’m saying. If you say nine o’clock, be here at nine o’clock or call me on my cell phone.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll call next time.” George could no longer tell if Slate was really putting him on or really angry.”

  “Is being late a habit with you?”

  “Time is relative. When I say nine o’clock, I mean somewhat in that vicinity. You want me to change, I’ll change.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s bullshit.”

  “I would change into a bull if I could get a laugh out of you.” George snorted and pawed the ground, bending his head forward and putting his index fingers by his forehead as horns.

  “Oh, great, now I suppose you’re gonna stick one of those horns up my ass.”

  “I seek only to give of myself—“George was now melodramatic.

  Slate couldn’t help himself. He had to laugh as he said, “Sure. Like a worm in an apple spoils the fruit.”

  “No, no, no, I’m not a worm.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not an apple either.”

  George clapped his arm around Slate’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “How about a kiss?”

  Slate pulled away. “Here—in front of the library? Are you nuts?

  “I do have nuts—or balls I should say.”

  Yeah, well, kiss my ass.”

  “I take it that’s a no. If you deny me, how can I describe your –fruit? The taste, texture, touch—“George put out his finger toward Slate.

  “Don’t touch me or I’ll break your finger.” There was the rumble of thunder in the distance.

  “Nobody’s around. What do you care?”

  “I’m not used to this. I mean—not out in the open.”

  “If you won’t kiss me, I’ll probably just fall down and die.”

  “Oh, you’ll die, but it won’t be my doing.” Slate laughed and started toward the library door.

  George made a show of pouting. “I thought you liked me.”

  “Who the hell am I supposed to be, Sally Field? I thought I liked you, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Say you like me or I’ll tickle you right here.”

  Slate held out both hands to create a wall. “I like your smile.”

  “I think what you really want is to press your lips to mine and kiss and tongue and suck,” George whispered seductively, “and press your body next to mine—and feel the touch of my skin and the beating of my heart—and the heat of my blood—“

  “Look let’s cut the games, okay?”

  “Slate, come on. I ache. I’ve been dreaming of just one thing.” At that moment there was a lightning flash and a loud cracking noise, followed by a strong rumble. Large drops of water began splashing on the concrete.

  “Not now, it’s raining.” Slate laughed at George’s expressions and opened up the umbrella. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

  George moved under the umbrella and held on to him. “Don’t run away.”

  “Come on, I told you a couple of hours. You already wasted three quarters of an hour.” Slate opened the door and went inside.

  George followed him into the lobby

  Slate shook out the umbrella. “Shitty day,” he said softly.

  “You got that right. Sorry it’s so nasty.” George apologized.

  “Hey, it’s okay. We won’t melt.”

  They took the elevator to the floor where the books on criminology were housed and found a table where they could talk quietly without disturbing anyone. It was time to get serious.

  “What are the goals of a Detective/Criminal Investigator?” Slate asked.

  “Find out what the crime is, safeguard the evidence, learn about the victim, determine the motive, track down suspects and use the evidence to arrest the criminal.”

  “Sounds easy, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but I know it isn’t.”

  “What’s the difference between a homicide and a criminal homicide?”

  “A homicide is the taking of a life. It could be accidental, justifiable, or negligent. A criminal homicide is murder. It’s not accidental, justifiable, or excusable.”

  “Good.” Slate found himself enjoying the session. He felt good about his abilities as a detective. It was the one area he felt confident about. “Okay, what’s the difference between first and second degree murder?”

  “Murder one is intentional, premeditated. Second degree is not premeditated. Like a man comes home and finds his wife in bed with another man and kills him. He intended to kill the guy, but it was a spur of the moment decision.”

  “Well, that could be voluntary manslaughter. There are mitigating circumstances. In the heat of passion. Reasonable provocation.”

  “Oh, that’s right. An argument that gets out of hand. Caught in the act—of adultery. So what in hell’s second degree?” George opened his notebook and began to take notes.”

  Slate thought of a situation. “Suppose a guy goes into a store to rob it, but the owner puts up a fight and the guy kills him with a can of beans.”

  “He doesn’t have a gun?”

  “No.”

  “So he isn’t planning violence?”

  “No, he just has his hand in his jacket and points his finger. He just wants to scare the guy into giving him some cash.”

  “Not very bright.”

  “Well, it happens.”

  “Right. Second degree with a can of beans. I love it. I ought to be able to remember that.” George put his hand on Slate’s.

  It was just a friendly, thank you kind of gesture, but the touch felt like electricity to Slate. He lost all thought of the exam for a moment and thought only of the man across the table. After a moment, he moved his hand. “I think you’ll do fine. Let’s see, next question.” He paused in thought. “If a murder victim’s body is found in City X but was committed in City Y, which city’s police department takes charge?”

  George leaned back in his chair, cocking his head for a moment, then he faced Slate directly. “Since the murder happened in City Y, that would be the actual crime scene and police there would take charge. City X is the secondary scene. Sometimes both departments would work together.”

  “What’s the difference between a defense wound and a hesitation wound?

  “Defense wounds are found on victims trying to shield themselves from attack. Like a guy holds up his arms to ward off someone with a knife and gets slashes on his arms. A hesitation wound is self-inflicted. In an attempted suicide a woman cuts her wrist, but she doesn’t really want to die, so the cut is small or shallow.” George grinned, knowing he had zeroed in on the target.

  “Good.” Slate was amazed at how quick George was on the answers, and he could sense George was feeling a bit smug. He decided to try to challenge him a bit more. “What would be difference between a body that’s been in the water for a week or buried in a dry climate or buried in snow and ice?” Slate could see the wheels turning as George tried to recall what he had studied.

  “Well, a body buried in ice and snow probably wouldn’t decompose. It’s like a piece of meat in the freezer.”

  Slate knew that since George had found a body in the river not long ago, he probably still had a very fresh and vivid image of the condition it was in. He watched George’s face as it reflected real disgust.

  “A body that’s been i
n the water a long time gets bloated and inflated and all the fat gets mushy. It’s also really stinks.” George grimaced. “A body that’s buried in a dry climate generally gets mummified. All the body fluids dry up and leave the tissues in fairly good condition.”

  Slate was impressed. He went on for another two hours, question after question. George drew a complete blank on two and was vague on about four others, but overall, he knew his stuff. By the end of the two hours, both were punch drunk. Slate began asking stupid questions just for fun. “What are ray people? What’s a rockette? What’s stuffin’ it?” By the time he got to: What’s a death fart?” both had lost it.

  “Gas from a corpse.” George laughed, slapping the table.

  “A gump?”

  Instead of giving the technical answer of a male transvestite prostitute, George said much too loudly, “A chick with a dick.” Both of them howled. Of, course it was not funny to others in the library. They had both already heard someone unseen “shush” them and ignored it. Now a very stern looking young woman with glasses marched up to the table. “I’m going to have to ask you both to leave,” She said. “I’m sorry but you’re making too much noise.”

  Slate felt like a schoolboy again, being reprimanded by his teacher. He apologized to the young lady, and both of them left as quickly as possible, bursting into laughter again as soon as they got outside. The rain had stopped. They walked to the parking lot behind the library.

  “When can I see you again?” George asked.

  “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Where do you wanna meet?”

  “I’ll come over to your place.” Slate answered.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “At seven o’clock?

  “Yes, seven or eight, whatever you say. God, you drive me crazy. I won’t sleep tonight.”

  “No, you have to sleep.” Slate said with a wide smile. “I want you well-rested.”

  “I think you’re just trying to tease me.”

  “I guess you’ll find out.”