The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  He was at the County Fair, fourteen-years-old, and feeling good. He had drunk two beers and the colored lights and the music and the screams from couples on the rides made him giddy. He and his cousins walked around the midway and went for a ride on the Ferris wheel and the swings. He ate a corn dog. Like a flash of lightning he then found himself sitting on a bail of hay outside a barn. He was drinking another beer. It was dark, but the sky was bright from the lights of the fair. His uncle put his hand between Slate’s legs and began rubbing his crotch. Slate was enjoying the feeling but full of fear that someone might see. His uncle led him into the barn. Slate couldn’t see anything, but in the darkness he could feel his pants being pulled down and a wet mouth covering his erection. Suddenly, Slate heard his father yelling at him. He felt panic. “I have to go. It’s my father. I have to go,” he whispered, but the hands in the dark held him. He tried to get away, but he couldn’t. He screamed, “No,” and sat upright in bed, suddenly awake, covered with sweat.

  “I don’t need this,” he said to himself. He lay back down and tried to relax his body, but sleep didn’t come for another hour.

  The next morning he and Jeanne got up early to drive back to Wichita before work. On the way home Slate talked to his daughter about staying with Emily at Dr. Gellerson’s house, and they both agreed it was a good idea. Slate intended to talk to the doctor as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE SMILEY FACE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN

  When they got back home, Slate picked up the paper from the front porch the next morning. He carried it back inside and sat down with his coffee before he slipped off the orange plastic bag and saw the screaming headlines: “ANOTHER COLLEGE STUDENT BRUTALLY MURDERED”.

  When he got to work, he could tell Jerry was in a state of shock as much as he was.

  “Jesus, I can’t believe it,” Slate said.

  “I’m with you partner,” Jerry shrugged.

  One of the other detectives called out as they walked by. “Boss man is on a rampage.”

  “We could just go back out to the car and see what we can find out,” Jerry said flatly.

  “I’m not leaving.” Slate said softly, “If the shit’s on its way, it might as well hit the fan now as later.” The thought of being the target of the boss’ rage didn’t faze Slate. He’d been there, done that. He didn’t give a flying fuck. He watched as the boss walked forcefully toward his desk. Another detective named Smitty called out to him, but the boss ignored him.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Chief Norm Williams slammed the newspaper down on Slate’s desk. “What is this shit?” He voice was intense, even shaking a bit because of his rage. He wiped his forehead with his hand.

  Slate could see that he was sweating. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Don’t play with me, Slate. I ain’t in the mood.”

  “I really don’t know,” Slate answered.

  The Chief turned to Jerry. “All right, goddamn it, are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  “We don’t know.” Slate said again.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You better fucking know.”

  “We are following every goddamn lead,” Jerry said. “So far we’ve come up with nothing. We searched for this Lightfoot all last week. We talked to his neighbor, his sister, his brother. We talked to his teachers and other students. We came up with zip.”

  The Chief picked up the paper and hit the desk with it to punctuate his words. “Now we got another dead student and my ass is frying in the fire.” He threw the newspaper across the room. “Where the hell were you this weekend? I tried calling you five times last night.”

  “I was visiting my parents in Hutchinson,” Slate explained.

  “I was at the hospital with my wife,” Jerry noted.

  Chief Williams shook his head. “And you didn’t turn on your fucking cell phones. You’re both schmucks.”

  “You know, there are times, Chief, when we both try to have a life.” Jerry said. His voice was cool, but Slate could sense the heat rising. “Why didn’t you leave a message?”

  “I ain’t leaving a message. You know the drill.”

  “They didn’t identify the body until late last night,” Slate snapped. “No one fucking called us. We read it in the paper.”

  “For chrissake, guys, get out there and find this guy. The mayor crawled up my ass before I even had my coffee this morning.”

  Jerry burst out laughing. “You either got a big ass or we got a small mayor.”

  Even though he tried not to show it, even the boss cracked a grin for a moment over that.

  “The mayor’s about the size of a gerbil. The same beady little eyes.” Slate said out of the side of his mouth to Jerry.

  The Chief lost it at that moment. He usually kept his voice low, even when he was pissed, but now the words tumbled out at full volume. “Cut the fucking jokes. Get out there and find this cocksucker. Now. Or the mayor’s gonna be coming for your ass next, followed by President Harmon, the Board of Trustees and all the rest of them sons of bitches. I want some results, and I want ‘em quick.” With that he turned on his heel and stormed back to his office. Everyone on the entire floor had stopped whatever they were doing and stared.

  “Let’s go see Phyllis,” Slate said. As he and Jerry walked out, reactions from the others varied. Some looked away or down at their shoes. One gave a reassuring slap on the back to Jerry. Several grinned, obviously glad it wasn’t them. Smitty whispered to Slate as he walked past, “You do have a nice ass.”

  At the morgue they found Phyllis and got the full report over coffee in her office. Robin Lightfoot had been found in an area in North Riverside Park on the west side of the river where gays were known to cruise. He had been slashed and stabbed eleven times in the chest. There were also defensive wounds on his arms. No weapon was found, but the stab wounds were not wide and no deeper than three to four inches, indicating that it was probably hunting knife. The slashes were like razor cuts. The killer had evidently honed the blade very deliberately and carefully. In the center of the stab wounds was another smiley face sticker.

  “Jesus Christ,” Slate hissed. “This guy is getting worse.”

  “He’s feeling powerful,” Jerry said. “He got away with the first one. Lightfoot must have known something. He must have been a threat, so the killer got rid of him too.”

  Phyllis sat back in her chair, looking worried. “Slate, I heard you had a call from him too.”

  “You still got a watch on your house.” Jerry asked with a very serious look.

  “You’re crazy,” Slate said. “He’s not coming after me.”

  Jerry’s look showed that he didn’t agree with Slate. “What if he thinks you’re getting close?”

  “He’s not gonna kill a cop.”

  “What about Jeanne?” Phyllis asked.

  “I was wondering if she could come to your house,” Slate jumped in.

  “Yes, just what I was going to say. You can’t be with her every minute,” Phyllis reasoned. “This guy—whoever he is—won’t know she’s moved out—unless he’s watching your house every minute, which I don’t believe. Emily can stay with her all the time I’m gone and they can also put a car on Jeanne.”

  “Fuck his mother where she breathes.” Slate swore, slamming his hand against the doorframe.

  “Lovely language,” Phyllis said.

  Slate turned to Phyllis, “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’d feel the same way, believe me.” Phyllis grinned.

  “I talked to Jeanne yesterday. She’d like to come over.”

  “Great. I’ll have Emily take her home after school to pack a bag and then come to my house. You can call to check on her anytime.”

  “I will.” Slate started to open the door.

  “Oh, one other thing,” Phyllis said, stopping him. “The victim had worn the same clothes for several days. They were pretty ripe. His underwear stained with urine and feces. I don’t think he’d ha
d a bath or changed clothes in at least a week.”

  “Probably hiding out somewhere,” Jerry commented.

  “That’s what I think,” Phyllis agreed.

  Slate opened the door. “Come on, Jerry. Let’s go find this son of a bitch.” They drove to the university, parking behind Duncan Auditorium, and made their way to the Commons. A security officer was there and asked to see their ID’s. He was a young guy, obviously a bit spooked. Seeing their badges, he apologized all over the place. Slate slapped him on the shoulder and thanked him for doing his job. They went to the theatre office.

  “What’s happening?” Heather asked, her tone ironic. “All hell’s broken loose.”

  “Is the boss in?”

  “No, the President called Dr. Hariot at eight this morning.

  He’s been over there ever since.”

  “Anyone else around?” Jerry asked.

  “Marin’s in her office, and Dave and Florence. The first theatre classes are at 9:30. Marin has an acting class in the studio. Florence has a costume class upstairs in room 202.”

  “What about students?” Slate asked soberly.

  “Some. They still have fifteen minutes.”

  “Let’s got upstairs first.” Slate nodded to Jerry.

  They took the stairs. “What the hell are we doing here? Jerry asked.

  “Fuck do I know.” Slate exhaled and looked though the glass window in the door of the costume shop. Florence, dressed in a soft and flowing, floral print dress with muted colors, was talking to a small group of students. Slate opened the door. All conversation stopped. They had obviously been talking about the latest murder.

  “Detective Slater,” Florence greeted him warmly. “I guess you’re here about Robin.”

  Slate nodded. “This is my partner, Detective Blake.” Jerry and Florence shook hands.

  “Hi. Well—ah—these are my students. This is Susie and Aaron and Jennifer.” Susie was short with a mop of frizzy black hair. She was wearing a black skirt and a skimpy blue top. Jennifer was a big woman, tall and beautiful, with dark hair and eyes and creamy skin. She wore a red shirt with dark blue slacks. Aaron Biggs in a black tee shirt and jeans, looked about the same as when Slate had seen him last.

  “So did you all know Robin?”

  “Not very well,” Florence answered. “I did a couple of costumes for him. He came in for fittings. Never said, ‘Boo.’”

  Jerry and Slate looked at the students. “I didn’t know him at all,” said Susie. “I saw him at auditions once, that’s all.”

  Jennifer said, “I was in a show with him last year. He just had a small part, and he was in my acting two class. I didn’t really know him though. He didn’t talk much.”

  They looked at Aaron. “I knew him, but not very well,” he said. “Like Jenny said, he didn’t say much.”

  “Anything at all strange in the last week?” Jerry asked.

  The three students all laughed. Florence smiled. “It’s all been very strange,” she said. “Everyone is paranoid.”

  “And scared,” Susie added.

  “There’s a suspicion of everyone,” Jennifer said. “We look at our friends and wonder if it could be one of them. And nobody wants to be alone. I’m transferring out of here. I can’t wait until the semester is over.”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to lose a lot of students,” Florence added.

  Slate nodded.

  “We’ve all been really busy doing the show.” Aaron said. “I just keep going over and over my lines. I try not to think about it.”

  “Have any of you seen Robin Lightfoot backstage?” Slate asked. “Any time during rehearsals or at the show?”

  Aaron shook his head. A couple of times he came to rehearsals to see Steven, but he wasn’t there long. I never talked to him.”

  “Have you seen him at all in the last month or so?” Aaron and the others all shook their heads. The feeling of frustration surged through Slate’s body. He wanted some answers. He and Jerry thanked them and walked back down the stairs. They went to Marin Powers’ office. She was getting ready for class.

  She looked up as they tapped on the open door and immediately said, “I hope you find this guy soon.”

  “Did you know Robin very well?” Jerry asked, rubbing his nose. Slate noticed her perfume was a little overwhelming.

  “I had him in class. He wasn’t a very good actor. Too up tight. I kept trying to get him to loosen up. You have to get rid of all your inhibitions if you’re gonna act.” She laughed, a loud nervous cackle. “He had so many layers of protection. I never could get him to show enough emotion.”

  “Any idea who might have wanted to hurt him?” Slate asked.

  “No, none at all.” She answered. “He was always quiet. Other students didn’t like working with him in scenes. They have to do three scenes with partners in my class, and it was hard to work that out. But it had nothing to do with Robin as a person. He just didn’t give much, that’s all. I can’t imagine anyone who would do it.”

  Marin tended to ramble on and on, punctuating her speech with her booming laugh, and both Slate and his partner began to lose interest. It seemed that she had no helpful information until she remarked that Robin had worshipped Steven Davis. “His talent,” she explained. “Robin was always watching Steve. Steve even complained to me that Robin was stalking him. I told him about Robin’s desire to learn from him and brought them together. Steve talked to him a lot about how he approached a role—his thoughts and ideas about acting.”

  “So they were close?” Jerry asked.

  “They were friends. Steve liked having the hero worship, and after I talked to him, he was nice to Robin.”

  “Were they more than friends?”

  “You mean sex? I don’t think so. Robin was straight—as far as I know.” She laughed.

  “Did you see them together in the last few weeks?” Jerry pressed harder.

  “Oh, sure. I know that they had worked out some kind of arrangement. Steve told me that Robin came to watch an early rehearsal. And I saw them sitting out there in the lounge, talking, once in a while.”

  “Can you remember when? Day? Time?” Slate asked.

  “No, it was four or five weeks ago. Probably late in the afternoon. I get out of class at three-thirty.”

  They thanked Marin and left.

  “Let’s see if we can find his girlfriend,” Slate said. “Heather can probably find her address.” They went to Heather’s office. Slate noticed that her hair was different. “New hair do looks great,” he told her.

  She flashed him a smile. “It’s supposed to make me look younger.”

  “It does,” Slate agreed. “You look like one of the students.”

  Heather laughed. “Okay, whadayah want?”

  “Can you find us an address for Cathy McDermott?”

  “She’s a student, right?”

  “Right, but not a theatre major. She is taking an acting class though.”

  “It may take a few minutes. I’ll have to find her social security number.” She went to a file cabinet and pulled out a file and began looking through class rolls. “Found it,” she said after looking through nearly every one. She went to her computer and began clicking away at the keys. Slate was amazed to see her hands fly over the keyboard. She really knew her stuff. It was impressive. Seconds later she had Cathy’s vital statistics on the screen. “Twenty-three Waldron Street.”

  “Can you print that out for us?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Slate’s shocked look made her laugh. “What’s it worth to yuh?” She grinned.

  Jerry laughed, tuning in to her teasing.“It might just save our ass.” He explained his remark. “The boss was all over us this morning. All we got is questions and no answers. This might help—“

  “That’s a beautiful suit.” Slate interrupted. “I love that peach color. It’s a great contrast to your eyes.”

  Heather hit a few more keys and the printer began whining. Jerry
rubbed his neck.

  “I think she liked my answer better,” Slate told him.

  Heather handed him the sheet of paper with Cathy’s record on it. “Good luck,” she said.

  Slate and Jerry thanked her. On their way out, Jerry turned to her and said with an understanding grin, “I agree with my partner about your suit. Very sexy.”

  CHAPTER 29

  THE GROWING QUESTIONS AND DESPERATION

  They followed Cathy McDermot into her apartment in a relatively new complex near the university. It was cheaply built with nothing but the basics. Slate could hear the television on in the next apartment. Cathy was an intellectual type, dressed like a typical coed in dark slacks and a blouse but definitely on the conservative side. She had short dark hair and glasses. As they sat down, she lit a cigarette. Her eyes were red, and there was a pile of Kleenex on the coffee table.

  “I guess you want to know about Robin.” She bit her lip to keep the tears back.

  “How long did you know each other,” Slate asked.

  “A couple of years off and on.”

  “You didn’t go steady?”

  “We did for a while. Then we broke up, got back together, broke up again. He drove me crazy.” For the first time her mood lightened and Slate could see the glimpse of a smile.

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was moody. Sometimes he’d be fun. We’d do things together. Study. Go see a movie. Cook dinner together. But sometimes he’d just withdraw into a shell. He wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t respond to anything I said. I’d pick a fight. He’d take off. I wouldn’t see him for days.”

  Jerry cleared his throat. “So were you on or off—recently—before he was attacked?”

  “More or less off. About two months ago we broke up. I told him that was it. Over. Finished. I even started dating other guys. I was surprised when he called me last week. He said he wanted to talk. I couldn’t—I couldn’t go through all that again. I told him no and hung up.” This confession brought a new batch of tears. “He needed me, but—I didn’t know that.”