The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  “So you hated his guts!”

  Jason scratched his nose and then his arm. “Yeah, but I didn’t kill the son of bitch.”

  “That’s what you want us to believe.”

  “That’s the fucking truth.” Jason’s voice rose to a yell.

  “Why you getting’ so hot under the collar?”

  “Jesus Christ! I’m not used to being accused of murder.”

  Changing the subject to ease the tension, Slate asked, “What about Lightfoot. Did you see him that night?”

  “No. He did hang around some. I saw him a couple of other times, but not that night. I was out the door as soon as Dr. Marin dismissed us.”

  “What was his relationship with Steven?”

  “Hell, I dunno. He was like a puppy dog, following him around.”

  “So you knew him?”

  “Yeah, I was in a couple of shows with him. He was always aloof.”

  “Explain.”

  “He was aloof. Didn’t say much. I tried to talk to him once. He grunted, mumbled. So I said to hell with him. You have to communicate in this business. You have to sell yourself. He was like a black hole. Who the hell needs it?”

  “How about the others in the group?” Slate picked up on his intensity and rhythm, jumping in on the same note. Anyone else in the show you know of had a problem with Steven or Lightfoot?”

  “I mind my own business.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m thirty. I came back to school to learn everything I could. I don’t pay attention to all the petty shit that goes on.”

  Suddenly, Jerry leaped up. “Listen, goddamit. We got two fucking murders. If you know anything, you better spill it.” His intensity surprised Slate as well as Jason.

  Jason was steaming. His body was twitching with random movements. His breathing was rapid. His voice loud. His attitude hostile and defensive. “All I know is that whole gay group is fucked up. You know, they’re a clique. They go out and party. I know they’ve experimented with drugs. The shit I’ve heard I wouldn’t trust any of ‘em.”

  “Give me an example. What’d you hear?” Slate demanded.

  “I heard some of Steven’s cronies talk about getting straight guys drunk and raping ‘em.”

  “Who? Who did you hear?”

  “I don’t know.” Jason said firmly, rising to his feet.

  “You’re a fucking liar,” Jerry yelled.

  “All of ‘em. All of ‘em were talking. Steven, Joe, Randy, Tim Wheeler.” He looked away.”

  Slate jumped up and grabbed his shirt, turning him so that he could look in his eyes. “Who did they rape?”

  Jason stared a moment at Slate—eyeball to eyeball. His expression hateful. His breathing rapid. Finally he took a deep breath, composed himself and said in a flat voice, “I don’t know. There were just planning it. Someone had some PCB. I heard ‘em one night after rehearsal. They were in the dressing room next to mine.

  “Did they do it?” Jerry chimed in.

  “Somebody did. I heard a couple of ‘em talking the next night. One of them did, but I couldn’t figure out who. One was telling the other. They were laughing and whispering.”

  “So you don’t know who got raped or who did it?”

  “No, and the less I know the better.” Jason moved toward the door.

  “Can I go now?”

  “What’s your hurry?” Jerry teased.

  Jason sneered back. “Cause that’s all I know, and I’m sick of you assholes, that’s why!”

  “Go,” Slate said. “And thanks.”

  Jason stormed out, muttering under his breath. “Yeah, sure. Eat shit and die.”

  “Finally something new!” Slate announced as soon as the door slammed.

  “Yeah, finally. Jesus, what a bunch of twisted freaks!”

  “You think one of ‘em did that?”

  “Why would he lie? If one of them can commit murder, he sure as hell can commit rape.”

  “You hear about it happening to women, but I’ve never heard it happening to a man.”

  Jerry laughed. “Are you fucking naive or what?”

  “No, no, it makes sense. I just never heard of it in Wichita.”

  “No man that gets raped is gonna say anything. Besides, if they used that date rape drug, he might not even know it happened. He wouldn’t remember anything.”

  “Shit, you’re right. So who was the victim?”

  “Or victims?”

  “You think Lightfoot?” That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking too.”

  “You think there’s more?”

  “Well, let’s ask.”

  They went through the rest of the cast. Janelle—alias Jonny—Purkey, the girl who played the spaced out wife Harper in the play—was shocked. She knew nothing. She assured them that the gay guys were just fun kids and would never do anything like that.

  Monica Louis who played the angel and the crazy bag lady was somewhat of an air head. She was a total outsider that auditioned on a lark and got cast. She didn’t know the others in the cast very well and didn’t hang around with them.

  Aaron Biggs denied that the discussion about seducing straight boys ever happened.

  Hearing that, Slate locked eyes with Jerry for a moment. Then he gave Aaron a smile and said calmly, “What do you mean it never happened? We have a witness that identified your voice along with others.”

  Aaron remained cool. Slate couldn’t see any sign on his face that betrayed any emotion. He appeared to be deep in thought. After a moment he smiled and said, “Oh, yeah, we joked around one night that maybe some straight guys might like it, but that’s all.” He looked straight into Slate’s eyes. “You know, it was just talk.”

  Jerry nodded as though he understood the joke. “You didn’t go out and party and really do it? That’s what you’re saying.”

  “Hell, no. I mean—come on.” Slate watched the expressions flash across Aaron’s face. First he seemed a bit surprised, then a little disgusted, and finally an innocent voice said, “You fuck around with some straight guy, it’s a good way to get beaten up. Besides, there’s no need. There’s plenty of gays available.”

  “Tell us about that night. Who was there when you were joking around?”

  “We all were. We were in Steven’s dressing room after rehearsal. Joe and Tim were there—I think Randy came in for a minute.“

  Jerry shifted his weight in the chair. “What about Steven?”

  “Yeah, but he left. He didn’t stick around. I was the stage manager so I had to stay until everyone left so I could to lock up.”

  Slate decided to play along. “So you joked about straight guys? Tell us about it.”

  “Yeah, I mean it was no big deal. It was a couple a minutes, you know. You can tell me you haven’t seen a few hot chicks and made comments about fucking ‘em. It was like that. Tim said he’d seen a hot guy in the shower at the gym. Steven teased him about getting it on with a jock. Tim said he wished that was true.”

  “But Tim didn’t go out and rape the guy?” Slate continued.

  “Tim? No, of course not. No way.” Aaron’s way of putting it suggested that Tim was incapable of such a thing.

  “You’re sure about that.”

  “He’d have told me.”

  Jerry sighed heavily and stood up. “So that’s it, huh? Just a joke and no one got hurt.”

  Aaron looked up at him with his boyish grin and said, “That’s it.”

  Jerry yelled, “Fuck!”

  Slate told Aaron he could go and watched him walk to the door, open it and leave. There was no expression on Aaron’s face.

  After he was gone, Jerry slammed a chair against the table. Jesus. Another fucking wasted day. I don’t believe this. And I don’t believe that kid either.”

  Slate was surprised. “Aaron, hell he’s as innocent as they come. He’s a homespun little Kansas boy. You don’t really think he’d rape someone?”

 
“Maybe he didn’t, but he knows more’n he’s saying. I gotta a feelin.”

  “You just want it to be true. Hell, I do too. It’s just wacked enough to tie into this whole murder.

  There was a knock at the door. Jerry yelled out for the person to come in. It was Derek Colson, the kid with the lop-sided grin, bleached blond hair, big nose and pimples. Slate flicked through his notebook, finding the scratches he’s made when they had last interviewed him: “Hangs with gays—I’m not gay—never had sex with anyone.”

  Jerry began the interview. “So what’s new?”

  “Show’s going great. It’s the first time we’re run a show for two weeks, but audiences have been great, more than we’ve ever had before.”

  Slate watched Derek’s expressions and mannerisms. He was a bit effeminate in his gestures and his bleached hair cut in the latest style seen in Out magazine was another clue. Slate decided that Derek had to be gay. Maybe he just didn’t know it yet.

  “We heard an interesting story,” Jerry went on. “Seems some Steven’s friends in the show were joking about getting in the pants of a straight guy, so one of ‘em doctored his drink with PCB and raped him. You hear anything about that?”

  “No—no.” Derek stammered, his face turning crimson.

  “You sure?” Jerry pushed. “You look guilty as hell.”

  Derek shook his head. “I—I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Come on, Derek, were you there? You know—one night after rehearsal you were sitting around with your buddies—“

  “No, no, we never talked about something like that—“

  Sensing that he was lying, Slate jumped on him. “We have witnesses, Derek. Come on now. You were there.”

  “No, I wasn’t—”

  “But you heard about it, didn’t you? Don’t lie?”

  Derek sputtered, “I’m not—I’m not lying.” He looked like he was on the verge of tears.

  Slate hammered away at him. “You know something, Derek. It’s right in your face. Now tell us what you know.”

  Jerry jumped in. “D’you rape someone, Derek? Did you get your jollies after some guy passed out.”

  That’s was enough to send Derek over the edge. Tears gushed from his eyes and sobs of pain deep in his soul erupted. “It was me. They got me drunk and they fucked me when I passed out.”

  “Who? Who are we talking about, Derek?”

  “I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No. I was out cold.”

  “So how’d you know?”

  “I just did.”

  “How’d you know? Who told you?”

  “No one. I just knew.”

  “Look, don’t protect them. Whoever did this is a piece of shit.”

  Derek paused and looked away. Finally he mumbled, “I—I found a condom hanging out of my ass. And I felt sore.”

  “Jesus!” Jerry swore. “Unbelievable.”

  Slate continued pushing. “So what’d you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You did nothing.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Maybe you got revenge. Maybe you decided to give Steven a little payback with a pipe.”

  “No, no, that wasn’t me.”

  “So you just let them fuck you and you do nothing.”

  “What—what could I do? Shit, we were all drunk and high. They’re my friends.”

  “Some friends!”

  “Well, they’re better’n nothing.” Derek broke down again. He hid his face but his back shook and he gasped for air.

  Jerry and Slate looked at each other. Both felt sorry for the kid. Jerry looked at his watch and jumped up. “Shit, it’s five-thirty.”

  Slate patted Derek on the back. “Do you know if they did this to anyone else? Lightfoot maybe?”

  Derek shook his head, mumbling “I don’t know.”

  “You can go. You still have my card.” Derek nodded. “

  You think of anything else, call me. Okay?” Derek nodded again and walked out, not looking at them.

  Slate and Jerry thanked Mr. Joslyn on the way out for letting them use his office, and after offering more pleasantries about the show, they left. Jerry made the drive back to the office at a heart-pounding speed with the tires squealing in protest around each corner. He sped down the street, careened into the lot behind the station and braked to a stop at the very bottom of the steps.

  “You in a hurry or something?” Slate managed to gasp as he pried his white knuckles from the bar on the door.

  “I got a furniture delivery coming between six and eight. Got myself a new Lazy Boy recliner.”

  Slate climbed out, saying “Have fun. See you tomorrow—“As soon as he shut the door, Jerry backed up and took off, leaving Slate coughing in the swirl of exhaust fumes.

  That night his mother called. When she had gone to visit his father that morning, she found that he was having trouble breathing. He had developed bronchitis, and that on top of his emphysema was not good. Since he had the strokes, he hadn’t been able to cough up the mucus that filled up his lungs at times. His mother had often worried that he might choke to death or stopped breathing. The veteran’s home had called an ambulance and he was now in the hospital.

  “They also found that his sugar level was five or six times normal,” his mother said. “That’s probably why he’s been sleeping so much lately.

  “Why? What caused it?” Slate was concerned—more for his mother than his father. She seemed calm but vague.

  “I don’t know. The doctor said something about it, but I didn’t understand it. Anyway they have him on this medicine that’s supposed to help. They have oxygen there too if he needs it.

  “How are you holding up,” Slate asked.

  “Oh, I’m tired, but I’m all right. I’m always tired,” she said.

  “Well, get some rest.”

  “I will. I’ll sleep tonight.”

  But she didn’t and he didn’t—at least not long. At three o’clock in the morning she called to tell him that his father had died.

  CHAPTER 32

  A NEW SUIT

  When the alarm went off, Slate just couldn’t make himself get up. He hit the snooze alarm five times, every ten minutes. When he got up, he called George. As they talked, he decided that he needed a new suit for the funeral. He and George agreed to have dinner and go shopping that evening. By the time he finally showered, had breakfast, called his daughters and fed Cain he was two hours late for work. He didn’t care. He knew the boss would forgive him when he found out his father had died. Jerry called him at ten. Slate explained his situation and told Jerry he was on his way.

  Slate dragged through the rest of the day as he and Jerry followed through with more interviews with the students. Aaron and Tim were noticeably absent from the school. By four o’clock Slate was burned out and decided to quit for the day. The boss assigned Remy to work with Jerry while Slate was out of town. Slate went home.

  Cain was glad to see him. Slate gave him some food and fresh water and took a nap for twenty minutes. He could fall asleep easily in the daytime. He set the alarm and lay on his back with his arms lightly resting on his chest. He focused on his breathing and on the darkness. He was asleep in three minutes. Cain hopped up on the bed and curled up next to him and went to sleep too.

  That night after a steak dinner at Outback, Slate and George went shopping, a very rare experience for Slate. He needed a new suit for the funeral. He had not bought one since Jodie had helped him pick one out two or three years earlier. Now he wanted George’s advice. After trying on a dozen or more at such stores as Penney’s and Sears, Slate was convinced by George to try Dillards. The next thing Slate knew he was emerging from the dressing room wearing a thousand-dollar Italian suit.

  “It’s a nice color,” George said as he walked around Slate looking him up and down.

  “Yeah, I like it. I like the color,” Slate agreed.

  �
��It looks good with your skin.”

  “It fits well, I think.”

  “I should think so,” George said as he lifted up the back of the jacket to see how it fit Slate’s ass. “It’s my job to make sure you look sharp.”

  “Yeah, but do you think it’s well made. I want to be able to wear it to work. I want it to last.”

  “Look it’s made by one of the best there is—“

  Slate smiled, “Ha! It should be for the cost.”

  “Unhook ‘em at the waist and unzip ‘em so I can check the seam.”

  “Here.”

  “Yes, here. No one’s looking. Besides, this is the men’s department.”

  Slate unhooked the waistband and unzipped the fly, holding the pants on each side so they didn’t fall down around his ankles.

  George pulled the seat out so that he could look inside. “Good. They left plenty of extra in the seam in case you have to have it let out.” He gave Slate’s ass a fond stroke before letting go of the trousers.

  “That’s good. In case I gain a few pounds.”

  “You haven’t put on a pound since you were twenty-five except muscle. From the pictures I’ve seen, you still look the same.”

  Slate hooked the waistband and zipped up. “You think so?” He buttoned the coat again and stood tall and erect in front of the mirror, turning first to one side and then the other. “How do I look?”

  “Handsome and hunky.” George whispered.

  “Are you getting a commission if you sell me this suit?” Slate laughed.

  With a convincing serious manner, George replied. “You look distinguished.”

  “You don’t think it’s too—“

  George cut him off. “No.”

  “It’s not—ah—?”

  “No—Not a bit.”

  “I wanted black, not blue.”

  “It’s a dark blue.”

  “But black is what I originally wanted.” In spite of the banter, his father’s funeral stayed in his mind.”

  “As I remember it, we discussed black and blue. You left it up to me to decide. Black is too extreme. Too severe.”

  “But I told you from the start I wanted black.”