The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  “You also said you liked blue.“

  “I think I look better in black.”

  `“You said it was my decision—“

  “But I made it clear—“

  “You left it up to me. And I say the dark blue pin stripe is better.”

  “You’re right. I did. Yes, that was my last word, but—“

  “Black is black. It’s drab. Black is like a hole. This catches the light. And when it does, it’s far richer looking than the black. Yet the dark blue suits you.”

  “You like this better than black?”

  “The bad guys wear black. You’re one of the good guys. Right? At least you’re supposed to be.”

  Slate grinned. “That’s good. That’s very good. I like that.

  “You’ll have an easier time fooling people with the navy blue.”

  “You think I look good in it?”

  “You’d look good in anything.”

  “Well, that changes everything.”

  “It does. Why do you say that?”

  Slate laughed. “I could wear black. I look good in black.”

  George grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him close, a wide smirk on his face. His voice was low and purring. “You look good in that blue. Now, goddamit, buy it.”

  “Okay.”

  George let go. “Thank you.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “It’s a beautiful suit.”

  “Blue it is. I do look good, don’t I?” Slate turned and looked into the mirror over his shoulder to see the suit from the back.

  Exasperated, George sighed heavily, “Yes.”

  Suddenly with a glint in his eye, Slate shook his head. “I hate it.”

  “I know, but you’ll have to wear it anyway,” George said firmly, keeping the banter going.

  “Right.”

  George growled. “You’ll learn to like it.”

  Slate played the innocent. “You’re right. It’ll grow on me. I just wasn’t expecting dark blue.”

  “Right.”

  Slate faced the mirror and grinned a cocky grin. “I do look good in it though. Handsome devil.”

  “Would you just shut the fuck up and buy the suit?” George hissed and pinched Slate’s ass.

  Slate gasped, turning to George. “Oww!” George gave him a menacing look, and Slate laughed. “I love it. I do.”

  “Good.”

  “Blue. Dark blue is all right.” With one last look in the mirror, Slate went back into the dressing room to take the suit off. As he closed the door, he heard George say in a soft voice, “Thank you, God.” So just for fun, he slipped off the suit and stuck his head out and said, “I hate it,” and quickly shut the door. Seconds later George opened the door and entered the booth. Slate, standing there in his under shorts, pulled George into his arms. “I knew that would get you in here.” Their kiss was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Just a minute,” Slate called out. He quickly dressed and the two of them walked calmly past the man waiting outside. He paid no attention to them. Slate paid for the suit with his credit card, and the two hurried out of the store.

  “My place or yours?” Slate asked.

  “Yours. My car is there.”

  They drove home. Once inside they continued the kiss that had been so rudely interrupted. Feeling tired, Slate told George he wasn’t sure he was up to having sex. “Why don’t you fix us a drink? And I’ll take a quick shower.”

  “Sure,” George agreed.

  On his way to the bedroom, Slate saw the red lighting on his phone. He listened to the message. “I know where you live. Revenge is sweet.” It was the same gravelly voice. It sent shivers up his spine. Slate’s face was set grimly as he replaced the receiver. He hated having to go home for the funeral. “Nothing must go wrong now we’re so close,” he thought to himself, immediately feeling guilty. This was one time when family must come before the job. He went to the bedroom, stripped off his clothes.

  In the bathroom, he turned the hot water on high and let it run. The shower was quickly filled with steam. He adjusted the water to a temperature he could tolerate and climbed in.

  A few moments later, he heard a “Hello.”

  George drew back the heavy shower curtain, stepped naked into the tub, and pulled the curtain closed behind him. “I could hardly fight my way to the tub through all this steam,” he grinned.

  Slate gazed at him over his shoulder, startled. “I... like hot showers. They relax me.”

  “You don’t look relaxed.”

  “You surprised me. I’m used to showering alone.”

  “We’re not showering.” He leaned forward, his gaze on his face. The tanned flesh of his cheekbones gleamed with a moist luster through the steamy mist, and his light blue eyes were narrowed and intent. “Kiss me.”

  Slate’s heart began to beat harder. “What?”

  “Kiss me.”

  Slate slowly obeyed him. He leaned still closer and touched his tongue with his own for only a few seconds. The very brevity of the touch made it all the more intimate. Quickly they came together for a passionate wet kiss that took his breath away.

  “Nice.” George stroked his cheek. “Now face the wall, lean forward, and put your hands on the tiles.”

  Slate laughed shakily. “Perhaps we’d better get out and go to bed.”

  “What a lack of imagination,” George murmured as he took a handful of body wash. “Don’t look at me and do exactly as I tell you.”

  Slate turned around and rested his palms on the tiles. “Is this a game?”

  “Oh, yes, a very sensuous game.” With slow circular movements George rubbed the soap onto his chest and belly. “Now spread your legs.” He slipped his hand between Slate’s thighs, rubbing slowly back and forth.

  The muscles of Slate’s stomach tightened as he felt the slickness of the soap, the warm hand caressing that most intimate part of his body. His chest was lifting and falling as he tried to force air into his constricted lungs. The steam was hot, filling his lungs as George was stroking his body “What—brought this on?”

  George leaned forward and his mouth kissed Slate’s left ear as he removed his fingers. “I suppose I got to thinking about how nice it was last time.” His palms began to massage Slate’s buttocks. Erotic sensation sent a shiver through Slate’s body and caused an involuntary moan.

  George’s warm, moist tongue entered his left ear. “Want to play?”

  Slate hesitated. “I’m not sure I’d be good at it.”

  “You don’t have to do anything.” George widened his stance, pressing against him. “Let me do it all. You’re a slave. You must obey my command. Let me play with you as if you were a pretty toy.” His lips brushed the sensitive place just behind Slate’s ear. “Now you’re bound to me. Can you feel it?”

  His upper teeth sank into his lower lip. “Yes.”

  “Do you want the cavalry to come along and rescue you?”

  He drew a deep, shaky breath. “No.”

  “That’s good. Kansas is deplorably low on cavalry these days.” His hand slid around and pressed hard on Slate’s belly as he slowly rotated his hips. “You like this?”

  “Yes.” Slate closed his eyes tightly and his palms splayed against the smooth, wet tile.

  Slate’s mouth hung open as he reveled in the sensations. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. He felt totally subjugated, not only by George but by his own sexuality. The slow, torturous seduction continued for minutes that seemed like hours. He could hear George’s heavy breathing behind him, felt the slickness of his wet hands on his hips. He began to make low, growling sounds deep in his throat.

  “Do you want to move?” George whispered in his ear.

  Slate swallowed. “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Very much.”

  “Tell me how you feel.” His hands moved around to pinch his nipples. One hand wandered down and began to stroke him.

  “I—ache.”

  “
And you wanna move?” Slate nodded.

  “So move.” George swatted him lightly on the ass. “Now.”

  Slate bucked backward as if released from restraints, pushing against George. He grabbed a towel and dried off before stretching out on the bed.

  Slate was discovering he liked anything and everything George did to him. “Being with you is like riding a roller-coaster. You ever been on the Tornado?”

  George laughed. “No, but I’d like to” He turned off the shower and grabbed a towel. As he moved into the bedroom, Slate grabbed his hand and pulled him on to the bed beside him. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “I thought you were tired.”

  “I just got a second wind.” Slate grinned and crawled on top of him. George started to say something, but Slate stopped his mouth with a kiss.

  CHAPTER 33

  ANOTHER FUNERAL

  Slate was glad that both daughters had come for the funeral. They arrived the next morning. He fixed lunch, gave Cain enough food and water for thirty-six hours, and by early afternoon they were on their way to Hutchinson. It was great to have the girls together again. Even though they were very different, they had many things in common. Their chatter kept Slate’s mind off both the case he was working on and the death of his father. After they settled in at the house in Hutchinson, he cooked dinner for the family and did the dishes. After that he drove them all to the Funeral Home for the viewing. Slate had attended his uncle’s funeral at the same place. It was an old remodeled house located on Center Street in downtown Hutchinson.

  As Slate drove into the parking lot, he remembered his uncle’s funeral. Everyone had been somber and quiet except for the youngest daughter who cried loudly and bitched to anyone who would listen how her father’s new wife had shut her out. Slate’s guts churned as the image of his uncle in his coffin slammed into his mind. He remembered looking at the man with no feeling of sympathy, with images flashing in his brain of the man doing things to him and the feelings of being dirty.

  Slate walked with his mother into the main entryway. His daughters followed behind him. They were greeted by a well-dressed man who ushered them into the appropriate room. He was oh-so-somber-and-slick and saying all the right things in a respectful but somehow patronizing way that made Slate’s skin crawl.

  The room was softly lit with the open casket at the front of the room in the center. Facing it were rows of chairs. Piped in organ music played softly in the background. Inside the room there was a buzz of quiet conversation. Other relatives and friends had already gathered and stood or sat in small groups talking.

  His mother was immediately enveloped by various well wishers. Slate and his daughters moved to some seats in the back row and sat down. His Aunt Flora made a beeline for them. She spoke to each of them, complimenting Beth on her new dress, asking Jeannine about graduation, and telling Slate that his father’s death was a blessing because he was no longer suffering.

  Slate loved Aunt Flora. She had always been his favorite aunt. She was always so positive and upbeat and when he was younger and shy, she had always initiated conversation that made him feel comfortable and included. He watched her now with his daughters and loved her even more.

  Slate’s niece Debbie and her three kids were there. Slate had great affection for her son, Simon. He was very bright and outgoing. They were at the coffin paying their respects when Slate approached. Simon was rubbing his father’s head and was somehow fascinated by the inert, cold body. Debbie tried to pull him away, but he insisted on staying. He continued rubbing his father’s head and told her, “He likes it.”

  Slate looked at his father. His mind traveled back over all the years to random thoughts and images. The night when he was about twelve that he peeked into his parent’s room and saw his father performing oral sex with his mother. The night he was home from college and they had gotten into a fight and threw all the plates and food from the table at the walls and ceiling. He chuckled to himself as he remembered his father nailing a two by four to the side of his old station wagon. They had gone camping, and his mother had been bitching because they had forgot the card table they usually brought along. His father had pulled a two by four and a piece of plywood out of the boat and made a table. When he had finished, he had told his mother to stop her goddamn bitching. Slate remembered the sunny afternoons together a few years ago on the back porch and the quiet talks he’d had with his father that brought them close.

  Simon saw his cousin Jeff and finally left to join him.

  Slate couldn’t help himself. He ran his hand over his father’s head just as he had seen Simon do. It was cold. It wasn’t his father anymore. His father had left the premises. He imagined his father on the other side of the casket alive and looking at him, amused at the spectacle and pleased with the turnout.

  “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. He was a tough old bastard. Right?”

  Slate grinned, saying to himself. “Yeah, you were a tough old bastard, but I guess you had a good heart. All these people seem to think so.”

  “I coulda done better.”

  “Yeah, you coulda,” Slate thought, “but you did the best you could I guess. That’s what we all do.”

  Soon it was over. Slate drove back to his mother’s house and went to bed. He fell into a hard, deep sleep.

  The next morning Slate called Jerry. He and Remy had talked to Steven’s brothers. Jerry called them “dumb assholes” and dismissed them. Today he and Remy were planning to hunt down Aaron Biggs and Tim Wheeler since they’d been absent the day they had re-interviewed the group..

  “Call me on my cell phone if anything comes up,” he told

  “Call me on my cell phone if anything comes up,” he told Jerry.

  “I will.”

  “I mean it. Anything.”

  Jerry promised.

  The funeral was at ten. Slate dressed in his new suit. The service went smoothly.

  The minister talked about his mother and how her faith had brought his father to the church. The minister talked about visiting his father and getting to know him over the past few years. Several other people spoke as well, but it was his Aunt Flora who was the most eloquent. She talked about what it was like being his sister and the experiences she had had with him. She even talked about his faults. She noted that he never made much money. He loved his job, and he loved helping people, and if he knew they couldn’t afford much, he didn’t charge much for his labor. Her insights into his father made him see the man in a new light. It didn’t change anything, but he was glad to see that all these people had respected and cared about his father.

  CHAPTER 34

  THEY THINK THEY KNOW WHO THE KILLER IS

  Driving home early that evening, Slate reviewed the killings in his mind. What was he missing? He felt he was very close, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was like knowing a name, but unable to think of it. Slate knew that sometimes a case was never solved. However, he believed he’d find the killer in this case—no matter how frustrated he felt at the moment.

  Halfway back to Wichita, he got a call from Jerry. “We found Tim. After our session the other day, Tim confronted Aaron. They had quite a talk. Aaron did rape him, but he convinced Tim it was love. Tim got fucked again, but this time he was awake.”

  “So Aaron was lying. I’ll be a son of bitch!”

  “We couldn’t find him. We even got a warrant and searched his apartment. Came up with zero.”

  “Well, if he lied about Tim, he’s probably lied about everything else.”

  “I think he’s the one.”

  “It could be. If he could rape Tim for the fun of it, maybe he’s twisted enough to murder Steven.”

  ‘We’ll get him tomorrow.”

  “Damn right .”

  “If he hasn’t skipped town—“

  “Don’t say that.

  “We’ll get him anyway.”

  “I rather it be sooner than later.”

  “I know whatcha mean.”

 
After the call, Slate drove the rest of the way in silence, his mind going back over every encounter with Aaron. “The kid had seemed so nice, so wholesome.” He still couldn’t quite accept that he was the savage, twisted killer they had been hunting.

  After he parked in the driveway in front of the garage, he sighed deeply. The house was dark. He had dropped Jeanne and Beth at Phyllis’ house. When he opened the front door and tried to unlock it, he found it was already unlocked. His stomach suddenly tied into knots. He knew he had locked the door when he had left for Hutchinson. He could sense something was terribly wrong. He opened the door slowly. There was a soft creaking sound. He wished he had oiled the hinges. Once inside, he listened intently. Silence.

  He left the light off. He could see well enough because of the light coming in through the windows. He made his way to the dining room on his left. The four windows in that room made it easy to see that the room was empty. He walked quietly to the breakfast nook. Again it was empty. He walked through to the kitchen and saw Cain stretched out in the middle of the floor in a pool of blood. He knelt down to examine him. His throat had been cut as well as his stomach and there was a smiley face sticker stuck to his fur. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he wiped them away. He moved slowly down the hall to the study—empty. The closet—empty. Then the bathroom. Empty. His bedroom—under the bed—the closet—empty.

  He went back to the living room, sat on the couch and buried his face in his hands until the spasms of grief subsided.

  Suddenly the sound of a door creaking set his nerves on edge. It couldn’t be Jeanne or Beth. He had left them with—suddenly he remembered that he hadn’t checked upstairs or the basement. Somehow it had never occurred to him. “I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he said to himself, “because of Cain.” He moved quickly to the front double window and pulled the drapes to shut out some of the light. Dropping down on his hands and knees, he crawled to the end of the sofa. He could see the man standing in the doorway from the hall. He looked familiar. Finally it dawned on him. “Holy shit! It was Aaron Biggs.” He choked back the urge to the scream as he saw Aaron smiling his hideous smile.

  “I know you’re in here, Mr. Slater—”