The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  “Mr. Slater! How polite!” he thought, but he didn’t answer. He wished like hell he had his gun. He’d left it in his bedroom when he’d gone to his father’s funeral. He thanked God that he still had a backup. He pulled up his pants leg and took out the knife he always kept strapped to his leg.

  “I could hear you crying.” Aaron said, his voice calm and icy cold. “Sorry about that, but you needed to be taught a lesson. I don’t like being screwed with.”

  Slate could sense his inner rage from the intensity.

  “Of course, I don’t mind being fucked once in a while as long as it’s on my terms. You don’t either, do you?” He smiled, “In fact, you like it, don’t you? I saw you and your boy George. It was really hot. Maybe you’d like me to fuck you. I’ve certainly fantasized about it.”

  Aaron took a step into the room. Slate could see that he had a gun and it looked like his gun—the gun he had hung in his closet. “Shit,” he swore to himself.

  “I can see you now,” Aaron said, looking right at him. “There’s a nice backlight on your hair.”

  Slate palmed the knife along side his thigh and broke his silence. “What do you want, Aaron?”

  “I’m hoping to graduate and move to New York,” he explained. “All I need is three more weeks. You turned out to be more clever than I expected. My mistake.”

  “It’s not your only mistake,” Slate sneered.

  “No, but it’s the most important one. You see, I have an IQ of 170 give or take a few points. I have a photographic memory. Most people are so fucking stupid that I forget there are some—like you—who aren’t.”

  “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “It took me a while to get your test scores.”

  “What are you talking about?” Slate said, baffled.

  “I got all your school records. Your IQ according to the Stanford-Benet when you were thirteen was 150.”

  “I didn’t know that. They never told us.”

  “Your SAT was over fourteen hundred. Very impressive.”

  “So what are you saying, Aaron?”

  Aaron moved to the center of the opening into the dining room. He now had a clear and unobstructed view of Slate kneeling on the just beyond the sofa. “You were getting too close. I knew I wouldn’t make it to graduation. Of course, I could have just left town, gone to Europe or something. But I don’t want to be on the run. I don’t want to leave without getting my degree. I need it for my career.” He edged forward until he reached the end of the sofa.

  “So why’d you kill Steven like that? With your great mind couldn’t you have staged an accident rather than make it so obvious.” Being on his knees, Slate was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  “He fucked with me. He was oh, so friendly. He seduced me. He fucking used me. He sweet-talked me into giving him a complete character analysis of Prior Walter in the play. Just before auditions, he went in to talk to Dr. Marin and made sure he impressed her with his so-called in-depth knowledge. The lazy fuck hadn’t even read the play.”

  “That’s no reason to kill someone.”

  Aaron moved closer. “He got the part, but it wasn’t fair. I don’t mind losing. I can take rejection, but in this case he deliberately got me into bed, fucked me, lied to me and used what I told him against me. It wasn’t fair.”

  “So you wanted justice.”

  Aaron reached out his left hand as if to touch Slate’s cheek, as if his feelings for him were tender. “Justice yes—and revenge.”

  “So you fucked him with a pipe.”

  Aaron’s crazed eyes burned with rage and mockery and lust.

  Slate threw his knife, grabbed the afghan from the end of the sofa and threw it over Aaron and ran behind the sofa to the door into the hall and down to his bedroom. It all happened in a matter of seconds. Panic hurled him into the bedroom. He went to the night stand to get his other gun. He could hear Aaron on his heels making guttural sounds that didn’t sound human. He was too terrified to think. He snatched the gun out of the drawer and threw himself across the bed and over the back side of it as Aaron reached the doorway and began firing into the room. Slate felt a searing pain in his right shoulder. He crawled on the floor to the end of the bed. Peering under he saw Aaron’s athletic shoes. He fired and heard the scream. He jumped up and ran past Aaron, down the hall, and through the kitchen.

  He burst through the back door, hitting the alarm as he went by it. He went into the garage through the side door. He heard the back door of the house slam as Aaron followed him out. Slate imagined him springing through the door any moment like a monster that wasn’t human. He raised his pistol but couldn’t pull back the slide with his right hand.

  He could hear Aaron’s movement. It sounded like he was dragging something.

  “You fucking asshole. You shot half my fucking foot off,” Aaron said with childlike disbelief.

  Slate grabbed a can of anti-freeze for his car, unscrewed the cap and poured it into an empty gallon paint can. He pressed his back against the wall near the door, raised the can with his left hand. When Aaron came through the door, again firing blindly, Slate dashed the anti-freeze in his face. He screamed and grabbed his eyes and throat as the chemical burned and made it difficult for him to breathe.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and fell to his knees, shrieking and grabbing at his wet shirt. Slate grabbed the gun that Aaron dropped and stood over him. Aaron ripped off the shirt and wiped his face and eyes. He was crying and trying to say something. Slate couldn’t understand him, but figured he was begging for help. Shirtless, he was shivering in shock. Slate looked at him, feeling no pity. The man was a monster. Slate’s shoulder was bleeding profusely. His arm was swelling and throbbing, and he didn’t hear the car drive up. Suddenly two Wichita police came through the door one after another, pointing their guns at Aaron’s head as he was screaming at Slate. “My eyes. You goddamn son of a bitch,” he said. “You blinded me, you fucking piece of shit.”

  One of the policemen pulled him to his feet, pulled his hands behind him, and slapped on the cuffs all in one continuous motion. “Shut the fuck up,” he said. He grabbed Aaron and dragged him into the driveway.”

  Slate yelled after them. “Lay him on his back on the ground and flush his eyes with water for fifteen minutes until the ambulance comes.”

  The other cop checked on Slate. “You all right?”

  “I’ll mend,” Slate said.

  “Come on,” he said gently. He guided Slate with sure hands out to the driveway, got on the car radio and called for an ambulance.

  The first cop had changed the handcuffs to the front and had Aaron on his back in the driveway. The cop had found the plastic pail by the outside faucet and was filling it with water. He brought it over to Aaron. He cupped his hands in the water and poured it over Aaron’s eyes.

  At that moment George came to a screeching halt right behind the patrol car. He ran to Slate and took the cop’s place, pulling Slate close. “We need to get you to a hospital.” The other cop said, “We have an ambulance on the way.”

  “You better put that kid in it,” Slate said.

  “I’ll take Detective Slater in my car,” George announced as he propelled Slate past the cops.

  Meanwhile, Aaron was writhing on the ground yelling, “He blinded me. He fucking blinded me.”

  George opened the door and helped Slate in and buckled the seat belt. “You’ll be fine. Everything will be taken care of.”

  Slate couldn’t keep his voice from trembling. “Thanks.” His eyes seemed to go out of focus as the blood ran down his arm

  George shut the door, ran around the car and jumped in. Slate was vaguely aware of the ride as they squealed around corners and sped through the streets with the siren blasting. For once he didn’t care if the driver was racing like a bat out of hell.

  CHAPTER 35

  The Aftermath

  After surgery and fourteen hours of sleep, Slate woke up in the hospital with the sun shining in the window. Hi
s daughters and his mother were there. They were happy to see him awake.

  “How are you feeling?” his mother asked as she moved to his side.

  “How do you think I feel, Mom? I feel like somebody threw me down the stairs, stomped on me with heavy boots and then shit in my mouth.”

  His mother turned to the girls with a smile. “He’s gonna be fine.”She turned back to Slate, and stroked his hair. “You needed a rest. You were strung out. I could tell. This will be like a vacation.”

  Slate started to laugh, then groaned as the movement sent excruciating pain through his shoulder. “Some vacation.”

  They chatted for a while. Slate ate some lunch, then drifted off to sleep again. When he woke again, the girls were still there, but his mother had left.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “She just went home to rest awhile,” Beth explained. “She’s had quite a week.”

  “We all have,” Jeanne chimed in.

  Slate nodded

  “She’ll be back tonight,” Beth added.

  “Buuut—” Jeanne dragged out the word with a big grin. “We met your boyfriend last night.”

  It was the first time anybody had referred to George as his boyfriend. It took him by surprise.

  Beth interjected, “And we both think he’s hot.” She and her sister high-fived each other and laughed.

  “I hope you didn’t say anything when Mom was here,” Slate smiled. “I’m not sure she could handle it.”

  “Dad, we’re not stupid,” Jeanne piped up. “Geez, Gramp just died. You got shot. Besides, that’s for you to deal with, not us.”

  Slate was so proud of his girls. They had good heads on their shoulders. He was really proud of them and their compassion and good sense. He wished he could be out to his mother, but he also knew that because of her religious beliefs, it would be very hard for her to accept. He was still dealing with it himself.

  They chatted for a while, speculating about his mother’s future plans, then Jeanne asked about Slate’s future. “Is George gonna move in with us?”

  Again Slate was taken totally by surprise.

  “I don’t know—we—we haven’t talked about it yet.”

  “Well, we think you should ask him,” Jeanne said.

  “Yeah, Dad, we both agreed. He talked about you all the time.” Beth added.

  “He talked about me? What did he say?”

  “He adores you. You must know that.” Jeanne said with a giggle.

  “I guess so. What did he say?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jeanne laughed, teasing him.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he told us how great you were as a detective and how you handled things at the murder site.”

  “And he went on and on about how helpful you were and how much he cared about you,” Beth added.

  “I hope he didn’t get too graphic.”

  “No, of course not,” Beth answered. “I would’ve left if he had. You know I can’t stand that lovey-dovey stuff.”

  Jeanne went on. “He told us what he thought of you as a person—you know, how kind you were to help him with the detective exam—your sense of humor.”

  “How much fun he has with you.” Beth interjected.

  Jeanne summed it up, “He’s a very special person, Dad. We just want you to know you have our approval.”

  “Yeah,” Beth said.

  Slate held out his good arm. They came and cautiously and gave him a kiss. Suddenly, Slate missed his father. He wished he’d had the kind of relationship with his father that his daughters had with him. “I love you guys,” he said. His eyes got a little misty.

  “Don’t get all mushy now, Dad.” Jeanne said, diffusing the moment.

  “If I wanna get mushy, I’ll get mushy,” Slate replied with a big smile. The moment passed, but Slate was glad he could express, himself to his kids. He knew how important it was--because it was not something he had ever experienced from his father when he was young.

  Jerry showed up a few moments later. “I see you’re taking all the credit,” he said with a grin.

  “That’s right,” Slate fired back. “You weren’t there so I had to handle it alone.” Then he smiled. “I wish you had been. Then maybe I wouldn’t be here.” He paused and then laughed and groaned. “Maybe you’d be here instead.”

  “You wish!”

  “Damn right.” He shook his head. “No, not really.”

  A pushy blond young woman—one of the local television reporters—walked in without knocking, followed by a cameraman. “Hi, I’m Tracey Sullivan, News at Six. Could I ask you a few questions, Detective Slater?”

  Jerry piped up with an authoritative, “No.”

  That was followed by the nurse bursting in with, “You can’t just come barging in here.”

  “It’s all right. It’s okay,” Slate said, trying to calm everyone down. “Hey, Jerry, get over here.” He patted the bed, signaling for Jerry to sit down. “Thanks, nurse. It’s okay.” The nurse nodded and left. Jerry sat down, and Slate turned to the reporter. “This is my partner Detective Blake. He and I worked on the case for weeks.”

  The woman motioned for the cameraman to start filming and then began her questions. It soon became apparent that she was going for the angle that Slate had mistreated the killer by splashing anti-freeze in his face. Slate calmly explained that it was self-defense. He went on to stress how glad he was that this psychotic killer was off the streets. He gave her several good sound bites. She wouldn’t give up, however.

  Pissed off at her inane bias, suddenly Jerry stood up. “Look, you stupid bitch. That sick creep shot him. That creep butchered his cat. He was fighting for his life. Now get to hell out of here.” The woman was startled, stepped backwards and ended up falling on her ass. Jeanne and Beth both started laughing, then Slate joined in. The cameraman, still filming, also laughed. The woman kept waving her hand across her neck, signaling him to stop, but he just kept it going as she scrambled to her feet and marched out of the room. The cameraman stopped and gathered his gear. “Thanks, guys. I’ll try to convince ‘em to run the whole thing,” he said with a grin and left.

  Slate sent the girls out to get ice cream and then filled Jerry in on the details of the confrontation with Aaron Biggs. Then he made the mistake of asking Jerry about Karen.

  ‘She’s fucking nuts. Once she got out of the hospital, she wouldn’t agree to commit herself to the clinic. At first she called me every day, crying, pleading with me to come back. I changed my phone number. She called at work. When I wouldn’t talk to her, she camped outside my apartment. I got a restraining order.” As he talked, he got more and more angry. Slate tried to sympathize, but Jerry just wanted to rant. Slate was finally saved when his daughters returned. They all had ice cream bars, then Jerry and the girls left, but Slate wasn’t alone long. Andrea Ball and Andrew Tyler came to visit and Andrew gave Slate the painting of the abandoned store seen through a window of broken glass. Slate tried to pay him but he wouldn’t hear of it. They just wanted to thank him for catching their roommate’s “Smiley Ass Killer!”

  Around five-thirty George showed up. Slate was happy to see him, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. After an exchange of pleasantries and a few giggles, his daughters left to have dinner and closed the door. Slate was glad to have a private room. George leaned over and kissed him.

  “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “I wished I’d gotten there sooner.”

  “Hey, you got there just fine. And you got me here just fine. That’s what counts.”

  “And you took care of that twisted kid.”

  “Well, it was him or me. For a while I wasn’t sure I was gonna make it. I was stupid.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re certainly not stupid.” George pulled us a chair and sat by his side.”

  “When I got home, the back door was unlocked and—”

  “I’m sorry about Cain.”

  “Yeah, poor little guy.” Slate re
ached out and took George’s hand in his. “Anyway, I searched the house, one room after another, but I didn’t check the basement. I didn’t check upstairs either. I was so fucking upset about Cain—” His eyes watered and he trailed off.

  “Hey, it’s over. You’re a hero.”

  “No, I’m no hero.”

  George interrupted. “The president of the university called you a hero. He held a press conference and thanked you on ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN and every other news show on TV.” The Wichita Eagle said, “Smiley Face Killer Caught by Hero Detective.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Hey, how’d you know to tell Sammy to flush his eyes with water. It saved his sight. They think Aaron Biggs won’t have any serious eye damage.”

  Slate was sarcastic. “Well, goody goody! Who the hell is Sammy?”

  “He’s the one saved your ass. One of the guys I work with. He was the first one into the garage. He dragged Aaron outside.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Slate nodded appreciatively. “Tell him thanks.”

  “I will, but you can probably tell him yourself. He said he was gonna stop by.”

  “Good. Good. God, I’m glad it’s over.”

  “I told the doctor last night to take real good care of your ass.”

  “Did you tell him you wanted it?”

  “No,” George laughed. “I wasn’t thinking about that last night. I was just thinking about you. You know, your health. Your shoulder.”

  “My girls think you’re hot.”

  George laughed again. “I like them. You did a good job. They’re nice people.”

  Slate nodded and squeezed George’s hand. ‘They said I should ask you to move in. What do you think?

  “What do you think? That’s the question.”

  “I think you should. I want you to.”

  “I will,” George responded, leaning down to kiss him again. Two weeks later he did.

  THE SMILEY FACE KILLER

  “a smashing whodunit”

  By Leroy Clark

  When Detective Richard Slater—called Slate by his friends—is called to investigate a brutal murder at the university, he finds the nude body of Steven Davis hanging above the stage in the Duncan Theatre.