The Complete John Wayne Cleaver Series: I Am Not a Serial Killer, Mr. Monster, I Don't Want to Kill You, Devil's Only Friend, Over Your Dead Body, Nothing Left to Lose

by Dan Wells

  A trocar, overall, was a very handy tool. I’d even used one to kill Mr. Crowley.

  I hooked up the vacuum hose while Mom added a second modesty towel, rearranging them both to expose the body’s abdomen. I put my hand on her stomach, feeling the rough, wrinkled skin, and probed for the right place to insert the trocar. The ideal spot is above the navel, a few inches up and to the right. I braced the skin with my fingers spread, placed the tip of the trocar in the right place, and drove it in—just a little at first, enough to prick the skin and anchor the blade, then deeper into the abdomen, shoving hard to punch through one layer of muscle, then another. A small bloom of red bubbled out of the hole, then sank back in as I thumbed the button and activated the suction. The vacuum wasn’t strong enough to suck up an organ, but it would suck out fluids, gasses, and even bits of food in the stomach and intestines. I probed around in the body, listening to the gurgle as the cavity contents trickled up through the hose.

  This was good. This was how life was supposed to be: simple, peaceful people doing the things that made them happy. The troubles of the last few weeks seemed to melt away, and I was calm. There was a sense of rightness to the world that made me smile for no reason at all.

  I could do this; I really could. Not just the embalming, but life—I felt, in that moment, that I had a handle on it. That I could control it. Even Mr. Monster seemed to fade, until he was so small I almost forgot about him. What had I been so worried about? I was strong, I was in charge of my own mind, and nothing bad was going to happen. I wasn’t a threat to anyone.

  I thought again about Brooke, and about what Max had said. Maybe he was right—maybe it was time to ask her out. I liked her, and she apparently liked me, so what was the problem? I’d spent years training myself to look and act completely normal. And normal teenagers went on dates. In a way I owed it to myself to go on a date.

  I adjusted my hand on the stomach of the corpse, moving the sharp trocar carefully and puncturing another organ. Yes, I would ask Brooke on a date.

  In a way, I owed it to her.

  _____

  All night I tried to come up with a plan, and all day at school I wracked my brain for ideas. I had to move carefully, saying the right words at the right time; I decided it was best to wait a few days and come up with something perfect. I am not, as you may have noticed, an impetuous person.

  Brooke was silent on the way home from school, which was normally fine, but today it worried me. Was she sad? Was she angry? I checked my blind spot on the next street, stealing a glance at her as I did. The sun lit up her hair like a halo of white gold. What would I do just to touch that hair? The thought terrified me.

  A few blocks before our street she spoke up suddenly.

  “Do you think the killer’s back?” she asked.

  “You mean because of the body?” I asked. “I . . . well . . . It doesn’t seem like the same killer at all, I mean, the victim is different, the methods are different; you know what they say on the news. It’s probably just a random murder.”

  Brooke tapped her finger on the window, softly. “But what if it is the same guy?” She tapped again. “What would you do?”

  “I think I’d. . . . Well, if he was just back, in general terms, I don’t know that I’d do much of anything. Not anything different, I mean—just live my life as normal.”

  “And if he came back here?”

  We turned another corner and I glanced at her again, catching a quick look at her face—thin and delicate, eyes intense, mouth closed and thin. She was looking right at me, but what was she thinking? There was some kind of emotion behind those eyes, but what was it? She was a cipher to me. How could I explain what I was thinking if I wasn’t even sure how she was perceiving it?

  The Crowley’s house came into view ahead, lonely and ominous at the end of the street. All the memories came flooding back—a night of darkness and violence, and of victory. “If the Clayton Killer came back here,” I said, “and he was attacking someone I knew, then I’d fight back.” I was being more honest than I usually allowed myself to be. Why? I glanced at Brooke’s face again, involuntarily, and saw her staring back earnestly. She was listening. It was intoxicating. “If it came down to him or us, to kill or be killed, then I’d kill him. If it would save somebody, I’d kill him.”

  “Huh,” said Brooke again.

  I pulled up in front of Brooke’s house—it was only two doors away from mine, but I never wanted to make her walk all the way back when it was just as easy for me to let her out here. I wanted more time, but I didn’t know how to ask for it.

  Brooke didn’t move. What was she thinking about me? About what I’d said? I let the tension grow until I got too nervous—just a couple of seconds, really, and then turned toward her. I kept my eyes on her door handle, avoiding her face and body.

  “It’s so weird,” she said, as if prompted by my look. “You live in a small town like this and you think you’re so safe, and then something like that happens right here, right on our own street. Like a horror movie come to life. I was terrified when I found out what happened, but I was a hundred, two hundred feet away. You were right in the middle of it.” She paused, and I stared silently at her door. “You never know how you’ll react to something like that until it happens,” she said. “I guess I just . . . feel safer, knowing that people—that you—are ready to do what you have to do. To do the right thing. You know?”

  I nodded slowly. “Yeah.” This was not what I’d expected.

  “Does that make any sense?” she asked. I could tell that she was staring right at me, so I pushed my rule a bit and turned my eyes to meet hers. She was so beautiful.

  “Yeah,” I said again. “It makes perfect sense.”

  “Anyway,” she said. “Thanks again for the ride.” She unlatched her seatbelt and pushed open the door, but before she could step out I spoke up to stop her. It was now or never.

  “Hey,” I said, “are you going to the Bonfire?”

  The Bonfire was a big party they held every year at the lake, on the last day of school. Only sophomores, juniors, and seniors were invited, and here I was, asking Brooke to go with me. I was asking her on a date.

  “I was thinking about it,” she said, smiling. “It sounds like a lot of fun. Are you going?”

  “I think so,” I said. I paused. This was it. “Do you wanna go together?”

  “Sure,” she said, smiling even wider. “I’ve been hearing about the Bonfire since kindergarten, you know? I can’t wait to see what it’s really like.”

  “Cool,” I said. Was I supposed to say anything else?”

  “Cool,” she said. We sat there a minute, unsure what to do. “Awesome,” she said, laughing and getting out of the car. “I’ll see you then.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll see you then.”

  8

  They found the second woman’s body on Saturday, lying in a ditch on Route 12, covered with a similar array of torture wounds. It was the same place where the Clayton Killer’s second victim was found, less than ten feet from the exact spot. It was now obviously a serial killer, and it seemed just as obvious that this new killer was trying to communicate something, but what? Was he saying “I’m the same,” or “I’m different”? Was he telling us he wanted to be like the first killer, or was he hinting that he already was? More than anything else, I wondered who he was talking to: the police? The whole community? Or was he sending this message to the only other killer in town?

  Was he talking to me?

  I needed to see the body up close, to see what, if anything, the killer was trying to tell me. It could be as simple as “I’m here,” or as dangerous as “I know what you did, and I’m coming for you.” If I could examine the corpse I’d know just what to look for: claw marks, missing organs, specific lacerations that would point to a knowledge of the previous crimes. The previous body’s location had been all over the news for days, and anyone in the world with a good Internet connection could have looked it up and pl
anted this body in the same place, but the specific details of the previous attack had never been released to the public. If certain things were the same, I’d know for sure the attacks were related.

  Unfortunately, the police weren’t likely to release the details of this attack either, so I had to wait for an embalming—if we got to do one. I spent Saturday waiting, trying to be patient, but by Sunday afternoon it was too much. I had to know something about the body—anything—and I didn’t dare just sit around until the body was shipped away like the last one had been. My only hope was Agent Forman: he’d talked to me about the last one, and maybe he’d talk to me about this one, too. It was worth a shot, but I had to be careful not to look too interested. I couldn’t give myself away. I needed an excuse, but what?

  A memory—he’d specifically asked me to contact him if I remembered anything new about the night Neblin died. I’d ignored the request, because I didn’t want to share anything else about that night, but now it was the perfect excuse to get into the station and talk to Forman. All I needed was a memory, either real or very plausible. I pored over my memories of that night, analyzing each bit of information, comparing what was true to what I’d already told them.

  I’d gone into the house through the cellar door, using a key I’d stolen previously, but I’d locked it afterward and no one had ever known. I could point them down there, but any evidence they might find would point to me. I discarded the idea and moved on.

  After the attacks that night I’d smashed and hidden all three cell phones: Mrs. Crowley’s, Mr. Crowley’s, and Dr. Neblin’s. If I suddenly “found” one of the pieces, by accident, I could take it in and identify it as a piece of Crowley’s phone . . . but that was no good either. No one but the police, and me, knew that the phones were a key part of the investigation. My mom didn’t even know. Turning them in would look too suspicious.

  What could I do? What could I tell him? I’d described the killer in vague terms, describing a large, dark shape that suggested neither Mr. Crowley nor a demon. I’d described my own actions, hiding Mr. Neblin’s body behind the Crowley’s shed and hoping the killer didn’t find me. I’d described the sound the killer made that brought my mom out of the house to find me—a kind of strangled roar. These were things they already knew, and they were virtually the only things I felt confident enough to reveal. Anything else would point back at me as a liar, or as a criminal in my own right.

  What I needed to do was to find more details in the information I’d already given. If seeing the killer from my bedroom window was innocent, then suddenly remembering an extra detail—the style of coat he was wearing, maybe—should also be innocent. I needed something specific, so I got on the Internet and looked up a few department store catalogs, browsing through men’s coats until I found a good one—thick and rugged, like a rancher’s coat, all straight lines and sturdy fabrics. It would look imposing on a large, shadowed figure, and had no bulges or hoods to make it distinctive; it should be entirely acceptable that I’d forgotten it until now.

  Now all I had to do was tell Forman. I didn’t bother waiting; I just got in my car and drove straight to the police station.

  “Hey John,” said Stephanie the receptionist. I’d come in often enough since January that she, and many of the cops, knew me by sight. I didn’t know much about her because I did my best not to look; she was very attractive, and my rules against looking at women were just as strict with women as they were with high school girls.

  “Hey,” I said. “Is Forman around?”

  “He is,” she said. She spoke more slowly than normal, and her words trailed off a bit at the end. She was probably tired from the frenzy of activity over the weekend; normally she didn’t even come in on Sundays, but a corpse like this one was sure to mean a lot of extra hours. “He’s very busy,” she said. “Do you need to talk to him?”

  “I do. He told me to contact him if I remembered anything new about the Clayton Killer case, and I did. I know you’re busy right now, but he told me to come in as soon as I had anything new.”

  “Sure thing,” said Stephanie. “Sign in.” In my peripheral vision she picked up a phone and held it between her ear and her shoulder. One hand dialed while another one made a few clicks with her mouse. “Hello Agent Forman, I have John Cleaver here to see you.” Pause. “He says you asked him to come in. Apparently he remembered something important?” She glanced up at me and I nodded. “Thank you, I’ll send him in.” Stephanie hung up the phone and pointed at his door. “He’s only got a few minutes, but you can head on in.”

  I nodded and walked to his office, in an old conference room just off the lobby. Forman looked up briefly when I entered, then dropped his eyes back down to the stack of papers in front of him. The conference table was still covered with files and folders, just like always.

  “Have a seat, John,” he said. “You say you’ve got something new?”

  “I do,” I said, sitting at the end of the table. “I know you’re busy, but you seemed really anxious to hear anything I might remember, so I thought I’d better come in.”

  Forman looked up and watched me for a second, his head cocked to the side. “I did,” he said after a moment. “I did indeed. I was actually going to call you yesterday, but then we found this new body and things went all haywire.”

  “You were going to call me?”

  “A new avenue of inquiry has opened up in our investigation, but that can wait. What did you want to tell me?”

  “A new avenue of inquiry?” I didn’t want to play my hand just yet, in case he was thoroughly unimpressed and sent me away; better to draw him out and try to learn as much as I could first.

  “Yes,” he said, “even before the new victim was found. That makes two solid leads just this weekend. You could say it’s been a great week—just please don’t say it in front of the victim’s family.”

  “So you’ve already identified the new victim?”

  He smiled. “Just a tasteless joke. Thanks for not calling me on it.”

  He paused, as if waiting for me to say something. I decided the easiest way to avoid suspicion was to ask the most obvious question.

  “Everyone’s saying the Clayton Killer’s back, because of where the body was found. Do you think it’s the same person?”

  “I don’t,” he said, still watching me, “but I do think it’s someone who was involved in the earlier killings. Maybe not the Clayton Killer himself, but someone who knew him. Maybe someone who worked with him.”

  “Serial killers don’t often have accomplices.”

  “Not often,” he said, “but it’s not unheard of. And a relationship between them doesn’t have to imply a close one, or even a good one. They could have been antagonists, or maybe rivals. It may be that the new killer is showing the old one how he would have done it better.”

  I started to ask another question, but Forman cut me off.

  “Enough small talk,” he said. “What have you got?”

  I laid it out for him, hoping that a smooth flow of conversation might get him talking about the new victim again later. “The killer’s coat,” I said. “He was wearing a big coat, like a workman’s coat. I can’t remember the color, because it was so dark, but the outline was pretty recognizable.” The real killer, Mr. Crowley, didn’t actually have a coat like that, but I wasn’t trying to help the investigation—just build trust with Forman.

  “Interesting,” he said. “What sparked this memory, if I may ask?”

  I’d prepared for that question. “It was in a commercial—some people caroling in big heavy coats in the middle of summer. I don’t remember what it was for, probably a cell phone or a truck or something, but as soon as I saw the coat on one of the guys it struck some kind of chord in my head, and I knew I’d seen it before.”

  “Interesting,” said Forman. “So you’re saying the guy in the commercial is the Clayton Killer?”

  What? “No, of course not; there’s probably a million coats like that,” I said. �
��Of course I’m not saying that. But you asked what sparked the memory, and that was it.” His comment worried me—it meant he probably wasn’t taking me seriously. Why not? Had I said something to tip him off that I was lying?

  “Yes, yes,” he said, “I know. I’m just in an odd mood today, honestly; lack of sleep. Just forget about it.” He swiveled in his chair and picked up a thick folder from a low table behind him. “Now we’ll be happy to follow up on that information, but first I wonder if you have a minute to discuss this other item?” He swiveled back to face me, holding the folder.

  I nodded warily. “The new avenue of inquiry.”

  “Exactly. You see, we’ve subpoenaed Dr. Neblin’s case files.”

  His expression was flat and passive, but his words hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut. Dr. Neblin was the man who’d diagnosed me with Conduct Disorder, and one of the three people in the world who knew about it; if they had his files, the confidentiality laws I’d been hiding behind for months had just evaporated. I can only imagine Forman’s surprise when he found out that a key witness in his case was also a sociopath.

  “There are a lot of interesting things in there,” said Forman, setting down the folder and opening it carefully. “I kind of wish we’d been able to pull this sooner.”

  “I’m kind of surprised it took this long,” I said, trying to sound casual.