by Dan Wells
said, stepping closer. “ 'Derr, I'm a happy clown.'” He was really making me mad. “You're...” I needed a compliment. “I heard you did well on that math test yesterday. Good job.” It was all I could think of. I should have walked away, but . . . I wanted to talk to Brooke. “Listen, you weirdo,” said Rob, “this is the party for normal people. The freak party is down the hall, in the restroom with the goths. Why don't you get out of here?” He was acting tough, but it was still just acting—typical fifteen-year-old macho posturing. I was so mad I could have killed him, right there, but I forced myself to calm down. I was better than this—and I was better than him. He wanted to act scary? I'd give him scary. “I'm smiling because I'm thinking about what your insides look like.” “What?” asked Rob, and then he laughed. “Oh, big man, trying to threaten me. You think you scare me, you little baby?” “I've been clinically diagnosed with sociopathy,” I said. “ Do you know what that means?” “It means you're a freak,” he said. “It means that you're about as important to me as a cardboard box,” I said. “You're just a thing—a piece of garbage that no one's thrown away yet. Is that what you want me to say?” “Shut up,” said Rob. He was still acting tough, but I could see his bluster was starting to fail—he didn't know what to say. “The thing about boxes,” I said, “is that you can open them up. Even though they're completely boring on the outside, there might be something interesting inside. So while you're saying all of these stupid, boring things, I'm imagining what it would be like to cut you open and see what you've got in there.” I paused, staring at him, and he stared back. He was scared. I let him hang on that fear for a moment longer, then spoke again. “The thing is, Rob, I don't want to cut you open. That's not who I want to be. So I made a rule for myself: anytime I want to cut someone open, I say something nice to them instead. That is why I say, Rob Anders of 232 Carnation Street, that you are a great guy.” Rob's mouth hung open like he was about to talk, then he closed it and backed away. He sat down on a chair, still looking at me, then got up again and left the room. I watched him all the way out. “I. . .” said Brooke. I'd forgotten she was there. “That was an interesting way to get him off your back.” I didn't know what to say—she shouldn't have heard that. Why was I such an idiot? “Just stuff,” I said quickly, “ I . . . heard that in a movie, I think. Who'd have thought it would scare him so much?” “Yeah,” said Brooke. “I have to ... it was nice talking to you, John.” She smiled uncertainly, and walked away.
“Dude, that was awesome,” said Max. I turned around in surprise. “When did you get here?” “I was here for most of it,” he said, corning around the side of the refreshment table, “and it was awesome. Anders practically crapped his pants.” “So did Brooke,” I said, looking in the direction she had gone. All I saw was a mass of people in the darkness. “That was hilarious!” said Max, scooping up some punch. “And after she was so into you, too.” “Into me?” . ''' “You—you missed that? You're blind, man. She was so going to ask you to dance.” “Why would she ask me to dance?” “Because we're at a dance,” said Max, “and because you're a raging furnace of hot clown lovin'. I'd be surprised if she ever talks to you again, though; that was awesome.” The next night Max and I went trick-or-treating with his little sister Audrey. We did his neighborhood first, his mom following us nervously with a flashlight and a thing of pepper spray. When we finished there, she drove us to my neighborhood, and Mr. Crowley shook his head when we visited their house. “You shouldn't be out this late,” he said, frowning. “It's not safe with that killer out there.” “All the street lights are on,” I said, “and the porch lights, and we've got an adult with us. They even said on the news that they put out some extra police. We're probably safer tonight than most others.” Mr. Crowley ducked behind his door to cough loudly, then earned back to us. “Don't be out too long, you hear me?” “We'll be careful,” I said, and Mr. Crowley handed out the candy. “I don't want this town to live in fear,” he said sadly, “it used to be so happy here.” He coughed again and closed the door. Things that had seemed silly in the light of day—fake blood and prosthetic limbs—seemed more ominous now in the darkness of night. More terrifying. The killer was back on everyone's mind, and they were nervous—all the store-bought, goofy Halloween scares were replaced with true, life-and-death terror. It was the best Halloween ever. 6
“This is Ted Rask with a Five Live News exclusive report from Clayton, a peaceful town in the grip of an escalating crisis some call the Clayton Killer. Many people here are afraid to leave their homes at night, and some are even afraid during the light of day. In spite of diis pervading sense of fear, however, there is hope. The police and FBI have made an astonishing breakthrough in their investigation.” It was six o'clock at night, and I was watching the news. Mom said it was weird for a fifteen-year-old to be so interested in the news, but since we didn't get Court TV, the local news was usually the only thing that interested me. Besides, the serial killer was still a hot topic, and Ted Rask's ongoing coverage had become the most popular show in town—despite, or perhaps because of, its breathless sense of melodrama. Outside, a November snowstorm raged, but inside we warmed ourselves by the fire of a media frenzy. “As you remember from my first report on the death of local farmer David Bird,” said Rask, “there was an oily substance found near the site; we initially suspected it was left by some kind of getaway vehicle, but forensic tests have now shown it to be biological in nature. According to an unnamed source inside the investigation, the FBI was able to find in that substance a very small sample of DNA in an advanced state of degeneration. Early this morning, they identified that DNA as being human in origin, but that, unfortunately, is where the trail ends. The DNA does not match either of the victims, nor does it match any of the current suspects, local missingpersons cases, or anyone in the state DNA records. I should stress here that the DNA database we're dealing with is very limited—the technology is new, and there are very few records in any city that date back more than five years. Without widespread DNA testing comparable to the national fingerprint database, this DNA signature may never be identified.” He was so steely and serious, as if he could win a journalism award through sheer charisma. Mom still hated him, and refused to watch—it's only a matter of time, she said, before he starts pointing fingers and somebody gets lynched. Tensions were high in town, and. the prospect of a third killing hung over us all like a cloud. “While police have been testing the crime-scene evidence,” said Rask, “the Five Live News team has been doing an investigation of our own, and we've turned up something very interesting: an unsolved case more than forty years old involving a black substance very similar to that found in this case. Could it help catch the killer? We'll have more on that story tonight at ten. This is Ted Rask, Five Live News. Back to you, Sarah.” But Ted Rask did not come back at ten. The Clayton Killer got him. His cameraman found him just after eight-thirty in the alley behind their motel, gutted and missing a leg. Smeared
I AM NO T A S E RI AL KI L L E R
on his face and head was a huge blob of acrid black sludge. It must have been hot, because it blistered him red as a lobster. “I hear you've been terrorizing the kids at school,” said Dr. Neblin. I ignored the doctor and stared out the window, thinking about Rask's body. Something about it was. . . wrong. ( “I don't want you using my diagnosis as a weapon to scare people with,” said Neblin. “We're doing this so you can improve yourself, not so you can throw your pathology in other people's faces.” Faces. Rask's face had been smeared with the sludge— why? It seemed humiliating—something the killer had never been before. What was happening? “You're ignoring me, John,” said Neblin. “Are you thinking about the new murder last night?” “It wasn't a murder,” I said, “it was a serial killing.” “Is there a difference?” “Of course there's a difference,” I said, spinning around to stare at him. I felt almost,. . betrayed by his ignorance. “You're a psychologist, you have to know this. Murder is ... well, different. Murderers are people like drunks and jealous h
usbands—they have reasons for what they do.” “Serial killers don't have reasons?” “Killing is its own reason,” I said. “There's something inside of a serial killer that's hungry, or empty, and killing is how they fill it. Calling it murder makes it . . . cheap. It makes it sound stupid.” “And you don't want serial killing to sound stupid.” “It's not that, it's . . . I don't know how to say it.” I turned back toward the window. “It feels wrong.” “Maybe you're trying to make serial killers into something they're not,” said Neblin. “You want them to have some kind of special significance.” I ignored him, sullen. The cars outside drove slowly on the sheet of black ice that covered the street. I hoped one of them slid into a pedestrian. “You saw the news last night?” asked Neblin. He was baiting me to talk by bringing up my favorite subject. I kept silent and stared out the window. “It seems a little suspicious,” he said. “That reporter announced that he had a clue related to the killer, and then died just an hour and a half before he had the chance to reveal that clue to the world. It seems to me that he was on to something.” Great thinking, Sherlock. The news at ten had made the same conclusion. “I don't really want to talk about this,” I said. “Then maybe we can talk about Rob Anders,” said Neblin. I turned back to look at him. “I wanted to ask who told you about that.”
“I got a call from the school counselor yesterday,” said Neblin. “As far as I know, she and I are the only ones he's talked to. You gave him nightmares, though.” I smiled. “It's not funny, John, it's a sign of aggression.” “Rob is a bully,” I said. “He has been since third grade. If you want some signs of aggression, just follow him around for a few hours.” “Aggression is normal in a fifteen-year-old boy,” said Neblin, “bully or otherwise. Where I get concerned is when that aggression comes from a sociopathic fifteen-year-old who's obsessed with death—especially when, up until now, you've been a model of nonconfrontational behavior. ”What's changed for you recently, John?“ ”Well, there's a serial killer in town stealing people's body parts. You may have heard; it's been in the news.“ ”Has the presence of a killer in town affected you?“ The monster behind the wall stirred. “It’s very close,” I said, “closer than I've ever been to the killers I study. I'll check out books and go online and read about serial killers for—well, not for fun, but you know what I mean—but they're all so far away. They're real, and their realness is part of what's fascinating, but. .. this is Nowhere, USA. They're supposed to be real somewhere else, not here.” , “Are you afraid of the killer?” “I'm not afraid of being killed,” I said. “All three victims so far have been grown men, so I assume he's going to stick to that pattern—that means I'm safe, and Mom and Margaret and Lauren are safe.” “What about your father?” “My father's not here,” I said. “I don't even know where he is. ”But are you afraid for him?“ ”No,“ I said slowly. It was true, but there was something I wasn't telling him, and I could tell that he knew it. ”Is there anything else?“ ”Should there be?“ I asked. ”If you don't want to talk about it, we won't,“ said Neblin. ”But what if we need to?“ I asked. ”Then we will.“ Sometimes therapists could be so open-minded, it was a miracle they kept anything in there at all. I stared at him for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the conversation I knew would come, and eventually decided it couldn't hurt. ”I had a dream last week that my dad was the killer,“ I said. Neblin didn't react. ”What did he do?“ ”I don't know, he didn't even come see me.“ ”Did you want him to take you with him when he killed?“ asked Neblin. ”No,“ I said, uncomfortable in my chair. ” I . . . wanted to take him with me, where he couldn't kill anymore."
“What happened next?” Suddenly I didn't want to talk about what happened next, even though I was the one who brought it up. It was selfcontradictory, I know, but dreams about killing your dad can do that to you. “Can we talk about something else?” “Sure we can,” he said, and made a note on his paper. “Can I see that note?” I asked. “Sure.” Neblin passed me his pad. First reason: Killer in town. Doesn't want to talk about father. “Why'd you write 'first reason'?” I asked. “The first reason you scared Rob Anders. Are there more?” “I don't know,” I said. “If you don't want to talk about your father, how about your mother?” The monster behind the wall stirred. I'd come to think of it as a monster, but it.was just me. Or the darker part of me, at least. You probably think it would be creepy to have a real monster hiding inside of you, but trust me—it's far, far worse when the monster is really just your own mind. Calling it a monster seemed to distance it a little, which made me feel better about it. Not much better, but I take what I can get. “My mother is an idiot,” I said, “and she won't let me into the back of the mortuary anymore. It's been almost a month.” “Until last night, nobody's died for almost a month,” he said. “Why did you want to go in the back room if there was no work to do there?” “I used to go there a lot, to think,” I said. “I liked it.” “Do you have anywhere else you can go and think?” “I go to Freak Lake,” I said, “but it's too cold now.” “Freak Lake?” “Clayton Lake,” I said. “There's a lot of weird people there. But I practically grew up in that mortuary—she can't take that away.” “You told me before that you'd only been helping in the back for a few years,” said Dr. Neblin. “Are there other parts of the mortuary you have an attachment to?” “That reporter died last night,” I said, ignoring his question, “and we might get him—they'll send him home for a funeral, of course, but they might send him to us first for embalming. I need to see that body and she's not going to let me.” Neblin paused. “Why do you need to see the body?” he asked. “To know what he's thinking,” I said, looking out the window. “I'm trying to understand him.” “The killer?” "There's something wrong about him and I can't figure it out.
“Well,” said Neblin, “We can talk about the killer, if that's what you want.” “Really?” “Really. But when we're done, you need to answer any question I ask.” “What question?” “You'll find out when I ask it,” said Neblin, smiling. “So, what do you know about the killer?” “Did you know he stole a kidney from the first body?” Neblin cocked his head. “I hadn't heard that.” “Nobody has,” I said, “so keep it quiet. When the body came to the mortuary the kidney was missing—everything else looked like it had been shredded, but the kidney had been cut off pretty cleanly.” “And what about the second body?” “He took the arm,” I said, “and the abdomen was slashed but not gutted—most of the innards were still inside.” “And in the third he took a leg,” said Neblin. “Interesting. So the piled-up organs in the first attack were incidental—he's not ritualizing the killings, he's just taking body parts.” “That's exactly what I told Mom,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Right before she threw you out of the back room?” I shrugged. “I guess it is a pretty creepy thing to say.” “What's interesting to me,” said Neblin, “is the way he leaves the bodies—he doesn't take them or hide them, he just leaves them out for people to find. That usually means the serial killer is trying to make a statement, so that we'll see the body and get whatever message he's trying to make. But if what you say is true, then he's not displaying the bodies—he's just striking quickly and fading out, spending as little time with his kills as he can. ”But what does that mean?“ I asked. ”For one thing,“ said Neblin, ”he probably hates what he's doing.“ ; ”That makes a lot of sense,' I said, nodding. “I hadn't thought of that.” I felt stupid for not having thought of it. Why hadn't it occurred to me that a killer might not enjoy killing? “But he defaced the reporter's body,” I said, “so he had some kind of motive there beyond just ending his life.” “With a serial killer,” said Neblin, “the motive is very likely an emotional one: he was angry, or frustrated, or confused. Don't make the mistake of thinking that sociopaths can't feel—they feel very keenly, they just don't know what to do with their emotions.” “You said he didn't like killing,” I said, “but so far he's taken a souvenir from all three. That doesn't make sense—why does he take things from an event he doesn't want to remember?” “That's a goo
d one to ponder,” said Neblin, jotting it down on his pad, “but now it's time for my question.” “All right,” I said, sighing and looking back out the window. “Let's get it over with.”