The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  Jerry, still on stage taking photos, addressed Slate as he came up on to the stage. “There’s crap everywhere. Must be stuff they’re rehearsing with. Nothing odd or unusual.”

  Slate looked around at the assortment of furniture. A ratty old love seat, a three-quarter fold-up bed, a desk, a bunch of mismatched chairs, black boxes. In the corner was a large rubber trash can filled with pieces of wood, leftovers from McDonalds, and plastic pop bottles.

  As Dr. Phyllis Gellerson, the medical examiner, arrived, Slate gave her a friendly salute. She acknowledged him with a tight smile and went about her business. She was quickly followed by members of the crime lab with their equipment. Slate and Jerry backed off as they took over. Cornelius Baker, a black officer Slate both liked and admired, headed the Crime Scene Unit (CSU). Slate had thrown a party for him when he was promoted to supervisor of the CSU. Conny, as he was called, greeted him as he came to the front of the auditorium. “Don’t touch nothing,” he growled, then laughed.

  Slate held up his latex covered hands. “We’re just waiting for you.” They spoke quietly as Conny and his assistant unpacked evidence tags, sealing tape, paper bags, plastic bags, envelopes of all sizes, and the rest of the gear. “When do you think you’ll have a report?” Slate asked, “And don’t tell me next week sometime.”

  Conny chuckled. “Maybe Thursday. Maybe. You know the situation,” Conny went on, “Too much work and not enough staff. We do the best we can do.”

  “In other words, I shouldn’t hold my breath,” Slate jibed.

  When the photo technician began his work, Slate and Jerry checked out the dressing rooms. There was one off stage right and one below it in the basement. Both had a large central room with mirrors for putting on makeup and four small dressing rooms and a bathroom off each of the larger rooms. Framed posters decorated the walls. Above the wall of mirrors in the stage level dressing room were a number of signed photos of famous actors who had played in the theatre including Helen Hayes, Vincent Price, Hal Holbrook, and Cloris Leachman. Slate and Jerry explored a large classroom under the stage used as an acting studio.

  As they finally made their way to the lounge, Slate noticed that they’d cut the body down. Suddenly he shivered, and a momentary uncontrollable spasm shot threw him. He was dreading what they’d find waiting in the lounge. He figured Jerry did, too, by the look on his face. They both knew this would be a high pressure investigation. Wichita State University was one of the largest employers in the city. The President and the Board of Trustees were prominent figures with easy access to the Mayor and the Governor. They knew that any mistakes on their part would bring down the wrath of hell from those in power.

  CHAPTER 3

  QUESTION EVERYONE

  The Duncan Lounge was a huge room with exposed beams overhead and paneling around the lower part of the walls. Across the front were four huge windows and French doors in the middle opening on to a portico lined with columns. The curtains on the windows were light gold, pulled back on each side to allow in plenty of light. The floor was carpeted in a deep blue. There was a grouping of off-white sofas and armchairs at one end by the fireplace. Four large library tables were arranged at the other, each had six matching chairs. On the far wall opposite the fireplace was a glass case with pictures of notable alumni.”

  As Slate and Jerry entered, a short, bald, roundish man rose from one of the sofas and came toward them. A tall skinny man with dark hair and a moustache followed him. “I’m Dean Foley. Dean of Fine Arts,” said the round man turning to the skinny man. “This is President Harmon.” Slate and Jerry introduced themselves and shook hands with the administrators.

  The President spoke in a melodious baritone. “We want to cooperate in any way that we can. I’ve called the head of Campus Security and he’ll be at your disposal.” He beckoned the uniformed man standing by the French window. The man joined them. “Frank, these are Detectives Slater and Blake. This is Frank Bedford.” After the ritual shaking of hands and the hello’s, Jerry and the security officer moved back toward the French window to talk.

  President Harmon gestured toward a large, middle-aged man in a dark blue suit. “That’s Dr. Ben Hariot. He’s the Chair of the School of Theatre and Dance.” Dr. Hariot, his face still wet with tears, was going around to the handful of students in the room, speaking softly to each one. A few students were crying and were being comforted by two of the faculty. Others students sat silently. A few whispered softly to each other. Slate figured they would be at least two hours getting statements from the students and faculty.

  Slate was familiar with the President and the Dean. He recognized them from various photos in the newspaper. He made a note of Hariot’s and Foley’s names.

  The President continued. “This is a terrible blow to all of us. We have prided ourselves on making this campus safe. The publicity will really hurt us.” The President was slick and Slate didn’t like him. He was dressed in an expensive gray suit with a crisp white shirt and a dark red tie with diagonal gray stripes. He wore a wedding band and had a gold and diamond ring on his right hand. His demeanor was subdued, but Slate could tell he wasn’t emotionally connected to the people in the room around him. They were mourning the loss of their friend. He was really only concerned about the image of the university.

  Slate could imagine the headlines that would follow daily in the newspaper and on TV until the crime was solved. “Gruesome Murder on Campus,” “Star Actor Hanged on Stage,” “How Safe is WSU?” “Could This Killing Have Been Prevented?” It would go on and on. “We’ll do our best, sir,” he told the President.

  “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call my office. I’ll arrange for my staff to provide whatever you need.” “

  I’d like a list of Steven’s classes and the students enrolled in each of them. Addresses and phone numbers, too, if you can get ‘em.”

  The President turned to the Dean. “Harry, see that he gets those, will you?” He handed Slate his card. “That’s my office, and that’s my home number. I live right behind this building on the corner. You’ll have to excuse me; I’ve got to get back to a meeting. We have a prospective donor on the hook. It’s a multi-million dollar fish I can’t afford to lose.” He shook hands with Slate and Jerry and the Dean walked him to the door. They stood whispering for a moment before the President left. The Dean came back long enough to tell Slate that he would be driving out to Rose Hill to tell the parents.

  Slate didn’t envy him that job. It was tough. He rubbed his hand over his face.

  Slate introduced himself to Dr. Hariot and within minutes had organized the witnesses into two groups. Jerry was set to interview the students one at a time in the Conference Room, a small room adjacent to the lounge. Slate agreed to meet with the few faculty in their offices, starting with Dr. Hariot. Originally from Vermont, Hariot had come to the Kansas when he was thirty-five and after living there for over thirty years still spoke with a slight New England accent. Slate soon determined that Dr. Hariot prided himself on being rational and following proper procedure. He spoke very deliberately, always taking time to think about what he was saying.

  Hariot led him to his office in the back. As he looked around office, Slate was amazed at the awards and certificates that lined the walls. Hariot noticed and smiled. “It’s supposed to impress the students who come here interested in majoring in one of our degree programs. I want them to know that we’re recognized on a national and international level. Just because it’s Kansas, I don’t want them to think we’re some Podunk operation. All of our faculty are working professionals.”

  “It’s impressive.” Slate acknowledged, taking out his notebook and a pen. “So tell me about Steven Davis—”

  Dr. Hariot’s knowledge of Steven Davis was essentially confined to his activities at school. “He was a fine actor, the best we’ve ever had I think. He always came to rehearsals prepared—very professional. Now in class he wasn’t the best student. He had a sharp mind, but he got bored ea
sily. Except for acting classes. In those he generally worked hard and did well. In the other more academic courses he put forth less effort. I think he thought of them as something to get through in order to be on the stage. Acting always came first.”

  “How did he get along with other students?”

  “Fine. Fine. No problems that I ever saw. The students are great. You know, they work hard. They have classes all day. We rehearse five nights a week. It’s like a big family. Steven was one of the leaders.”

  Hariot’s story was confirmed by the other teachers. They knew of his class work. They worked with him on the productions. Slate met with each one, but only got the same story over and over. “He was a brilliant actor, really gifted. He could sing, dance, play comedy or serious roles. He was polite. Everyone liked him.”

  Only the costume designer Florence Muncie knew a little more about his personal life and that was because he had worked for her in the costume shop. Florence was the last on Slate’s list. “Maybe somewhere in her fifties,” Slate thought, “but still a beautiful woman.” He was always a sucker for women with fiery red hair. It reminded him of his mother. Florence greeted him in her office. She had to move a stack of watercolor sketches from the chair so that he could sit down. Every available surface in the office was covered with piles of books, sketches, photographs, show magazines. “Sorry everything’s such a mess. I’m right in the middle of designing the costumes for a show. We’re doing My Fair Lady next.”

  Slate nodded. ”I saw it at Music Theatre—and the movie.” Florence was wearing pants with a long flowing jacket made of a lavender print material and a pearl white blouse underneath. The outfit was simple, yet very elegant. “It’s a period show. Lots and lots of costumes. Too many.” She smiled and laughed nervously.

  He moved the conversation away from the preliminaries, and she told him about Steven’s family life. “He worked for me for the past two years twenty hours a week. Last spring I heard him talking to one of the other students. We all sit around in the shop working at the machines or one of the tables. It’s very natural for them to confide in one another. He said that he had told his parents that weekend that he was gay, and his father had physically thrown him out of the house—disowned him, I guess. His family’s very religious. After that he was totally on his own. He moved in with one of our other students—ah—her name is Andrea Ball.” Florence laughed nervously again. “She’s a wild child. She has a pierced bellybutton and several tattoos. Her hair is purple this week, I think. But she’s very bright and talented, too. A lot like Steven actually. She’s had an A average through both high school and college.”

  Slate smiled, wondering if the girl might be with the other students in the lounge. He also wondered how Jerry was doing with his questioning. Hopefully, better than he was.

  Florence went on. “Then he got another job waiting tables. During the summer he was hired by Music Theatre of Wichita. He was in the chorus or played small roles in all the shows. This fall he had some other job. I think he worked late nights somewhere at a video store when he wasn’t doing a play.”

  “Did he have a drug or alcohol problem? Anything you know about that?” Slate asked.

  Florence shook her head. “No, I mean, I’m sure he drank, you know, and would go out with a gang and have a few beers or whatever, but I never heard stories about him getting really drunk or high on drugs.” She laughed that same laugh. “I’ve heard stories about others, but not him.”

  Slate watched the way she moved, the way she shook her hair, the way her teeth flashed when she smiled, the soft and flowing material of her outfit. “Did he have any enemies that you know of? Any wacko people around you think could do this?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “No. No one. This is so awful. It makes me sad.” She wiped tears from her eyes and grabbed a Kleenex and blew her nose softly.

  By the time he had finished, Slate had a list of five more people he wanted to talk to: the lover Joe Moss, the purple- haired Andrea, the religious parents, and the manager of the video store. Jerry had a slightly longer list. They compared notes in a corner of the lounge after the students had left. Out of a hundred theatre majors, about thirty were involved in the production of Angels in America. Jerry had statements from five. Out of the ten faculty and three staff members Slate had statements from six.

  Jerry’s compassion for the victim had been somewhat lessened by his new information. “I tell yah, Slate, the Steven some of the students knew was not the angel he appeared to be with the teachers. He worked at that sleazy adult bookstore on North Broadway. With a handful of quarters, a man can watch porn and play with his weenie.” Slate knew the joint. Before he’d made detective, he had been called to pick up a drunk there a few times.

  “Steven seems to have had a string of boyfriends, and a couple of his former flames had not nice things to say.” Jerry checked his notes. “A kid named Mark called him ‘a user, an arrogant bastard, and said he was someone who would drink or smoke whatever was free, but never bought.’ A blond guy named Kip said, ‘He really knew how to get you. Whatever you were afraid of, whatever was your weakest area, whatever he knew you cared about the most, that’s what he’d use against you. He always wanted to win, be first, be the center of attention.’ The guy said he could be vicious!”

  Slate was glad to know that Steven had been human and not perfect. “Maybe it was just his determination to succeed. Acting is a tough business.”

  “Are you defending this guy?”

  Slate laughed. “No,” he said, “I’m just giving him the benefit of the doubt. From what I heard, this kid was a genius. A true talent. That must have made these other kids jealous.”

  After merging their notes, the two of them checked the situation in the theatre. Dr. Phyllis Gellerson, a top-notch forensic scientist, was just finishing up. She was a big woman in her forties, well proportioned and attractively put together, but it was her height that made her stand out. From a distance she looked perfectly normal, but when Slate stood next to her, they were eyeball to eyeball. He was six feet tall.

  “How’s Emily?”

  Dr. Gellerson smiled. “Fine. How’s Jeanne?”

  “Doing great.”

  Both of their daughters had been in band together since the seventh grade and now went to the same high school. Slate and Phyllis had become acquainted while attending numerous school concerts and other events. “What was the time of death?” Slate asked.

  “From the body temperature I’d say around midnight.” Dr. Gellerson, smoothed her blond hair behind her ears. “I suspect the blow to the head is what killed him. Something metal—probably a rusty pipe. Next came the strangulation. Whoever did it must have knocked the chair out of the way and continued to hit him with a pipe. Some metal flakes were imbedded in the scalp and back. The bruise marks were heaviest on the lower part of the back. The pipe may have been used to sodomize him as well.”

  “You find the pipe?”

  “We found a half a dozen. They screw them together to make a long batten that slips into a canvas sleeve at the bottom of backdrops. We have to run some tests before we know if any were used on the victim.

  Conny Baker joined them. “Nice mess we got here.”

  “Prints?” Jerry asked?

  “Lots of prints, but it’s likely they belong to dozens of students. I don’t think they’ll be any help. We did find a couple on the chair. Possible, but who knows.”

  Two other members of the crime team bagged the body and carried it out on a stretcher. Slate and Jerry followed. When they stepped outside, they saw that the media had ensnared some of the students. As the ambulance took off with sirens blaring, several of the reporters and television cameras descended on them.

  “Can you tell us about the victim? Is it true he had a smiley face sticker on his chest? Do you have a suspect? Do you think this was because they’re doing a gay play?” Slate and Jerry made their way to the car with difficulty—Slate fending off the questions with “No co
mment,” but Jerry getting tired of their persistence, finally escalated to “No goddamn comment,” and “No fucking goddamn comment.”

  But that didn’t discourage the reporters. They followed, continuing to ask questions, until the car doors slammed shut. Slate and Jerry breathed a sigh of relief once they got into the car, finally getting a moment of peace and quiet. The reporters took off after others emerging from the building.

  CHAPTER 4

  LIFE AT HOME

  It was almost six o’clock by the time Slate got home. His daughter Jeanne was cooking dinner. They shared the cooking and took turns. When one cooked, the other did the dishes. Tonight Jeanne was fixing her specialty: a macaroni and shrimp dish. She had already prepared a cucumber and tomato salad. As he walked into the kitchen, she was pouring him a glass of blush wine, a Berringer zinfandel. It was an inexpensive wine, but Slate liked the taste.

  “Hi, beautiful.”

  “Hi, Dad.” Jeanne smiled, tossing her long blond hair, and handed him the glass of wine.

  “Thanks. Just what I need. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “Why? Did you arrest some rich bitch for killing her husband or a farmer for raping his sheep?”

  “Jeanne, watch your language.”

  “And who did I get it from? Kids talk like their parents.”

  “Yes, but there’s a time and place.”

  “I know that, but I’m home with you, so—“

  He decided to drop the topic of conversation. He knew he would lose anyway. Jeanne was very independent and not afraid to say what she thought. She also had clever enough insights that sometimes she outsmarted him.

  “Well, why was your day so bad?”

  Slate watched her as she cooled the macaroni in the strainer by letting cold water run through it. Jeanne was tall, about 5 feet 9. She wore jeans and short top that showed off her small waist. Her skin was a creamy tan and even in the winter it never faded to that pasty white which happened to many others. With her blue eyes, golden hair and well-toned body, it dawned on Slate that she had actually grown into a very beautiful woman.