The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  “Why was your day so bad?” Jeanne repeated.

  It took Slate a moment to focus on the question. The image of Steven Davis’ body hanging on the Duncan stage flashed into his mind. He shook his head to clear it and said,

  “A student was murdered at the university.”

  “Oh.” Jeanne didn’t pry. She knew he would give her only a brief overview. She dumped the macaroni into a bowl, added the shrimp, some chopped celery and red onion, and spooned a large dollop of light Mayo into the mix.”

  “He was a graduating senior, evidently an actor with great promise.”

  “God, that’s so awful.” She mixed in another spoonful of mayonnaise and added salt and pepper. She had heard many horror stories over the years, but the word “senior” somehow made this one personal, maybe even a little gut wrenching because she was a senior too—although in high school not college.

  “He was hanged—on the stage.”

  Jeanne grimaced and changed the subject. “Good thing you’re not late.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause I have to go to the library. And I was not planning to wait if you were late.”

  “Oh, is that so?” He poked her in the ribs.

  She jumped and moved out of his way. “Hey, watch it. You want to wear dinner instead of eating it?”

  “No, I’ll behave.”

  “You better.”

  When Jeanne had been five, Slate was holding down the home while his wife took classes to finish her Master’s Degree. One night he had cooked spaghetti and fixed his plate and those of his two daughters. Jeanne had pitched a fit. She wanted the sauce on the side, not on the noodles. Since the sauce was already on the noodles, there was nothing Slate could do. As Jeanne cried and demanded the sauce on the side, Slate—in his frustration after a particularly trying day—had dumped the plate of spaghetti on her head. Immediately, he had regretted his action. He was worried that he might have burned her, but she was okay. Needless to say, however, it cured her from ever whining about anything in the future.

  Slate got two plates, napkins and silverware and placed them properly on the table as Jeanne poured them each a glass of skim milk. Slate sat down eagerly. The smell of the food made his mouth water. Jeanne brought the food to the table, sitting opposite. They talked about a variety of lighter topics while they ate.

  Jeanne told him about the prom dress that she had found, indicating that she might need a little more money. After describing it in great detail, she finally admitted that she needed forty more dollars. Slate teased her.

  “No, we set a limit of two hundred and twenty and that’s it. You’ll just have to find something else.”

  “But, Dad,” She purred. “I can wear it with shoes I already have.”

  Slate laughed and gave in. He knew she had a practical head on her shoulders as well as good taste and a real sense of style. He would have given her even more if need be to make her happy.

  “So how’s Josh these days? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “He’s fine. He’s busy with baseball.”

  “Do I detect a note of dissatisfaction?”

  “No, I’ve been busy too.”

  Slate was glad that the two of them were levelheaded. He knew that they were not virgins, but he was glad that sex hadn’t motivated them to start thinking about marriage. One night he had found them on the sofa still dressed but tightly wrapped around each other, and he had talked frankly to both of them about using good sense, protection, and not having sex in the house when he was home. Later that night with a little prodding, Jeanne had clarified her relationship with Josh. Slate was very glad to know that she was happy dating and not ready for any kind of commitment. She had her heart set on a career in nursing and nothing and no one was going to get in her way.

  “He is the one taking you to the prom, right?”

  “Yes. He’s renting a tux. We picked one out last weekend.”

  “This is definitely going to be a Kodak moment. Make sure I have film for my camera.”

  “I will. Don’t I always? But you could use your cell phone if I do forget.”

  Slate nodded. He valued her sense of organization and wondered how in hell he was going to manage everything once she was off to college.

  His thoughts were interrupted when Cain, his big black cat trotted in and sat down on the floor next too him and let his presence be known with a loud yowl.

  “Wait until I’m finished eating,” Slate told him, rubbing under his ears. His touch motivated Cain to stand and arch his back and meow again. Slate had learned to recognize Cain’s different meows and other signals for what he wanted.”

  “Yes, I’ll brush you in a minute.”

  “Tell him, tell him,” Jeanne giggled.

  Cain meowed. Slate continued to rub his head, but the cat wasn’t patient. His meow grew louder, and he walked over to the phone table and began to chew on the phone cord that hung over the side.

  “Cain!” Slate said sharply.

  Cain ignored him and continued his assault on the phone cord.

  “It’s no wonder there’s so much static noise on that phone,” Jeanne noted.

  Slate slapped his hand on the table. “Stop it!” He said firmly.

  Cain yowled again and came back to Slate, rubbing against his chair. Slate finished his last bite and took the dishes into the kitchen. He got the brush from Cain’s drawer and went back to his chair. He showed Cain the brush. The cat made an affirmative little yelp and ran to him. Slate brushed the cat from the top of his head to his tail, under his ears, and eventually he pushed the cat to lie on his side so Slate could brush his tummy. The cat knew the routine and calmly stretched out. Slate turned the cat over and brushed his tummy from the other side.

  Back on his feet, the cat began walking around as Slate continued to brush his back. He liked to rub the side of his face on nearby furniture. Slate stood up and followed him around, brushing his back and sides until he decided that was enough.

  After the ritual with the cat Slate washed dishes while Jeanne went off to the library. He watched the news. In their battle for ratings the television stations in Wichita went for sensationalism. To Slate it was tabloid journalism at its worst. He skipped from one local news show to another until he finally settled on Channel 3, which he felt was the least offensive.

  They focused on the story as a gay hate crime. The reporter relayed the gruesome details of the murder. They showed photos of the victim in costume from various plays in which he’d performed, particularly those which had gay themes. Eventually they went live to the campus where a reporter interviewed students in front of Duncan Auditorium. Slate hit the remote to shut off the television and went to his room.

  He had the corner room downstairs. He’d painted the walls of his room a soft blue and the molding white. There were four windows with white sheer curtains that let in the light but kept out prying eyes. They were flanked by dark blue drapes that he could close if he wanted to seal himself completely from the outside world. It was peaceful room. He had an old-fashioned double bed with a patch work quilt his mother had made. The dresser was cherry. He had decorated the walls with original paintings, landscapes and seascapes he had purchased over the years.

  After his divorce, Slate had bought this house in the Riverside park area. The outside was stucco painted the color of wheat and it had seven gables. The trim was a dark brown. It had three bedrooms, one up and two down. His daughter had the upstairs room. The other downstairs bedroom had been turned into a family room/study.

  Slate hung up his jacket and stripped down to his boxers, throwing his dirty clothes into a laundry basket in the closet. He slid into bed and opened the book he had been reading for the past two weeks. It was about Jack the Ripper by one of his favorite authors—Patricia Cornwell. Slate loved to read mystery novels and historical fiction. Recently he’d been through a period focusing on the French Revolution. After that it was the American Civil War. For the past two months he had been ba
ck to crime novels. Now he had found both history and crime in Portrait of a Killer.

  He heard Jeanne come home about ten o’clock. Soon after he shut off the light and tried to sleep. It wasn’t easy. The vision of the young actor hanging above the stage remained fresh in his mind. He found himself thinking of the young man, wondering what his life had truly been like, wondering what might have been different had he lived. He finally fell into a fitful sleep about eleven.

  That night he had nightmares. He had often experienced nightmares since childhood. One was a reoccurring dream that related back to an incident when Slate was fourteen. In the dream, just like his memory of what had happened that scary night, his father was yelling at his mother. It was like a black and white movie in slow motion. When Slate entered the kitchen, his father, sitting at the table, was yelling and stuck his arm out in a sweeping motion and violently flung all the dishes on to the floor. Although he couldn’t hear what they were saying, he knew every word. His father had said, “I hate this house and everyone in it.” His mother had screamed, tears running down her face, “If you hate this house, I hate it, too.” She flung the coffee pot at the ceiling light. The old-fashioned percolator came apart in mid-air, the insides flying out with the coffee grounds spilling everywhere. In his dream it was still in slow motion. He saw his father jump up and slap his mother. When Slate grabbed his arm, he brusquely shoved Slate backwards against the wall, knocking him unconscious. At this point in the nightmare, Slate came out of the darkness, gasping for air as usual, and woke up. It took him nearly an hour to fall asleep again.

  When he did, in the darkness, he felt a hot, wet mouth sucking on his dick. “Stop it.” He tried to pull away. His uncle face moved up, an angry look in his eyes. His uncle held him so that he couldn’t move. “You want me to tell your father? That what you want?” Slate shook his head. His fear of his father was stronger. He felt paralyzed with guilt and shame, but was aroused by the sensations as his uncle continued.

  Suddenly there was the gunshot. He was on the porch and ran into his uncle’s garage. His uncle was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Blood was splattered all over the wall behind him. Slate could see that he had put a shotgun in his mouth and blown the back of his head off.

  Slate whirled away and suddenly found himself standing naked on a chair on the stage. It was a frightening image—as if he were watching himself hanging like Steven Davis. Slate came out of the dream thrashing wildly. He sat up in bed, dripping with sweat. It took him a moment to focus, to realize it was just a dream. His ex-wife Jodie had nagged him to see a therapist about the nightmares, but he never had. He’d been afraid he would lose her if she really knew the truth. His uncle had sexually abused him for two years. It was a secret part of his past that he had never told anyone. He did tell her about finding his uncle after he had committed suicide. Now, none of it mattered. She was gone. God, he missed her. Their relationship had first been one of friendship. She had been his best friend and his lover. His career, his nightmares, and his avoidance of sex had finally driven her into the arms of another. As he lay thinking back over his fucked up life, he wondered whether therapy would help. He could see Dr. Channing who had served as a consultant on a couple of cases. He was the only psychiatrist Slate knew. As he began to fall asleep again, he decided to give him a call.

  CHAPTER 5

  SODOMY

  The next morning Slate woke up early. He got the paper from the front porch. The Wichita Eagle’s top story was about the murder with page one blasting out a huge headline: “Smiley Face Killer Murders Gifted Student.” He poured a glass of orange juice and swallowed his vitamins. He grabbed a box of the generic store version of raisin brand, dumped it into a bowl, sprinkled some Fruit and Fiber on top, added soy milk and sat down to eat and read. The story focused on the angle of a gay hate crime and compared it with the Matthew Shepard murder. The gay actor in the gay play was portrayed as a great talent whose potential would sadly never be realized. It was a sympathetic article with a minimum of facts about the murder and a maximum about the terrific performances the young man had given. There were three photos, one a head shot; the other two showed Davis in costume as Romeo and as John Proctor from The Crucible. Slate thought some of the quotes from other students were a bit too flowery to be believed, but otherwise the story was pretty straightforward.

  On his way to work he stopped by the coroner’s office to check out the autopsy report on the victim. As he pushed his way through the double doors into the lab, Slate’s stomach did a somersault. He quickly stepped back out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, gulping air. Dr. Gellerson stuck her head out. “I thought that was you. Are you okay?” She moved quickly to his side.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Phyllis. The smell just got to me. Usually I can stand it, but I guess it’s too soon after breakfast.”

  “We just finished. A floater. A John Doe found in Arkansas River. Been there for a week. It was pretty ripe.”

  “I’ll say. The stench is…is…god it is so bad I can’t think of a word to describe it.”

  “Don’t try. How about a cup of coffee? I have some in my office.”

  “Thanks, I’d love some.”

  “Just let me get out of these.” She disappeared back into the autopsy suite and returned a moment later minus the white lab coat, face shield, gloves, and the other plastic biological armor. She was wearing dark blue slacks with a white blouse and a tiny gold chain with a small locket around her neck. He followed Phyllis to her office. The furnishings were old, but had been selected for their quality. There was a wall of books, a large carved mahogany desk and a comfortable leather armchair. The office was fairly neat except for the desk, which was piled high with files. Against one wall was a beautiful old oak buffet with a coffee maker and other supplies. Phyllis poured two cups of coffee, gave him one, and sat behind her desk.” They each took a sip. Phyllis looked through several files on her desk.

  “Good coffee.” Slate acknowledged.

  “I like good coffee. I get the beans and grind them myself. This is a special Brazilian import.” She ran her hand absently through her blond hair.

  Slate liked Phyllis. She reminded him of Jodie. They each had a mouth that even when they were relaxed seemed to be curved in a slight smile. He considered them both very intelligent women with a special gift for reaching out to others with kindness. Both were able to focus in on other people with a genuine sympathetic ear that was comforting.

  “So what have you got for me?”

  Phyllis found the folder, opened it and glanced at the report. “Death was caused by the blow to the head. If that hadn’t quite finished the job, the compression of the windpipe and the obstruction of the blood flow to the brain from the hanging did. There was a rupture of nerve structures in the neck. Thyroid damage, and the hyoid bone was broken. The hemp rope left a raised welt particularly on the front of the neck. The vertebrae in the neck were separated and the spinal cord was damaged. Blows from the pipe caused the lacerations and bruises on his back and ribs. There were fractures to the skull where the face was bashed in with the same pipe. Nose was broken. There was some rust in the wounds. Several ribs were cracked from the force of the blows to his back and chest. He was also sodomized with the pipe. The colon was punctured and ripped. Whoever did this is really a sick son of a bitch.”

  “You find the right pipe?”

  “Yes. It had been washed off in the bathroom and thrown back into the pile with the others, but there were still bits of blood and tissue stuck in some of grooves.”

  “Prints?”

  “Not on the pipe. Conny’s still working on everything. I’m sure there were hundreds on the doors, furniture, walls, but nothing that we’ve directly tied to the murder. One clear print on the chair that belonged to the victim, Conny said, but the rest was mostly just smudges. Smudges on the doorknob to the bathroom. Looks like the perp wiped everything he touched. You’ll have to wait for the report from the CSU for all that.”
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br />   Phyllis closed the file and their conversation changed to their usual repertoire—the weather, the latest movies they had seen and their daughters.

  Slate finished his coffee, said his goodbye and went to the station. Jerry came waltzing in soon after. He was in a happy mood and whistling.

  “You must’ve gotten laid last night,” Slate observed wryly.

  “Yeah, I did,” Jerry grinned.

  Slate decided not to pursue the topic any further. He was glad there was still something positive in his partner’s relationship with his wife.

  They each typed up a separate report of their activities and perceptions of the previous day’s events. After that they went over the case point by point. The next decision had to do with the order in which to interview everyone connected to the victim. Slate said, “I want to talk to the rest of the faculty.”

  “They ain’t gonna know anything.” Jerry argued.

  “They may. Whoever did this knew the victim. It’s probably someone they all know.”

  “I say we go talk to Joe Moss first.”

  “The victim’s lover. Why? All he’s gonna do is cry and moan.”

  “You don’t think he’s important?”

  “Yeah, he’s important, but shit, the faculty will be more coherent. Give Moss another day.”

  “We also gotta check out Steven’s apartment and roommates.”

  Slate pulled out his notebook. “Look, first on my list are the parents Henry and Mary Davis. Whatdayah say? Start at the beginning? A little background?”

  “Let’s do it,” Jerry agreed.

  As they were on their way out, they ran into Norm Williams, the Chief of Investigations. Slate waved, but Norm wasn’t about to let them get away without hearing his two cents. He grabbed Slate’s arm, made them slow down and walked with them to the door. “You guys know how goddamn urgent this is. Find a fucking suspect. We’ve gotta nail this sucker.”