The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  “Who were these students?”

  “Robin Lightfoot and Anna Vaparelli. Anna’s no longer here. She transferred to K State.”

  “You think this Robin was pissed off enough to do this?”

  Mr. Joslyn paused for a moment to think, rubbing his hand over his goatee. “Nah, I don’t think so. He’s always quiet, kinda withdrawn—passive. He just sorta sits back and looks at everyone with contempt or hostility or something. I’ve never been able to figure him out. He’s a Native American. I get the feeling he’s pissed at the whole country for what happened to his people.”

  Jerry pushed him on the issue. “That’s been motive enough for countless other murders.”

  Joslyn shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so. The one you need to check out is Joe Moss. That son of a bitch is crazy. He needs a serious attitude adjustment.”

  “I thought he was Steven’s lover.”

  “So what. The guy’s nuts. He stopped coming to class two or three weeks ago. Last week I happened to see him in the parking lot out back. I asked him about his design project, he went ballistic. Started screaming at me that I didn’t care about students. That I never gave any help or advice.” Joslyn was too emotional to stay seated. He slid his chair back and stood up, moving to the desk and leaning on it. “I told him my philosophy on these projects is to let them work out the problems. Hell, if I solve everything for ‘em, what are they learning? He called me an asshole. I told him, ‘This conversation is finished.’ I was afraid I was going to belt him right in the mouth. I got in my car and started to back out. He began pounding on the back of the car, yelling obscenities at me. He chased me half way out the drive.”

  Slate continued taking notes and didn’t look up. “Is that the only time something like this has happened?”

  “He always asked a lot of questions in class. More than anyone else. We used to banter back and forth. It got so that instead of just asking if there were questions, I turn to him and say, “Any questions, Joe?” I liked him. I thought we really communicated.

  This—this episode shocked the hell out of me.” Joslyn’s eyes teared up for a moment. Slate realized that he really cared about his students.

  “Have you seen him since then?” Slate asked.

  “Sure, I mean, he’s in the show. I’ve seen him every day, but he avoids me. All I get is hostile glares.”

  “What about since the murder?”

  “Yeah, he’s been around. Still the same. After our little blowup happened, I went to see Ben Hariot the next day and told him about it. Joe had stopped going to his class too. He called Joe in to talk about it. Joe thinks we’re too pedantic.

  We’re too traditional. We don’t give students enough freedom. It’s all bullshit. He doesn’t want to do the assignments. He wants to do his own thing—whatever that is.”

  “I talked to Hariot the day of the murder. He didn’t mention this particular student.”

  Joslyn sat down again, put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. “They didn’t get into a shouting match. Ben’s very even keen, very rational. He did tell me that Joe had left Washburn University for pretty much the same reasons. Ben called the Director of Theatre there who said Joe had attacked some of the teachers verbally, eventually stopped going to class. I guess he had some sort of nervous breakdown.”

  Jerry crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. “So do you think he might have had something to do with Steven’s murder?”

  Joslyn stood up again and moved around the table, straightening up the drawings, stacking the books into piles. “No, not really. You know, I work with these kids every day. I get to know ‘em better’n most teachers cause we’re working outside the classroom building the set, hanging the lights, you know. We joke around. Sometimes we go out for a beer. I thought I got to know ‘em pretty well, but hell, after this I don’t know what to think.”

  “So what are you trying to say, Mr. Joslyn?” Slate asked.

  “I was pretty upset by what Joe said. I work damn hard. Sometimes I’m here sixteen hours a day. I’m here most every weekend. The idea that I don’t care about students is bullshit. I think Joe is screwed up. I think he’s got mental problems.”

  “What about his relationship with Steven? You saw them together?”

  “Sure. They’ve been dating—seemed like good friends. Talking, laughing, whispering to each other.”

  “No recent screaming matches? Nothing different in the last few days?”

  “Not that I noticed. After last week I’ve ignored Joe as much as possible. I’ve been busy trying to get the set and lights together for the show.”

  “They played lovers in the show right?”

  “They’re lovers to begin with. Early in the play the character Joe plays learns he has AIDS. Steven’s character can’t deal with it and runs out on him.”

  Knowing about his wife and her illness, Slate watched Jerry’s reaction closely.

  Jerry’s eyebrow twitched. He turned his head slightly. His looked down at the floor, his eyes not really focusing, his thoughts turning inward.

  “You haven’t seen any strangers hanging around,” Slate continued. The man shook his head.

  “Well, anything else you can think of, Mr. Joslyn?”

  “No, that’s about it.”

  Slate handed him a card. “If you do, give us a call.”

  Jerry, coming back to the moment, stood up, offering his hand. “Thanks very much for your time.”

  Slate shook the professor’s hand and asked if they could use his office to talk to a few of the students, the ones he had just seen on stage. Returning to his formerly bright and outgoing manner, Joslyn readily agreed and offered to send them up one at a time.

  While they waited, Slate sought Jerry’s response to the professor’s revelations. “Whadayah think?”

  Jerry grinned at his partner’s question, which he had heard a thousand times before. “I think we need to chase down Joe Moss and find out what makes him tick.”

  “That goes without saying. What did you think of Joslyn?”

  “He’s okay, I guess.”

  “Think he told us everything?”

  “What are you getting at?” Jerry looked puzzled.

  “He seemed pretty upset with this Moss guy. Do you suppose he wants a little revenge?”

  “Well, if this kid has problems—“

  “The kid has problems. I think the professor wants to give him some more problems. Maybe have us put him in the hot seat for a while. He was awfully anxious to point the finger at him.”

  “Look, you’ve got rage, an unprovoked attack in the parking lot, verbal abuse. That’s enough to raise questions.”

  “Too obvious. Sure he’s a suspect. They’re all suspects. But this kid didn’t have a problem with Steven Davis. He seems to have a problem with the teachers.”

  “Maybe he’s just a problem.”

  “Touché.”

  “If the problem is in him, maybe he did it. What if Steven was dumping him for someone else? What if Steven was cheating on him? What if this Steven really had AIDS or something and Moss just found out. If he’s got a problem, he could have taken it out on Steven just as he did the professor.”

  Slate agreed. Jerry’s theories had a lot of “What ifs,” but he thought Jerry’s arguments made sense. It would be a miracle if they found out Joe Moss was guilty and they were able to close the case quickly, but it would be a welcome miracle. Slate was just waiting for his superiors to start breathing down his neck.

  The Police Department had adopted a Community Policing Philosophy in the way it did business. Their motto “To Serve with Honor” was the foundation of what they strived to accomplish in their everyday work. Slate believed in it. In the previous year the department was selected as one of only three law enforcement agencies worldwide to receive the distinguished Webber Seavey Award for excellence in law enforcement. Slate had done his share to earn that distinction. He hoped that this new case would add mor
e shine to his record.

  Of course the philosophy and reality didn’t always go together. The Chief could be a tough bastard, and if the Mayor started ragging on his ass, Slate knew that his would be next in line. He hated the Mayor anyway. In his view the Mayor was a two-faced, self-serving, money-grubbing, penny-pinching mother-fucker. He had liked the previous Democratic mayor who was a woman much better. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Mr. Joslyn said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Come in. Sit down.” The sandy haired young man seemed nervous. As he moved to the table, he caught his foot on a chair and stumbled. After he sat down, he began drumming his fingers on the table. His whole body seemed to be twitching, every part of him engaged in small unconnected movements.”

  “What’s your name, son?” Slate gave him his best reassuring smile.

  “Tim Wheeler.”

  Slate checked though his notes. “You were one of Steven’s friends.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hung out together.”

  “Yeah, some.”

  Jerry jumped in. “So what did you do when you hung out together?”

  “Well, a bunch of us often go to a movie. Usually every Friday night we get out of rehearsal a little early and go to the ten o’clock show. Whatever is new.”

  “Who is part of the bunch, Tim?” Jerry asked.

  “It varies. Sometimes it’s—was just Steven, Joe Moss and Derek and me. Derek Colson. Sometimes Andrea and Andy. Sometimes most of the cast would go.”

  Slate made took note of the names. “What else did you do?”

  Suddenly the boy just started crying, tears streaming down his face. He didn’t try to hide them, just wiped his nose on the back of his hand and went on. “We go out to bars, go dancing.”

  Jerry looked around and found a box of Kleenex on Joslyn’s desk. He handed the kid some tissues.

  “What bars?”

  “Different ones.” The kid wiped his eyes and blew his nose.

  A bit annoyed at his short and vague answers, Jerry began pushing harder. “Like Our Fantasy?” He asked.

  Slate could tell from his manner that the kid was gay. There was something about his gestures. Obviously Jerry had picked up on that too.

  “Yeah, we went there. The Metro. The Side Street Saloon.”

  “You ever sleep with him, Tim? Have sex with him?” Jerry asked.

  The young man’s face turned red. “Do I have to answer that?”

  “Yes. We need to know.” Slate answered.

  Tim looked away. “Yeah, a couple of times.”

  “Recently?”

  “No.”

  “When?”

  “Last year.”

  “So what happened? Why not more?”

  “Jesus, you know, do we have to get this personal?”

  “Yeah, we do.” Jerry acknowledged forcefully.

  “We liked to do the same things. We were too much alike.”

  “Like how? Like two female dogs backing up to each other or what?” Jerry snorted with sarcasm.

  Tim slammed his hand on the table. Slate could tell he didn’t like cops, and he didn’t like people judging him. Probably didn’t like any authority figures, Slate thought. Jerry’s attitude had made him angry.

  “We both like to fuck, okay. We like to fuck. He had a big dick. I don’t mind a small one once in a while, but I couldn’t take his. Okay, that answer your fucking question?”

  “Sorry, kid,” Slate interjected, trying to play peacemaker.

  “This is a murder. We’re just trying to learn as much as we can so that we can find out who did it.”

  “I know.” Tim suddenly slumped in his chair. Tears sprang to his eyes again as he thought about Steven. “He was my best friend.”

  Seeing his weakened condition, Slate probed. “So did you guys have any secrets? You know anything about him that others didn’t?”

  ‘Not that I know of.” Suddenly he laughed as a thought struck him. “Wait a minute. He did tell me that he wanted to fuck in every room in the building before he graduated.”

  “This was one of his goals?”

  “Yeah, every room, every faculty office, every dressing room, every nook and cranny.”

  “What was his progress?”

  “He only had a few left to go.”

  “Graduation is in what—about three or four weeks?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was this something he and Joe Moss worked on together?”

  “No, not especially—although I’m sure they’ve done some together. It started last year, just about this time.

  He got the idea, because Judy Blalock, one of the teachers, had lost her keys. She had a master key. Steven found it and kept it so he could get into the building and get into any room anytime. He showed it to me. It has ‘Do not duplicate’ stamped right on it.

  “Interesting concept.” Jerry grinned.

  They finished with Tim who said he’d send up Derek Colson. Slate wondered about the key. He didn’t remember a key like that in Steven’s pants. He rifled though his notes. They had found car keys and what looked like two house keys. Nothing that said, “Do not duplicate.”

  Jerry interrupted his thoughts. “Sounds like Steven was a busy boy. I wonder what his mother and father would say.”

  “I don’t even want to go there.” Slate grunted.

  Jerry mimicked their attitudes. “Steven was always different,” he said as if he were Mrs. Davis. “What son?” he said gruffly as if he were the old man.

  “I gotta take a leak.” Slate left and went down to the lobby.

  The men’s room was another flight down in the basement. It smelled like a sewer. The stalls had no doors.

  The walls were painted institution green and peeling. A huge cockroach ran across the floor. Slate tried not to breathe. He finished as soon as possible, washed his hands and bounded up the stairs. By the time he got back up to the professor’s office, Derek Colson was already there.

  “Hi, Derek.” He shook the boy’s hand. The palm was sweaty.

  Jerry made the introduction. “This is my partner, Slate. You can call him Detective Slater.”

  They sat down and looked at Derek. He gave them a lop-sided grin and flicked his bleached blond hair out of his face. He had a big nose and his face was a mass of pimples.

  Jerry began the conversation. Slate took notes. “What can you tell us about Steve? We know he was talented, very bright, and gay. We know that he and his father didn’t see eye to eye. We know he shared an apartment with Andrea and Andy. We know you and Tim hung around with him. Anything else you can tell us?”

  “I know he was happy about getting out of Wichita. He was looking forward to graduation. He was excited about doing Angels in America. He had a terrific role. He thought it would be a great swan song.”

  “Did he seem different lately?”

  “No, not that I noticed.”

  “Nothing unusual happened in the last week that you noticed?”

  “No.”

  “Would you have known?” Slate interjected.

  “I think so. I mean I saw him in class—until he started missing a lot. We were in theatre history together, and I’m doing props on the show so I saw him every night at rehearsal.”

  “Did you go out with him in the last week or so? The movies? Out to a bar?” Slate continued.

  “No, come to think of it, some of us went to see some old flick about a German submarine last Friday night after rehearsal. It’s part of Film Classics Series at the Student Center. He and Joe said they were tired and going home. Last time we went out was April Fools.”

  “So it’s been a while.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about him and Joe?” Jerry asked, grabbing the ball again. “Everything all right there?”

  “Yeah, as far as I know.”

  “So as far as you know, there’s nothing unusual been going on.”

  “Right.”

  “Did
you have sex with Steven?”

  “What? No.”

  “No? Well, it seems as though everyone else has. Why not you?”

  “I’m not gay.”

  “You hang out with gays but you’re not gay?”

  “I haven’t had sex with anyone.” The boy looked away, embarrassed. “I just liked Steven. He and Tim were friends, and when I started rooming with Tim, he was nice to me. That’s all.”

  Slate decided to change the subject. “So what’s happening with the play? They cancel it or what?”

  Derek looked surprised that they didn’t know. “They’re going ahead with it,” he said. “We all had a big meeting about it this morning. Everybody in the cast and crew, the faculty, even the Dean. That’s what they decided. Marin—ah—Dr. Powers said that it was a great play. It was a milestone in American Theatre. It’s won all kinds of awards—Tony, Pulitzer Prize, Drama Critics Circle Award—everything. It’s one of the most important plays of the twentieth century.”

  “It’s a gay play, right?” Jerry stretched his tall frame and went to the window. He stood looking out.

  “No, it’s not just that. It’s about the whole Reagan era, about politics, about the justice system, about AIDS, about religion, about relationships. And not just gay relationships. It’s really relevant even today to what’s going on in politics and the economy—“

  Slate pulled Jerry aside away from Tim and spoke to him softly, “That worries me. If this is a case of some mixed up asshole that killed Steven because of his own screwed up psyche, that’s one thing. But if it was part of some larger plot by religious fanatics to stop the production, that’s another. That might mean something else may happen.”

  Jerry nodded, “I read about a college production in Missouri where they’d burned down the director’s house. It was a different play but…” He tried to remember the name. Suddenly, it came to him. “The Normal Heart—something about AIDS. It was Stephens College.” He remembered because the TV news had said that Kathleen Turner had graduated from that school. “If that kind of thing can happen in Missouri, it sure as hell could happen in Kansas too.”