The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  Jerry and Slate returned to the table.

  “Are you aware of any outside groups that might oppose this show?” Slate asked.

  Tim shook his head. “Naw. We’ve done Six Degrees of Separation and M. Butterfly. Both of ‘em had nude scenes and sex. We’ve done just about anything.”

  “So you’re all going ahead with it?”

  Derek nodded. “Marin—I mean—Dr. Powers said we shouldn’t just cancel the production—because it’s part of our education. That’s what we’re here for. She thought Steven would want us to do it?”

  “You agree with that?” Jerry asked, turning to look at him.

  “Yeah, I know he would. Theatre was his life. That’s all that mattered to him.”

  “And who’s going to play his part now?” Slate asked.

  “Aaron Biggs.”

  Both Slate and Jerry looked at each other. They remembered the blond skinny kid who’d found the body. The kid who had puked his guts out.

  “Since he was the stage manager, he knows all the movement and business. He’s familiar with the lines. He’s also a good actor.”

  “Where can we find Dr. Powers?”

  “Her office is downstairs, just off the lounge.” Both detectives were silent, lost in thought. Derek looked from one to the other. “Can I go now?” Slate nodded. Derek moved to the door, then turned. “She ain’t gonna change her mind. If that’s what you’re thinking, forget it.” He was gone.

  Jerry returned to the table and sat down. “You know, if this is some kind of attack by some hate group like that Westboro bunch, killing Steven won’t be the end of this.”

  “I agree?” Slate responded grimly.

  “I’m telling you that Westboro bunch is nuts. You can look ‘em up on the internet. They got their own hate site. And even if it’s not them, there’s other groups out there just as bad. Some of those Baptist churches in Andover preach this hate shit. I know. I’ve heard it. My wife grew up with it.”

  They found their way to Dr. Power’s office, but she had gone home as had Dr. Hariot. It was after five. There was nothing to be done, they decided. There was no evidence that suggested anything beyond a single killer. There was no indication that anyone else was in danger. Yet they both had a sick feeling deep in their guts when they went home that night.

  CHAPTER 8

  ON THE HOME FRONT: PROSTATE CANCER AND GOD HATES FAGS

  Slate remembered it was his turn to cook. As soon as he stepped inside his home, he was hit by the blast of his daughter’s music. He knocked on the door at the foot of the stairs, opened it and called up. “Jeanne, I’m home, turn it down.” The volume became suddenly much lower.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “What’s your schedule for tonight?”

  She peered over the railing. “I’m still working on my term paper.” Her long blond hair fell forward, almost concealing her face. She pushed it back and held it with her hand.

  “You going out or staying in?”

  “Staying in. I’m working on the computer.”

  “Do you want a slow dinner or something fast to get it out of the way?”

  “I’ll take the fast one.” She smiled. “I’ve got a pile of stuff to do.”

  Slate nodded and went to the kitchen. He decided to fix his easy baked French fries with pork chops and a salad. It was a simple meal that left him time to watch the news. He turned the oven to 400 degrees, sliced two potatoes just like fries, lined them up in rows on a cookie sheet. He put the chops in another pan. Sliding both pans into the oven, he set the timer for 35 minutes, and went into the living room.

  Slate had decorated the living room to suggest how it might have looked when the house was built in 1929. He had a black sofa and matching armchair covered with a shiny black fabric and the arms trimmed with silver metal, very Art Deco. The silver and glass coffee table had similar metal trim. Eleven stained glass lamps he had picked up over the years at flea markets illuminated the room. They strutted their stuff on several cherry tables, across the top of the armoire, which held the television, and on top of the two bookcases. The focal point of the room was the Batchelder tiled fireplace with a mantel of polished mahogany.

  Ernest Batchelder was an artist and educator who became a leader in the American Arts and Crafts movement. In 1909 he built a kiln and began the business of creating hand-crafted art tiles, which in a short time became hugely popular.

  Slate had refinished the hardwood floors himself and added two dark red Persian rugs. His special pride, however, were the original oil paintings and watercolors decorating the walls. The artists were unknown housewives, retirees, students, even prisoners at Leavenworth, and Slate had not paid much for the works. He had chosen them simply because he loved them. His favorite was a water color by William Elsea of an abandoned farmhouse on the Kansas plains. Surrounded by tall, willowy trees and the vast blue sky, the empty, dilapidated house suggested a past slowly slipping away.

  He stretched out on the sofa and hit the remote. The Channel 3 news was just beginning. The leading story was an announcement by Marin Powers that the production of Angels in America was going forward and would not be cancelled. She was at least sixty with reddish blond hair and a plump matronly figure. Slate was surprised at how spry and animated she was. She talked about the university as a place where all ideas and all views should be shared so that students could be taught to make their own decisions. She was very rational and made a lot of sense. The reporter interviewed others in the audience for reactions. Some supported doing the play, but the media team seemed to focus on the negative. One woman, who felt homosexuality was a sin, denigrated the youth of today and the permissiveness of society and went on to condemn the entire educational system. One old man even said he was glad that kid had been murdered. Slate shut it off and went back to the kitchen.

  He opened a package of salad greens, cut up a tomato and half of a cucumber, sliced up a few fresh mushrooms, and added some cashews. To top off the salad he sprinkled mandarin orange slices generously around the top. Next he poured himself a glass of his favorite zinfandel and sat down to reflect on the day’s events. What struck him was how complicated a life was, Steven’s life, his life, everyone’s life. Twenty years ago he hadn’t planned to be a cop. He never even considered being a single parent with two daughters. He never thought about owning his own house and having to fix every goddamn thing that went wrong with it. He thought about making a list of the ten worst mistakes he had made in his life, but he quickly decided he didn’t want to go there.

  When dinner was ready, he called Jeanne. She came bounding down the stairs like a horse.

  “You know what my father said when I ran down the stairs like that? He said, you clomp down those stairs like that again, and I’m gonna kick your ass right up between your shoulder blades.”

  Jeanne laughed. “I hope you don’t intend to try that.” She sat down, draped the napkin across her lap.

  “No, it was just my way of making a point.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to be quiet.”

  As they ate, Slate asked, “How’s the paper coming?”

  “Fine.” “

  What’s it about?” He figured she was writing some comparative literature essay.

  “My two favorite subjects: sex and science.” She shook the ketchup bottle and poured a small amount on her plate. Slate followed suit.

  “Come on, be serious.”

  “I am serious. It’s about prostate cancer.” Jeanne cut a small piece from the pork chop and chewed contentedly.

  Slate was surprised. “What in hell are you writing about that for? I thought this was for English.”

  Jeanne swallowed and burst forth with great enthusiasm. “It is, but Mrs. Linscott said we could write about anything. Since I plan to be a nurse, I decided to write about something that interested me. Prostate cancer. You’re getting up there, Dad. I just thought it would be really helpful to know. Someday it might come in handy.”

  “Jesus, I hop
e not. I mean I hope I don’t get it.”

  “Once you hit fifty, you need to have it checked every year.”

  “Jeanne, I’m forty-one.”

  “It they catch it early, they can almost guarantee a cure.”

  “And it they don’t?”

  Jeanne went into a laughing and coughing fit. When she finally caught her breath, she giggled and said, “Your dick falls off and you die.”

  Slate, his mouth full, spewed it all over his plate and both of them laughed until the tears ran down their face.

  “It’s not funny.” Slate said finally on a solemn note, cleaning up the mess he’d made.

  “No, it isn’t,” Jeanne agreed. “That’s why I wanted to do my paper on it. One out of every six men is at risk for prostate cancer.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  “Dad. It’s fascinating, and it’s something you should know about. Prostate cancer rates have increased almost 150 percent in the last 20 years. There’s a new case every three minutes.”

  “Jeanne, I’m glad you’re excited about learning about this, but I don’t want to hear it, especially not at the dinner table.”

  “Sometimes we hear your gory stories.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, come on. What about that Vietnam Vet who shot himself down at the end of the street?”

  “That wasn’t my case.”

  “No, but you told us all the details, the eye ball hanging out.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “A man dies of prostate cancer in this country every thirteen minutes.”

  “So what is this? You want me to have a check up? Jesus!”

  “Do you get a digital exam when you get a physical?”

  “Jeanne, for chrissakes.”

  “You know, I may be doing those. If I become a doctor instead of a nurse….“

  “All right….”

  “I’ll just put on my latex gloves and….”

  “Enough! You’ve having fun with this, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. Just be glad you don’t have to go to a gynecologist and have a pap smear.”

  “Believe me I am.”

  “But you know what pisses me off. Breast cancer and prostate cancer kill about the same number of people every year. Breast cancer gets 14 percent of the funding for research but prostate cancer gets only about 3 percent. They spend 50 times more on treatment than they do on trying to solve the problem. Not only that but doctors misdiagnose it in about one in four cases.”

  “How do you remember all this stuff?”

  “I’ve been doing research for a week. Besides it comes easy. It’s the way my mind works. I get it from you.”

  “So it’s my fault.”

  “Yes. It’s all your fault, and I’m glad.”

  “I am, too.” Slate felt very proud of his daughter. He knew of her love for science and her desire for a career in medicine. He was glad that being in the top ten percent of her class of over 2000 students had also brought her a scholarship. He wasn’t so happy about her going off to Boston University because it was so far away. He would miss her, but he supported her anyway. After dinner, he even offered to do the dishes so she could get back to her paper. Jeanne accepted. She started to run up the stairs but remembered her father’s earlier point and finished the climb slowly and quietly. Slate smiled to himself.

  Once he finished the dishes, he watched a rerun of Law and Order SVU. At nine the phone rang. It was his daughter Beth. After graduation from college, she had moved to Portland, Oregon, because her mother was living there. She hated Wichita because the tornados and thunder storms scared the hell out of her. There had been three storms in the 90’s that had hit the city. During one a hale storm had damaged the roof of their house and broke all the windows on the north side. It had also totaled Slate’s car.

  Beth had just started a new job with a travel agency. She was crying when he answered the phone. “Can I just vent?” she asked. “Mom’s not home and there’s no one to talk to.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Dad, I blew it today. It was such a shitty day. This man called and wanted to find out about flying to Sweden. I got a quote from British Air, but they didn’t tell me it depended on availability. So after I told the guy, I found out they didn’t have anything available. I ended up spending all day trying to find a low fare. My boss was really pissed.”

  “Look, honey, it’s a new job. You’re bound to make mistakes. Everyone does.”

  “It really wasn’t my mistake. They’re supposed to tell us if it’s not available.”

  “Well, maybe someone else was new on the job.”

  “I’m just afraid I won’t make it. What if I get fired?”

  “Hey, if you get fired, you get fired. We’ll work it out somehow. I’ll always be here to help. I can send more money if you need it.”

  “I just want to be independent.”

  “I know that. And you are. You finished college. You got your own apartment. You have a job. Three years ago you weren’t sure any of that was going to happen.”

  “If I lose this job, I won’t be able to afford the apartment.”

  “Beth, your anxiety is getting the best of you.”

  “I know.”

  “Reality is never as bad as you think it’s gonna be. Come on, now.”

  “I’m just not as good as other people. I can’t learn as fast.” She started crying again. “I wish I were like Jeanne. She’s so damn perfect.”

  “Beth, you know that’s not true. She doesn’t see herself as perfect.”

  “But she is, compared to me. She’s pretty and smart. Oh, God, Dad, why did I have to be born this way?”

  “Hey, I love you. You’re fine. I know things are harder for you, but everyone has problems. It could be worse, you know. Think of the kids that got pregnant and dropped out of school. The ones that got hooked on drugs. They’re a hell of a lot worse off than you.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay then.”

  “I was just feeling down.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I just want to do a good job.”

  “Look, I know you try to do your best; that’s all you can do.”

  “You won’t hate me if I get fired?”

  “Honey, you know better than that.”

  “I know. Okay, I’ll shut up now. I just needed to talk.”

  “Anytime.”

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m just fine. Working on a new case. A student was murdered at the university.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Like all of ‘em. One step at a time.”

  “And you can’t talk about it, I understand.”

  Beth had been born with multiple problems. Her jaw had not properly developed and cheek and jawbones had fused, making it impossible for her to open her mouth in a normal way. Her lower jaw never moved. She could open her lips and shove food in and swallow, but she was unable to chew. Growing up had been hell. She had learning disabilities as well. She was legally blind without her glasses. She’d had several surgeries on her jaw; all had been failures, leaving her face misshapen. Other kids had called her ugly. Yet she had persevered. On some levels her abilities were brilliant, and these allowed her to compensate for the disabilities so that the end result was average. She had learned to ride a bicycle. She had learned to type. She managed to go through regular school, without ever being put into Special Ed classes. She had even learned to drive.

  There were times when Slate and Jodie weren’t sure she would make it through high school, but she did, and they both cried when she marched across that stage and got her diploma. They cried again four years later when she graduated from college. Now they both felt a great deal of pride and admiration. She had gone through hell, but she had survived. Her optimism, her caring for others, her sweetness made her a very special and loving person.

  While they continued to help her out financially to p
ay household bills and additional medical costs, she had her own apartment, her own car, and her own job. She had grown to be an independent woman.

  After the phone call from Beth, Slate went to his computer and checked out hate groups on the web. He found Phelps’ web site called “God Hates Fags” and another called “Got Hates America.” Both were frightening. The Phelps Homepage quoted passages from the Bible denouncing homosexuals. Slate was particularly surprised by how widespread their protests were. Their list of planned picketing included “Philadelphia’s fag-run Police Dept, criminal fags going unprosecuted in San Juan, a gathering of filthy religious fags at Northern Illinois University (aka Fag-U), and to educate John Kerry who was giving a speech in Kansas City.” They even planned to picket the “fag-dominated Olympics”.

  The website also had a photo gallery with pictures of Phelps and other Westboro Baptist Church members protesting activities at the Martin Luther King, Jr. Center for Nonviolent Social Change with signs reading “NO FAGS IN KING’S DREAM.” For a lesbian wedding in Sacramento their signs read “BRIDES OF SATAN” and “SOWS WED.” They had even picketed both of the last Presidential conventions.

  Slate shut down the computer is disgust, brushed his teeth and went to bed. As he lay there with the light still on, his thoughts returned to his daughter Beth. He was not really worried about her. While away at college she had often called when she was in despair, sometimes once a week, sometimes once a month, sometimes several nights in a row. She had a terrible self-image. She suffered great pangs of anxiety. But she also had a very bright side, a rational side and a strong will. She just needed reassuring sometimes. Her biggest problem now was dating. It was hard for her to find a boyfriend and she was lonely.

  That night Slate again suffered nightmares. First, he found himself riding in his uncle’s dark green Chevy on a dirt road, nothing visible but rows of corn on each side of the road. He felt a sick feeling of dread because he knew the inevitable was coming, but as the car stopped, he got out and he found himself on the stage at the university. He was naked. His uncle was naked. He shook, afraid someone would come in and see him. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. His uncle put the rope around his neck. Then he began sucking his cock and pulling the rope tighter and tighter. Slate screamed out and woke up. It was just after five. The light was still on. He figured he must have fallen asleep while reading. He turned the light off, rolled over and went back to sleep until the alarm clamored forty minutes later.