The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  At ten The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart came on. That was one of his favorites, and he watched it again.

  Jeanne arrived home just as he was going to bed. They both slept in the next morning.

  On Sunday The Wichita Eagle ran the sketch of the unknown suspect on the front page with three paragraphs about the witnesses and a few more details about the crime scene. The reporter had gotten to the parents and so the focus of the story centered on the father’s religious views, his condemnation of his son’s homosexuality, and a general attack on the university.

  There were also photos on page two taken at the funeral, including one with Joe Moss on the ground, Slate starting to kneel beside him, and the angry brother in the background. Slate filled most of the day reading, but his mind wandered constantly. He kept finding that he had read a page and didn’t remember it at all. Finally, he tossed the book aside and played solitaire on the computer. He loved the game. He could play for hours without thinking. He was planning to call his mother which he always did on Saturday or Sunday, but this weekend, he couldn’t face that either.

  As soon as Slate got to the station Monday morning, the Chief was waiting for him, wanting to know how it was going. Slate finished giving him the run down as Jerry arrived, looking rather haggard.

  “I’ve got to have something on this soon, damn soon,” Chief Williams said. “Harmon was on my ass at seven-thirty this morning. Every two-bit politician in the city’ll be after me because of that damn newspaper story yesterday. Get those interviews done as soon as possible.”

  “We do have a life, you know. Family obligations.” Jerry’s remark was heated and caused an equally intense response from the Chief.

  “Goddamn it, I know that. I’m not asking you to stay here until midnight.” Controlling his anger, he went one. “I’m just asking you to do all you can. I’ve had calls from the City Council, the Mayor’s office, the television stations, the newspapers, and every mother’s son who has a connection to the university. The weather out there isn’t sunny, boys. It’s mean and nasty.”

  “Why don’t you get us some goddamn help then?” Jerry barked.

  Slate could see the Chief struggling to keep his temper in check. In his younger days he probably would have backhanded Jerry across the mouth, but he gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Slate and Jerry checked in for the nine a.m. briefing from the District Commander and headed out fifteen minutes later. From the list they had received from the Dean, Robin Lightfoot’s address was listed as 4800 North Rock Road, apartment D218. Jerry drove down Hillside while Slate rode shotgun. They stopped for coffee at the McDonald’s drive through. Jerry continued his usual driving practice of speeding ten miles over the limit and dodging from one lane to another. He managed to only run one red light. Slate let it pass because the car was halfway though the intersection. They turned east on Kellogg. The construction on the highway was just about finished and caused them no delays. They found the apartment complex on Rock Road near the intersection of Harry Street a mile south of Kellogg. Lightfoot lived on the second floor of the fourth unit. When they knocked on the door, there was no answer except for the sound of a yipping dog somewhere nearby.

  Jerry went to the apartment next door. A woman in her sixties opened the door. She had applied her makeup with a trowel and her eyebrows were drawn on a diagonal. She clutched the yipping Chihuahua to her ample breasts, a cigarette dangling from her cherry red lips. “He’s not here,” she growled.

  “We’re looking for Robin Lightfoot.” Jerry put on his best innocent expression.

  “I heard yah knocking. He ain’t there.”

  “Do you know what time he left?”

  “I heard the door slam about eight.” She took a drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke politely in the opposite direction.

  “Does he live alone?”

  “I guess. He’s had roommates from time to time. I ain’t seen no one last three or four months except his sister and brother. They came to visit once.”

  “They live here in town?”

  “No, Oklahoma. They drove up from Oklahoma. It wasn’t Tulsa, but somewhere near there. They mentioned going to Tulsa. They was real nice.”

  “Any steady girlfriend or boyfriend?”

  “He had a girlfriend for a while, but I ain’t seen her in months.”

  “Was he home on Monday night?”

  “I don’t know. I was over at my sister’s house baby-sitting for my two nieces. It was their anniversary. I didn’t get home until some time after midnight.”

  “Do you know where he works?” Slate interjected.

  “Nah. You cops?”

  “Detective Slater and Blake.”

  “Nice to meetcha. I’m Sally Jensen. He in trouble?”

  “No, we just need to ask him some questions about a classmate.”

  “He can be nasty. I’ve heard him yelling and screaming sometimes—when he gets mad.”

  “We’re all probably guilty of that.” Slate smiled. “Anything else you can tell us? He didn’t want to short circuit this conversation with the neighborhood gossip. “You never know what you may find out,” he said to himself, but he also didn’t want to give her more information than he was getting.

  “He didn’t talk much, quiet type.”

  Slate nodded.

  “But he did act in some plays. He mentioned one once, so I went to see it at the university. He got me free tickets. He just had a small part. He was okay, you know. Not as good as the boy in the lead, but very intense. I told him I liked it. We talked about his role, you know, stuff like that. When I seen him, I always asked him if he was in another play. Sometimes he said he was gonna audition.” Her face suddenly lit up. “Oh, oh, and he was in one other one. I don’t remember the name, but he told me not to see it. He said it was really dirty—lots of bad words and sex.”

  Jerry nudged Slate in the ribs. Slate figured that he didn’t think the conversation was providing anything new. He agreed. “Well, thank you, ma’am.” Slate said. “Here’s my card—if you see anything—“

  She nodded, taking the card. “Hey, is this about that murder over at the university? It is, ain’t it? I went to see that one, too. Didn’t think much of it. I didn’t tell him that, of course. Tried to be nice.” Slate and Jerry walked back to their car. She followed them half way down the stairs, continuing to talk. They thanked her again as they got into the car.

  In the car Slate called for a surveillance team to stake out the apartment and learned that another witness—a bus driver—had called in. He had been requested to come to the station to give a statement. The bus driver had picked up a man on 13th Street near the time of the murder and had dropped him off at the Towne East Mall. The driver had seen the sketch in the paper and thought it looked like the same man. Jerry stepped on the gas and they headed back to the station.

  The bus driver was a large black man in his forties. He had little to add. “The man was young, in his twenties I’d say, and he wore jeans and a black leather jacket. I didn’t really pay attention.”

  “What about his hair?” Slate asked. “Short, long, did he wear a hat?”

  “I don’t know. His hair was dark—maybe black.”

  “Did you see his eyes?”

  “He didn’t look at me, just dropped his money, and went way to the back.

  I think maybe he had brown eyes.” The bus driver fidgeted in his chair. He seemed uncomfortable, uncertain.

  “How tall was he?”

  “I’d judge his height to be about 5 feet ten inches to six feet. I was tired,” the man explained. “It was the last run to Towne East. I just wanted to get home.”

  Slate showed him the five photos he had obtained from Heather. The man paused for an extra moment while looking at Robin Lightfoot, but in the end said he wasn’t sure.

  Slate and Jerry thanked him. As the man was leaving, he turned to offer one more item. “The guy—he was sweating.”<
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  Jerry called the manager at Towne East to see if they had security tapes. They did. Jerry asked him to search for the tape from Tuesday morning, shortly after midnight.

  The next stop was back at the university. Slate and Jerry figured they might find Lightfoot or Joe Moss there. They parked in the visitor’s slot behind Duncan Auditorium and found their way back to the lounge. Slate decided a brief chat with the secretary of the theatre department would be useful. He was glad Dr. Hariot was not in his office next door. He felt it would allow her to be more open if no one else was around.

  Heather was a pretty, vivacious woman about fifty. She had shoulder length sandy blond hair that curled under slightly at the ends. She was dressed in a black suit with a red silk blouse. Family pictures were proudly displayed on her desk: one of her and her smiling husband, a daughter, and a son and his wife with two grand kids. Other snapshots of the grandkids were pinned to the bulletin board above her desk.

  “This one’s Jimmy. He’s Grandma’s favorite. I don’t tell them that, but he is. Gary—“She pointed to the other grandchild in the photo. “he’s too finicky and whiny. Drives me nuts.”

  Heather proved to very outgoing with a great sense of humor.

  “If you find any more bodies, let me know. Cause if you do, I’m going home and I’m not coming back.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Not until you catch whoever it is. I’ve already told my husband I’m ready to give notice.” She said with a smirk, her eyes twinkling.

  “And what did he say?” Jerry laughed.

  “Over my dead body.” Heather grinned. “I told him that it might come to that.”

  Slate asked her about Joe Moss. Since he was a transfer student who had only been there since fall, she said she hadn’t gotten to know much about him. However, she went on to give them her latest information in minute detail.

  “I haven’t seen Joe this morning, but I did hear Aaron say he was meeting him at ten to rehearse. They’ve been rehearsing Aaron’s scenes a lot during the day since he’s taken over Steven’s role. Joe’s supposed to be in Dr. Hariot’s Playscript Analysis class, but he stopped going to class. He and Hariot don’t see eye to eye.” She leaned in closer to Slate and whispered. “Personally, I don’t blame him. Dr. Hariot’s a sweet old man, but he’s stubborn as hell. If he’s got it in his head that something has to be done a certain way, it has to be that way. You can’t argue with him. Dr. Marin’s kinda like that, too.” Before she was done, Slate had the dirt on the entire faculty. While Heather gave them all high marks for their professional abilities, she was quick to point out some of their eccentricities and personality flaws. One was a ditsy pill-popping blond that Heather compared to the man-hungry slut Samantha on Sex and the City. One was a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth bitch. Another was a hot stud that the girls were always gushing over. None of the gossip pointed a target at anyone on the faculty.

  They sat in the lounge and had a cup of coffee while they waited for Joe Moss. It was quiet. Only two students wandered through. This gave Slate and Jerry time to catch up and compare notes again.

  “Sex has to be part of this,” Jerry argued. As they both knew, sex and murder often go hand in hand.

  “You think the killer had sex with the victim?” Slate asked, sipping his coffee. It was hot and the paper cup from the vending machine provided little insulation. “There was no semen found at the scene. None on the body.”

  “I think it was revenge. I’ll bet the killer was sexually abused as a kid. Maybe Steven came on to him.”

  Slate let the idea roll around in his head. “According to Andrea, Steven had no trouble getting sex partners. Hell, I’ll bet he had a hundred one night stands. I don’t think he’d come on to someone who didn’t seem available.”

  “But maybe it was someone who fell in love with him. Someone who didn’t want to be just a one night stand. Someone who wanted revenge for being dumped.”

  Slate knew what Jerry was thinking. “Like Joe Moss.”

  Jerry nodded. “That’s where I’d put my money.”

  Slate wasn’t ready to place any bets yet. Joe Moss was clearly a suspect, but others remained as well. “We’ve got to find this Lightfoot, too,” he noted. “We can’t rule him out even if he is a fucking ghost.”

  Jerry laughed and finished off his coffee.

  CHAPTER 16

  INTERVIEW SUSPECT JOE MOSS

  When ten o’clock came, Slate decided they should look in the theatre to see if Aaron and Joe Moss were already rehearsing. Slate realized if they had entered through the stage door and gone directly to the stage, he and Jerry would not have seen them. They went into the lobby, but the doors to the theatre were locked. Slate pressed his ear to the crack between the double doors. He could hear people talking. He motioned to Jerry to go up to the balcony. They walked quietly up the stairs and emerged at the top of the balcony. It was dark in the auditorium, but the stage was brightly lit.

  Slate was amazed at the transformation that had taken place on stage in the last few days. The set for the show was now in place. Instead of black drapes surrounding the acting area, the stage was now hung with layers and layers of translucent white fabric. Above the stage were more swirls of the same fabric. The stage floor had two turntables and a platform at the back; all of it covered in white carpet. The colored lights turned the white fabric into a variety of hues and shades that Slate thought was magical. Only a few simple pieces of furniture were set on stage.

  Aaron and Joe Moss were sitting on a bench on stage left playing a scene. Slate and Jerry stood silently in the dark balcony and watched.

  Joe was playing a man called Prior and revealing a lesion on his arm to the other character. It was clear that he had AIDS. From Joe’s actions Slate could easily see what was going on inside the character, especially the fear that his partner would leave him. When they finished the scene, they moved the turntable so that the bed revolved to the downstage position. The two actors got into the bed. The scene dealt with a discussion about the afterlife. Louis, the other character played by Aaron, was having a difficult time dealing with his lover’s illness. At the end of the scene he asked Prior, “What if I walked out on this? Would you hate me forever?” At this point Joe broke down, burying his face in the pillow trying to muffle his anguished sobs. Aaron tried to comfort him. At first Slate thought this was part of the play, but after a few minutes it became obvious that Joe was really crying.

  Taking advantage of the break, Slate motioned Jerry to follow him. They hurried down the stairs into the lobby, and quickly went around the building to the stage door and went inside. It was dim backstage, but Slate could easily see the two actors still on the bed through the white drapes. He and Jerry made their way out on to the stage. The lights were blinding. Aaron greeted them and introduced them to Joe Moss. Joe, wiping his eyes and pulling himself together, shook their hands. Once it registered, however, that they were detectives, he began crying again.

  “I can’t deal with this now.” Moss said into the pillow.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Jerry said firmly. “If you don’t want to do it here, we can go down to the station.”

  “Why, why did this have to happen?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Jerry patted the kid on the shoulder. “We need your help to do that.”

  Joe wiped his eyes again and sat up. “Sorry. I still can’t believe this. We were going to go to New York together.” He punched the pillows and said “Goddamit” over and over again as he fought to push back the tears.

  Slate asked Aaron to take a break so that they could talk to Joe alone.

  “Hey, are you coming to the show?” Aaron asked brightly.

  Slate was amazed at how the young man could be concerned and kind to his friend one moment and then ask that question as if nothing had happened. Aaron must have seen something in his face, Slate thought, because he then said, “We’re doing this not just because we love it. We’re
also doing it for Steven.”

  “I’ll be here opening night,” Slate smiled.

  Once Aaron had disappeared backstage, they turned to Joe.

  “I know this is a difficult time for you,” Slate acknowledged, “but we have to get your statement.”

  “That’s all right. I hope you find the bastard that did this. I hope he fucking fries.”

  “Can you tell us about the last time you saw Steven?”

  Joe sat up on the bed, leaning against the pillows, his knees drawn up to his chest. Slate sat on the end of the bed on the other side. Jerry sat on the arm of the loveseat nearby.

  Slate could see the images flash through Joe’s mind as he talked. He began to grow surprisingly calm and forthright.

  “That night we did a run-through of the show,” Joe began. “It’s a long play, three hours. We finished about eleven-thirty maybe. Marin doesn’t keep us for an hour after rehearsal giving notes like the other directors do. She lets us go and types up the notes for us the next day. So Steven and I decided we’d work on the opening scene of act two by ourselves. Aaron locked up. He wanted to go home, so we promised him we’d shut off the lights and make sure the back door was locked when we left. So we did the scene—I don’t know—four or five times. It’s only a page and a half. Very emotional, dramatic.

  After that I left. Steven said he’d get the lights. I figured he left right after I did.”

  Jerry stood up and moved closer.” “What time did you leave?“

  “Midnight. I remember it was a full moon. When I got into my car, I could still see my watch. It was just one of two minutes after. I was really feeling good about rehearsal.”

  “Where’d you go after that?” Slate inquired.

  “Home.”