The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  “And where is that?”

  “I have an apartment over on Waco and 16th Street. Right near the Dillon’s store.”

  “How long did it take you to drive home?”

  “Five minutes. There’s hardly any traffic that time of night.”

  “Did you see anyone hanging around in the theatre that night? Anyone who shouldn’t be there?” Jerry asked.

  “No.”

  “What about outside when you left.” Jerry continued.

  “No, no one.”

  Slate tried a new tactic. “Do you live with anyone?”

  “Yeah, I have a roommate. Jennifer Fishel.”

  “Was she home when you got home?”

  “Yes, she had just finished watching an old movie. Untamed Heart with Christian Slater. He’s now in the TV series Mr. Robot. We had a snack together—cheese and crackers and olives—I told her how happy I was about the show. She told me about the movie and then we went to bed—separately, not together.” Joe laughed and stretched his legs out.

  “Christian Slater,” Slate said to himself. He knew he had heard the name before because he remembered being happy that a famous actor had his same last name, but he had no clue what the actor had appeared in or what he looked like. He focused his thoughts back to the roommate. “Where can we talk to her?”

  “Well, she works for that lawyer, Pistotnik, nine to five.”

  “She’s not a student?”

  “Well, not this semester. She needed to drop out for a year and work to make enough money so she can come back and finish. She hates the job. But the pay is pretty good.”

  “You and Steven were dating.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “It’s been about two months. Well, we first got together last summer, became friends, but we didn’t have sex. But when we got cast in this show, we started going out and talking a lot and it just happened.”

  Slate was amazed at his directness. He didn’t seem the least embarrassed by his sexuality. “How would you describe your relationship?”

  The young man’s lips quivered and his eyes filled with tears, but he maintained control. “It was good. It was really good.”

  “So how come you guys didn’t move in with each other?” Jerry asked.

  “Well, we thought about it, but I had made a commitment to Jennifer. I couldn’t just leave her in the lurch. Steven was living with Andy and Andrea, and there just wasn’t room. So we alternated, one weekend at his place and the next one at mine. We planned to get an apartment together in New York. He was going to Juilliard, and I was going to get temp jobs and go to auditions.”

  “And you two didn’t have any problems?”

  “No.”

  “No arguments? Disagreements?”

  “Nothing serious. I mean, we didn’t absolutely agree on everything. He liked action movies like The Matrix or Captain America. I didn’t. He liked shrimp. I preferred scallops. Just that sort of thing.”

  “How was Steven in the last few weeks? Did you notice anything different in his behavior?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of anyone who may have had a grudge?”

  “No.”

  “Anything suspicious? Was he acting any different than usual?”

  Joe shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Obviously from his body language he had no knowledge of anything strange or different with Steve.

  Slate was disappointed that Joe Moss wasn’t immediately hostile and thus a suspect they might bully into finally confessing. He believed Joe Moss was telling the truth, but still wondered about the incidents of violence in his past. He wondered if Moss wasn’t—as Dr. Channing had described—dissociative. “Tell me about the incident with Professor Joslyn.”

  “Well, I ran into him in the parking lot out here behind the theatre last week.

  I was in a hurry to get here and study my lines. He asked me about my design project for his class. I just haven’t had time to do it. Besides he didn’t explain what he wanted. I’m not really sure what in hell the assignment is, and he wouldn’t give me an answer. He started ragging on me about missing class. I lost it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I was really out of line. I know that, but he pissed me off. I called him an asshole and told him he was a shitty teacher.” Joe got up from the bed and began moving around as he tried to verbalize his thoughts. “He doesn’t explain what he wants. I guess his approach is to let us flounder around and come up with something. After that he points out what’s good and bad.” He moved between Slate and Jerry, directing his comments back and forth from one to the other. “Mostly what’s bad. Sometimes the guy is really sarcastic. If he’d give us more guidance, certain principles we should demonstrate, something concrete and specific, then we’d understand what fundamentals we’re supposed to put into practice. The man doesn’t fucking teach.”

  “Well, he tries, and you hurt his feelings. I could tell that by the way he talked about you.” Slate said.

  “Well, he hurt mine. This play means more to me right now than his class. I’m sorry, but it does. So he can just get over it.”

  Well, he isn’t dissociative about the incident with Joslyn, Slate thought to himself.

  Jerry leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “He said you pounded on his car and yelled obscenities at him. Wanna tell us about that?”

  “I was trying to explain nicely at first that I didn’t understand the assignment. He starts giving me bullshit. I called him on it. He clammed up. He wouldn’t talk to me. He said the conversation was finished and he got in his car and started off. That’s when I yelled ‘asshole’ at him and I called him a shitty teacher, a bastard, a son of a bitch, I don’t know—whatever.”

  “Is this the same sort of thing that happened at Washburn?”

  Moss looked surprised that they knew about Washburn, but he nodded. “I just don’t think college is for me. I want to learn, but there are too many rules. It’s like there’s a prescribed format for every class, and you can’t deviate from it. It drives me nuts. I think if I had been a student of Plato or Socrates, I would be fine. I think they were flexible. They allowed learning to happen. What gets me is when I’m in a class—maybe there’s an acting scene—and something happens in the scene that is unexpected or doesn’t work. Why can’t we stop and work on it, explore it more? No, we have to get on to the next assignment. There’s no room for us to have a say in what we study. God forbid the teacher might have to deviate from his notes and actually think about something new.” He sat down on the bed again and grinned. “That’s my Dennis Miller rant for today. Sorry.”

  Slate stood up, stretching his back. “I can see your point, but there are two sides to every story.”

  Joe grinned. “I know. Sometimes there’s even three or four sides. For me I think it’s a matter of structure and control. When I was a kid, my mother was into having a routine. Every day she mapped out what I was to do and when. Now, I just rebel. I don’t want to follow other people’s rules. I don’t want everything set and predictable. I want to do things spontaneously.”

  “We’ll let you get back to your rehearsal,” Jerry said kindly.

  “Thanks for your help.” Slate added.

  After their good-byes, they went out the stage door. Aaron was sitting on the steps. He smiled and told them to have a nice day. They smiled back and said their goodbyes. He seemed like such a nice kid, Slate thought, not as emotionally fucked up as Joe Moss.

  “What did you think of Moss?” Slate asked Jerry as they got into the car.

  “He’s a good actor,” Jerry said.

  Slate replied. “Yeah, I think so too. Now the question is was he acting for us or telling the truth?”

  “They all lie,” Jerry said. “No one ever tells the whole truth. They have to embellish it or change it to make themselves look better. I still don’t trust him.”

  “I think I do,” Slate said matter of factly. “I believe what he said bac
k there.”

  “I have my doubts,” Jerry stated firmly as he started the engine.

  “Well, me too,” Slate agreed. “No one is above suspicion yet, not completely, but I’ll be surprised if he turns out to be the killer. I think he’s really broken up over this.”

  The next stop was the Towne East Mall. They had to find out about the man seen on the security camera. They found the manager’s office. Ronald Kullman was a tall thin man with thinning hair and thick glasses. He seemed to be the nervous type and spoke very fast, often stumbling over his words and having to repeat them. He was almost beside himself with excitement when they arrived. He had a VCR and played a portion of the tape for them. It showed the bus arriving and stopping just past the camera at the front entrance to the building. It also recorded the time. The position of the bus made it impossible to see anyone getting off, but when the bus pulled away, they could see a figure in the distance walking down across the parking lot toward Rock Road. It was too far and too dark to see details, but they took the tape anyway. Maybe some computer expert could enhance the image.

  Back at the station, they were pleased to learn that Tiffany and Remy had been assigned to give them some help. Tiffany waved them over as soon as they walked in. Slate couldn’t have missed her anyway. She was wearing a red power suit with a white blouse. It looked expensive. Her intellectual partner looked the same as he had the day before. Slate wondered if he had slept in his clothes.

  Slate had already asked Research to run a routine check on all the students, but nothing came up except a few traffic violations. Remy and Tiffany had checked HITS, the computerized murder and sexual assault investigations program that collects and analyzes information pertaining to specific serious criminal offenses. The program’s data files, collected from law enforcement agencies all over the country, had specific information on incidents involving murder, attempted murder, unidentified victims, missing persons, and predatory sex offenders. Remy and Tiffany had searched for murders involving hanging. Although they had identified numerous cases, none had anything in common with the murder at the university.

  “It was a wild goose chase,” Remy acknowledged. “I figured it would be going in, but you never know.”

  Slate knew it was a great system, particularly for tracking serial killers, but not much use in domestic murders or ones with a specific motive by a specific individual.

  “How about you fill us in on what you know?” Tiffany suggested, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs.

  Slate noticed that Jerry was watching her and caught their look at each other, like a sudden spark had flashed between them.

  “Okay,” Slate nodded. “Our victim is Steven Davis, college student, bludgeoned and hung naked over the stage in the Duncan Theatre at the university. He was beaten and sodomized with a pipe. Perp obviously knew the victim. Probably a sexual relationship. Victim was gay. He was acting in a play. He was found by another student, the—ah—stage manager.” Slate checked his notes. ”Aaron Biggs. Blond kid. Puked after seeing the body.”

  “Victim was very talented so everyone says,” Jerry interjected. “On stage and in bed evidently.”

  “We got some other students might be suspects. Joe Moss, Derek Colson, Tim Wheeler.” He checked his notes again. “Nothing definite yet. We got one named Lightfoot that’s missing. Victim’s got three brothers that are definite homophobes. His father’s a religious fanatic. They all have hot tempers”

  Jerry took over at that point, offering the two theories that the psychiatrist had suggested. “Dr. Channing said it might be someone who is dissociative or someone who feels he has no power. He said if the perp couldn’t deal with a particular situation with the victim, his mind may have split psychologically in order to protect himself from the emotional stress. This person usually has well-integrated patterns of perception, thought, feeling and behavior, but he suddenly loses it. This person may even have amnesia and not remember what he did.”

  Tiffany snorted. “So he’s another fucking psycho. What else is new?”

  Jerry ignored her. “This condition makes it really hard to find the guy. Murder would be totally inconsistent with his usual behavior. ”

  “So after the murder he doesn’t remember it and acts totally normal.” Remy restated as though he wanted to make sure Tiffany understood. She gave him a withering look, which made him grin. He loved to piss her off—Slate knew—although he also knew that she wasn’t, not really. It was just their way with each other.

  Jerry nodded and went on, ignoring the sign language between them. “His other theory is that the perp feels powerless. You know, like the victim had some power over him and he can’t cope with it, so he flips out. He may kill someone else if he feels threatened.”

  Jerry made a copy of their reports to share with their new partners. Slate gave them an update on who they had interviewed. At the same time Jerry went to his desk and called Jennifer Fishel to check out Joe Moss’ alibi. During the conversation Jerry made an O with his fingers to indicate that her story was the same as the one Joe gave. Jerry returned in time to hear Remy’s question, “What about 24-24? Do we have any kind of time line on the victim’s last 24 hours?”

  “Not all of it,” Jerry explained. “We know when he was in class and when he was in rehearsal.”

  “Let’s go over it,” Tiffany urged.

  Slate and Jerry checked their notes from the interviews they had conducted, pulling all the different strands together to reconstruct the sequence of events before, during and after Steven Davis was hanged.

  Jerry began. “Monday April 22. At 8:35 a.m. Steven leaves his apartment by car.

  His roommate Jennifer just told me that. She also said he planned to stop for gas at the QuikTrip on Oliver Street. About 9:00 he was seen by another student at the Koch Student Center buying a cup of coffee.”

  Remy typed up the information they provided, creating a list of the times and the activities of the victim.

  Slate added. “Heather said that he came into the main office in Duncan to check his mail around 9:15.”

  “Who’s Heather?” Tiffany wanted to know.

  “Heather is the secretary. They have mail boxes for all the theatre majors. At 9:30 Steven went to his Acting III class with Professor Lance Fuller. The class got out at 12:15.”

  “Long frigging class,” Tiffany yelped. “12:15 Steven leaves class. His whereabouts are unknown from then until 4 pm. Sometime after 4:00 p.m. he goes back to his apartment. He eats dinner with Andrea and Andy.”

  “There’s a four hour gap there,” Remy noted.

  “That’s right.” Slate continued. “About quarter of six he left the apartment and drove to Duncan for the dress rehearsal.”

  Jerry finished with the major event. “The rehearsal ends about ten-thirty to eleven. The cast leaves. Stage manager Aaron Biggs locks up. Leaves Steven and Joe Moss on stage. They promised to turn out lights when they left. About eleven fifty Joe leaves the theatre and arrives at his apartment ten minutes later. Steven says he will get the lights. Shortly after midnight he is hung on the Duncan stage.”

  “How hung was he?” Tiffany laughed. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

  Jerry laughed too. “He was well-hung,” he answered.

  “He didn’t have any trouble finding lovers,” Slate added. “His roommate said he had fucked half of Wichita.”

  “And he was hoping to finish the other half before graduation,” Jerry chimed in.

  It shouldn’t have been funny, but it was. Sometimes the stress, the pressure, the dead ends got to them. After they had all had a good laugh to release the tension, Tiffany asked, “What about the witnesses?”

  “Two girls driving by saw a man walking on Hillside about one in the morning. The girls blew their horn trying to attract his attention. He ignored them. He was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, and a black leather jacket.” Slate said, checking his notes. “One of ‘em thought he might have been wearing a hat. They didn’t see his
face. We also got a report from a bus driver who told us about a young guy running out in front of him on 13th.”

  “And as far as we know,” Jerry said, “it could have been the same man or two different men. And we don’t know if there was any connection with the murder or not.”

  Slate was less pessimistic. “Today a bus driver said a man resembling the sketch got on his bus at 13th and Hillside around one-fifteen. He said the man was sweating. The bus took him to Towne East Mall. We got a tape from a CCTV camera at the mall shows a man walking away after the bus leaves. The guy was too far away and the picture isn’t clear enough to see specifics. We’re hoping they can enhance the image in the lab. But if it’s our guy, we know he’s walking.”

  “Lightfoot lives near the mall, about a mile away.” Jerry noted. “I think maybe he’s our boy.”

  Remy printed the list and they pinned it to the board by Slater’s desk along with clippings, photos and the other lists.

  “Where was Steven during the four hours unaccounted for?” Slate wondered. “Did he meet someone? Was it Lightfoot? And where in hell was Lightfoot?” He had a gut feeling Lightfoot was on the run. “Let’s put out an APB on Lightfoot with his picture. Maybe we’ll get something.”

  “I’ll do it,” Remy said.

  It was after five o’clock. Slate and the others decided to call it a day. Slate went home with a splitting headache. He wondered what he was missing. What was it he didn’t see? The question kept nagging at him all the way home.

  CHAPTER 17

  FEAR ON THE HOME FRONT

  When Slate got home, there was a patrol car parked on the street in front of his house. Slate nodded at the officer and went inside to find Jeanne sitting in the living room. She jumped up and ran into his arms as soon as he walked through the door.

  “What’s wrong, Jeanne?” He held her close, giving her a reassuring hug.

  She hesitated, finally saying, “Nothing. I was just glad you’re home.”

  This was not like Jeanne. “Come on, level with me.” He looked speculatively at her.

  “I am.”

  “You don’t usually run into my arms the minute I walk through the door,” Slate argued as their eyes met.