The Smiley Face Killer

by Leroy Clark

  Slate grabbed some Kleenex from the box on the coffee table and handed them to her. “There’s no way you could have known. “You shouldn’t blame yourself.”

  “That’s easier said than done,” she responded as she wiped her nose. “I don’t understand my feelings. I don’t—I don’t understand how I can love him and hate him at the same time.”

  “What do you know about his relationship with Steven Davis?” Jerry interjected.

  “Steven Davis was his idol. That’s who he wanted to be.” Cathy took quick little intakes of breath that built up to long gasps. Slate and Jerry waited a moment for her to calm down. As she began to gain control of herself again, she blurted out, “Not a very good model, was he?”

  “Were they friends? Did they get along?” Slate asked.

  “Robin was a deep person. I mean most people didn’t know him. He had a lot inside he didn’t show. Steven just blew him off at first, but then they had some long talks about acting. Things just came naturally to Steven. It was like he was an old soul—you know what I mean? Once they began talking, they really got into it—you know—all Steven’s ideas about the craft of acting, how to connect with a character—all that stuff. Robin began to open up and Steven worked with him on some scenes.”

  “So did they stay friends as far as you know?”

  “Well, they weren’t friends in the sense that they hung around together. I mean—he wasn’t part of Steven’s clique.”

  “You mean like Tim Wheeler, Derek Colson—that group?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there anyone Robin had a fight with? Did he have any enemies? People he really hated?”

  “Robin sometimes got on a soapbox about his people—Native Americans—and what had happened to them in this country. He carried around a lot of anger about that, but I don’t know of anyone he really hated.”

  Slate was glad to see that her emotional spell was over and that she was back to her intellectual, thoughtful self. He could see why Robin or others would be attracted to her. She was confident in herself—basically happy with who she was. “You knew about the situation with his father?”

  “Yes, he told me about the whole family.”

  “Did you ever meet his brother or sister?” Jerry interjected.

  “No. I got the impression they weren’t all that close. I mean—he went to see his sister sometimes, but he never talked about it.”

  Slate was beginning to think that the conversation with Kathy was pointless. They weren’t learning anything particularly helpful. He wondered if there might be some kind of sexual link between Steven and Robin. “Do you think Steven and Robin might have had sex together?”

  The girl was momentarily taken aback. “Wow! Where did that come from?”

  Slate didn’t answer. He could see her trying to organize her thoughts in her head. Finally she said, “Robin knew Steven was gay. He didn’t have a problem with it. I mean—his only connection with him was about the acting.”

  “Do you think Robin could have been bisexual?”

  “No. Yes, we slept together. That’s what you wanted to know, right? He was a wonderful lover. He really did make love. It wasn’t just bang, bang, bang to get off, you know. He was very good.” The girl blushed and looked down. “I haven’t had a lot of experiences. Just a few. But—he was the best. I just—I don’t really think he could have had sex with a man. It doesn’t fit who he is—was.”

  “What if Steven came on to him? Would he have gotten mad?

  “I don’t think so. I mean—he joked about Steven’s reputation once. Said he heard some wild stuff.”

  Jerry took the questioning another step with “What if Steven made it a condition? He’d help Robin if he’d have sex with him.”

  Cathy shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Robin was—I don’t think it was morality—it was like he had principles. He had a clear sense of right and wrong and what he would do and wouldn’t do. No, as much as Steven fascinated him, I don’t think he’d have done that.”

  Slate was satisfied they’d gotten all they could from Robin’s girl friend. He stood up, pulled a card from his pocket. Jerry followed. “Well, thank you. Here’s my card. If you think of anything, anything you think might help us, give me a call.”

  Cathy took the card and followed them to the door. “I will.”

  Jerry gave her a sad smile. She returned it, an acknowledgement in her eyes that she appreciated his concern.

  “What’s next?” Slate asked as they got into the car.

  “Damned if I know,” Jerry answered.

  There has to be a connection with Steven.” Slate mused. “Maybe he was around the night Steven was killed. Maybe he saw the killer.”

  “Somebody kills Steven,” Jerry reviews. “Somebody with a very personal connection. Somebody who smashes in his face and sodomizes him with a pipe.

  Lightfoot goes to the theatre, sees him in the process, goes on the run.”

  “But how does the killer find him?”

  “Good question.”

  “But somehow he finds him or finds out where he’s hiding. Arranges to meet him in the park.” Slate speculates.

  “Why the park?”

  “Isolated. No one around. Hell, it’s just woods in that area. It’s known as gay cruising spot. Maybe the killer hoped it’d seem like a hate crime. That Lightfoot would be seen as a victim of some random act of violence by a homophobe.”

  “Which brings us back to who killed Steven Davis.”

  “Has to be someone who knew him. Someone close. Someone who really hated his guts.” Slate said firmly.

  “One of the other students.”

  “Or somebody else in town that he fucked.”

  “Literally or figuratively?” Jerry grinned.

  “I’d say both.”

  “Back to square one.”

  “Let’s go to that porn shop he worked in.”

  Jerry squealed out and drove down Oliver to 13th Street and finally cut over to Main Street. As he went flying over the railroad tracks, Slate’s head banged on the roof, but he kept his mouth shut. Only the white knuckles and the grimace on his face betrayed the tension in his body. When they pulled up in front of the video store, Slate began to breathe again. He gave Jerry a look. Jerry grinned. “What?” he said. Slate said nothing, opened the car door and headed for the shop. Jerry was right behind him.

  On the sidewalk Slate turned to him and said, “You can take this one. I’ll just look and listen.”

  The front door opened into a large room. There was a glass counter on the right. On the left were six or eight rows of racks.

  The walls also were covered with racks from floor to ceiling. In one section there were adult sex toys. Another included magazines sealed in plastic. At the back of the room was a door that led to private booths outfitted with television sets and coin collectors where individuals could choose from a dozen or so selections. Signs were posted that read “Must be 18 Years Old” and “Only 1 Person per booth.” A large woman in her late fifties or early sixties sat behind the counter.

  “You looking for anything in particular,” the woman asked.

  Slate and Jerry walked to the counter and flashed their badges. The woman’s toothy, yellow smile faded.

  “You the manager?” Slate asked.

  “Me and my husband run the place together,” she said.

  “And your name is—?” Jerry smiled.

  “Amanda Foxdale,” she answered, returning a tight little smile. Slate could see that she was a bit nervous, but trying not to show it.

  Jerry went on. “You used to have a Steven Davis that worked here?”

  The woman seemed to breathe easier. Her body relaxed a bit. “Yes, Steven worked here last year. He quit last spring. I read about what happened in the paper. Terrible. Just awful.”

  “Had you seen him lately? Did he ever drop by—after he quit?”

  “I don’t work nights. My husband does sometimes. He mentioned that Steven came i
n with some of his school buddies a couple of times, but that was shortly after he left. I don’t think he’s been back in months.”

  “He ever have problems with customers?”

  “Not that I know of. Nothing major anyway. No complaints or nothing.”

  “Any enemies that you know of?

  “No.”

  Slate wandered away from the counter and began looking at the jackets for some of the gay videos, all with naked studs on the covers. He smiled to himself as he saw some of the titles: Young Cops in Training; Me, Myself and Adam; Studs on the Move; Motor Crotch; The Apprentice. “I may just have to come back here some night and rent a couple of these,” he thought to himself.

  “Why’d he quit?” He heard Jerry say.

  “He got hired at Music Theatre of Wichita for the summer.”

  “So the parting of the ways was amicable.”

  Slate wandered back toward the counter.

  “Oh, yeah. We had no problems with him. I even went to see his first show last summer. A Little Night Music. It was real good. He just had a bit part, you know, but he was good. Even I could tell that, and I don’t know nothing about the theatre.” She pronounced it as “thee—a—ter.”

  “Well, thanks for your time, ma’am.” Jerry handed her his card. “Call us if you think of anything that might be helpful.”

  “Sure will,” she answered, relieved that were about to go away.

  Jerry and Slate got back into the car. “Well, that was a waste of time,” Jerry frowned.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Slate disagreed. “We didn’t get any leads, but it helped eliminate any tie-in with this place. The more we eliminate, the more we can focus on the real areas.”

  “And what the hell are the real areas,” Jerry grumbled. “We ain’t got nothing.”

  “We got a connection between Lightfoot and Davis. We got all that sexual connection between Davis and everyone around him,” Slate said brightly.

  “We ain’t got shit,” Jerry muttered in disgust.

  “I guess it’s back to the students,” Slate acknowledged.

  “Has to be,” Jerry agreed as he started the engine. After waiting for traffic to go by, he pulled a U-turn on 13th Street and headed back to Oliver Street.

  “How about we go visit Joe Moss at home,” Slate said as he looked though the list of names and addresses supplied by the Dean’s office. “Whadayah know? Same complex as Kathy McDermot. Apartment 110.

  Joe Moss was still in bed when they knocked on his door. He was still in his skivvies and rubbing sleep out of his eyes when he let them in. Slate and Jerry looked around the living room while he went to put on some clothes.

  The entire apartment was painted an off white. The furniture was fairly plain, but some effort had been made to turn this into a home and give it a comfortable feel. Color had been added with blue and gold throw pillows on the sofa. The drapes were blue. The glass coffee table had a nice arrangement of large picture books and a beautiful blown glass bowl. There were framed prints on the walls that worked well with the other colors in the room. Slate wondered if that was mainly because of Moss or his roommate Jennifer Fishel.

  Joe returned wearing jeans and a tee shirt. He went to the kitchen, swallowed a glass of water and some aspirins. The he put on a pot of coffee and perched on a stool at the bar separating the kitchen from the living room dining area. He acted like he had a hangover.

  “Tough night?” Slate said before he could stop himself. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, I drank too much. What can I do for you?” he said flatly.

  “What can you tell us about Lightfoot?” Jerry asked sourly.

  “He called me—yesterday. He acted really weird.”

  Slate watched him closely, perplexed by what he saw. Moss showed no emotion—no indication that he knew what had happened to Lightfoot. “In what way?”

  “He started out saying he was sorry about Steven. He said Steve had been his friend. He kept saying that over and over. I asked him if he was all right. He said, “Yeah, but I’m in trouble.” I asked him what kind of trouble. He just kept hemming and hawing.” Moss scratched an itch under his arm. “I was starting to wonder if it was him—you know—was he in trouble because he had—done that to Steve. Then he blurted out that he knew—he knew who killed Steven. I tried to get him to tell me. He wouldn’t. I told him to go to the police. He said he couldn’t. I kept at him—but he just hung up.”

  “What did you do after that?” Jerry prodded him.

  “I tried calling him at home. There was no answer.” Moss got up and went into the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?”

  Slate looked at Jerry, who nodded. “Sure, just some milk in mine.”

  “I’ll take mine black,” Jerry chimed in.

  Moss poured three cups of coffee, poured milk into two of them. He brought the cups to the detectives. Slate noticed that his hands trembled slightly.

  “Why didn’t you call us?” Jerry glared.

  Moss met Jerry’s eyes and said, “I did. I called the number on the card you gave me. Whoever answered said you couldn’t be reached.”

  “Shit!” Jerry muttered.

  “What time did you call?” Slate said quickly.

  “Well, we had a matinee yesterday. Show was over just after five o’clock. I came home, had dinner.” Moss looked thoughtful. “It was just before seven. I was watching 60 Minutes. I was pissed when the phone rang because it was right in the middle of this segment on that gay bashing in Texas.”

  Jerry frowned. “So after you tried calling us, what did you do?”

  “I got fucking drunk. I mean—Jesus, what do you expect. I still can’t believe all this shit has happened. Why Steve? I—it just doesn’t make any sense.” Moss looked away, struggling to hold back his emotions.

  “Have you seen the paper today?” Slate asked.

  A grin crept into Moss’ face. “No, we don’t get the bird paper.”

  Slate returned the grin. “You call the Wichita Eagle the bird paper?”

  “Yeah, that’s all it’s good for—lining a bird cage.”

  “You see any news on TV? Listen to the radio? Slate continued.

  “No, why?”

  “Were you here all night?” Jerry persisted carefully.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  “Jen was here.”

  “You didn’t go out at all?”

  “No. What’s this all about?”

  “Lightfoot was killed last night.” Jerry’s voice was ominous, but the look on Moss’ face stopped him.

  Moss spilled his coffee. He ignored it. “Oh, my God,” he cried out.

  Jerry finished his coffee and took the cup into the kitchen. “So what did you think of Lightfoot? Did you like him?”

  Moss hesitated. “Well—I—I thought he was a weirdo. I mean he was a weirdo. You know—just like the stuff he said on the phone last night. It was all so cryptic. You always sorta had to read between the lines. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.” Moss shook his head as though he was still finding the news about Lightfoot unbelievable. “I mean—he never said anything directly. Talking to him was like pulling teeth, but Steven helped him with some scenes and got to know him. Said he had a hell of a home life growing up. I felt sorry for ‘im. I didn’t know him really, but I tried to be nice if he was around.”

  Without thinking, Slate asked, “Do you think Steven had sex with him?”

  Moss was taken aback, obviously surprised by the question. He looked up at the ceiling and finally lowered his head to look straight into Slate’s eyes. “I don’t know. I thought Robin was straight, but knowing Steven, that wouldn’t have stopped him.”

  Slate followed up with, “So when you were dating, he wasn’t monogamous?”

  “No, he was—in his way. We agreed to have an open relationship—in the sense that we could have sex with other guys, but we weren’t going to pursue other people. We weren’t going to
sleep over. It was only to be one night stands. No emotional relationships.”

  “But if you didn’t live together, how would you know?” Jerry asked, shaking his head. The look on his face showed that he found it absurd.

  “I think I’d know.”

  “Bullshit!” Jerry laughed.

  “Look, those were his conditions.” Moss explained. “I went along with it because I wanted him.”

  “But maybe you couldn’t deal with it, so you punished him.” Jerry growled.

  Tears immediately flowed, and Joe Moss’ howled. “I loved him, you asshole. I loved him. There’s no way I would hurt him.” He was so passionate and earnest, Slate believed him.

  “Sorry,” Jerry mumbled. “I had to be sure.”

  Slate rose and went to the young man and put his arm around him to comfort him. It was out of character for him to do that sort of thing, but he couldn’t help it. Somehow he wanted to protect him. Maybe it was because of his uncle. He knew his uncle had molested dozens of boys. He should have spoken out years ago, done something. He hadn’t. This was all he could do. Later he called to check in with his mother. Today was the day she was taking his father to the Veterans Home. Aunt Flora answered the phone. Slate was glad she was there for his mother.

  “She’s lying down, just resting,” Flora said. “She’s pretty depressed.”

  “How did it go?” Slate asked.

  “It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that,” Flora laughed. “Getting him to the car and into the car was a battle. He’s so heavy. We got him out to the car, but all of a sudden he decided he had to go to the bathroom. So we wheeled him back in so he could do his business. Getting his pants down, cleaning him up, getting him dressed again, then back out to the car. It took us an hour at least.”

  Flora had been a nurse, so she was used to dealing with all matters of mankind. Slate thanked her for her help.

  “When we got him there and checked him in and got him to his room, he was bound and determined he wasn’t gonna stay. He kept pounding his fist on the arm of his chair and kept yelling over and over, ‘Goddamit, goddamit!’ Your mother tried to quiet him down, so he turned on her, real nasty. “He kept saying, ‘Yew—yew—youuuuu.’ You know how he does—with that shitty tone. Then he threw a magazine at her and she was crying.”