A Fear of Clowns (The Greasepaint Chronicals)

by Power, P. S.

  There was a pounding on the front door then. A loud thing that was out of place. It was dark out, but not pitch black by any means. The early part of twilight. Carlos got up, seeming wary, so Jay and Wendy followed along with him. When he opened the door, after using the low peephole that had been put in just for him, his face was confused.

  That made sense, because on the other side of the door stood all four members of the local Sheriff's department, along with two men in dark suits. Without waiting to say anything, Deputy Richmond ran forward, grabbed Jay by the arm and wrenched it around behind his back.

  "Got you, you clown mother fucker!" His palms were turned up, and cuffs slapped on instantly. Then the man pulled upward, hard, making Jay bend over toward the ground. "You're under arrest."

  Jay didn't speak. Not even to ask what was going on, or to say they were hurting him. He was being injured, since the shackles hadn't been double locked and Richmond, the smug jerk, had pulled them tight already, to cut off circulation. Saying anything could be taken as resisting arrest, so he didn't. They could lie about it, but he wasn't going to give them anything to work with, if he could help it.

  Carlos moved forward, his hands up a bit.

  "What's this about now? Do you have a warrant?" He was concerned and Richmond yelled at him to stay back and not interfere, or face arrest himself, but one of the suited men moved in, and flashed a badge.

  "Sorry about this. Special Agent Daniels, FBI. We just need to ask Mr. Hadley a few questions, about an ongoing case. His name was suggested to us by Deputy Richmond and Sheriff Morse. I'd actually planned on something a little more sedate, but they insisted... and we don't have jurisdiction here." That confused them all enough for Jason to be propelled out the front door, and with the help of Deputy Pensley, the only female on the force, if she wasn't actually a man in drag, his forehead found the top of the doorframe on the back of one of the large vehicles. That took teamwork, since Richmond and the lady had to pick him up in order to make it happen. He saw stars for a bit, and the other suited man, who hadn't given a name yet, called out.

  "None of that. He's being invited in for questioning, that's all. We don't even-" The door got slammed shut, cutting off whatever was being said. Richmond climbed in the front, but didn't talk to him, just calling in that he'd been picked up. For questioning. His voice was sarcastic when he said that part. As if he already knew it wasn't real. Jay still didn't speak, his forehead throbbing from the impact.

  That was the best course of action, he knew. You didn't talk, even if they hadn't read your rights to you. In movies that sort of thing carried weight, but in real life, not so much. Almost no one had been read their rights when he'd lived in Vegas, and things always managed to magically hold up in court.

  He wondered what the issue here was, however. Had his leaving for that long with the tracking device been a crime? Had it been counted as theft, even though he hadn't known that it was there? That seemed like a bit much, even for the people there. Even the FBI was probably not that far gone yet. Jay wasn't a terrorist or anything either, so he couldn't imagine what the deal really was. Covering up what had happened with Sidney and Ginger? That might be it. Still, wouldn't they have picked him up at the casino, if that was the case?

  His mind spun theories, but most of them were pretty implausible. Things like Max framing him for embezzlement, to get back at him for that punch, to the FBI wanting to take down Moretti, the mob boss. Not that the man was anything of the kind, but the idea did come to mind, as he rode for an hour to the Sheriff's station. He probably would have been beaten, just because Richmond was that kind of person, except for the fact that there was a Sedan following them, which probably meant both of the FBI guys were back there, making certain he got to be questioned. That was nice of them, unless the plan was to railroad him for something.

  He didn't have to be processed, which was telling. If you were under arrest, you were. Finger printed and the whole thing. A mug shot taken and all that. Instead he was taken to a white room with a large two way mirror, his hands still cuffed behind his back. Richmond made him walk bent almost in half, kicking his feet every third step or so, trying to make him stumble. It was a fight to keep his balance, but the idea was clear. If he fell, the man could claim he was resisting. It wasn't kosher, but that didn't mean it wouldn't happen. It was part of the provocation techniques that police everywhere learned. They engage in tricks like that, to cause a reaction. Even doing things like poking a person in the eye, lightly. It wouldn't damage them much, but hurt enough that most people would grab their face, or push the officer away. If they did, it was either resisting arrest, or assault.

  The only thing that worked was sitting back and taking the abuse, no matter what happened. Yes, they could still lie about things, but there were enough cameras around that they couldn't count on that working. The thing there was that most law abiding people didn't know about things like that, not seeing it on television most nights, so they fell into the trap, almost every time.

  His hands were numb and cold, but probably not really injured yet. He could still move his fingers a little, and had been, trying to keep circulation going. In the room there was a chair, which Richmond practically thrust him into, making it scoot back, the metal legs making noise on the smooth white tiled floor. Not really tile, he noticed, but linoleum. The smooth kind. There was a single line, off to his left, where the large piece had to be joined with another one. It ran at a ninety degree angle to the mirror. There was a camera in the corner, near the ceiling, and if the red light on the front meant anything, it was already on.

  Jason tried not to move much, and forced a cooperative and pleasant look on his face. That tried to fall off, when Carl came in, wearing a uniform that was all tan and brown, his face hard looking. Bullish. Clean shaved, and presentable, but not really better looking than Jason was. He was a bit fat, compared to what he used to be. Not blubbering or even chubby, but it was clear that middle age spread was setting in, and that the man hadn't exactly missed a lot of meals.

  "Jason Hadley." He looked at the clipboard in his hand, as if he didn't recognize the name or face. When he looked up he sneered, giving the lie to that. "Do you know why you're here?"

  He didn't, and knew that Carl probably understood that. So he didn't answer. Not at all. Instead he waited, which paid off, given that the FBI agents both came through the door about ten seconds later.

  "Am I under arrest? If not, I'd like to leave. Handcuffing me for this long, assault with a vehicle, this has to be both false arrest and kidnapping by this time. If I'm not under arrest. It's still false arrest at any rate, since I haven't done anything." Well, except cover up those felonies, which was probably one in and of itself, but if they had him on that, they just did.

  Carl looked shocked for some reason, then pissed. It showed in the sudden popping out of the veins on his head, at the temples. That, and the screaming.

  "Shut up! You don't ask the questions here, and I can arrest anyone I damn well feel like! I'm the Sheriff here and my word is law!"

  That got both Agents to look at the man like he was on drugs. Jay looked up at the camera, and tilted his head at it with a smile that he hoped didn't seem scared. He didn't feel that, but it would be nice if it showed.

  "Can I get a copy of this? For the lawsuit? Make sure it doesn't vanish, Carl, because if it does, you'll look even guiltier than you are. Now, am I under arrest? If so, for what? If not, get my hands free, and let me call for a ride." His voice was sharp, but at this point in things they couldn't claim he was resisting arrest just because he spoke or asked questions. Turn off the camera and beat him, possibly, but that was all.

  Agent Daniels looked at Carl's not insubstantial back, and spoke softly.

  "We'd just like to ask you a few questions. I think we can get those cuffs off. It would really help if you'd do this for us? I'm really sorry about how this is being handled, but like I mentioned at the house, we don't actually control that part of things.
We do control this portion however. Sheriff." It wasn't a question, and Jay really expected an argument to break out, but Carl just frowned and tossed a key ring on the small white table in front of Jason.

  "Knock yourselves out. This is him though. The only clown in town."

  That... Didn't make a lot of sense. What would him being a clown have to do with anything? He was, Jay was nearly certain, the only one that worked in the area, that was true, but so what? Were they going to accuse him of pedophilia or something? For a second he nearly panicked, because that really seemed like the kind of thing that Carl and his brave crew of deputies would do. Make something like that up to sabotage him, just when he started to get his feet under himself again.

  Luckily the other Agent just took the keys, found the right one and got his hands free. The blood rushed into them, but they stayed white for a while, the red rings around them throbbing as feeling came back. He didn't react. Carl Morse had caused him enough pain in life. Giving the man the satisfaction of seeing him in more wasn't in his personal plans. Jason didn't even rub at them, looking at Daniels instead, avoiding Carl totally.

  "I'm sure that, after the treatment I've received this evening, which has been pretty illegal, I might add, that you've seen me get here, you'll understand that I'm not going to stay. No one is treated like this unless the police are planning to frame them. Since Carl and I have a history, and he regularly uses state resources to spy on me, as well as sending his goons after me, I'm pretty sure that you can understand that?"

  Carl surged toward him, grabbing him by the front of his t-shirt and using his much greater weight to slam Jay back into the wall behind him.

  "Sheriff Morse! Get your hands off him. What the hell? He's just in here for questioning. Like we told you, he isn't even a real suspect. Get off him!" The agent that didn't have a name yet pulled the man off, and then pushed him toward the door.

  "Crap, is this how you run your county? No wonder a serial killer would come here to hide." The door got shut in the man's face, leaving only three people inside the room.

  Jay looked at the men, and winced.

  "I'm not a killer at all, and have never hurt anyone. I'm innocent of whatever it is you're trying to frame me for." He wasn't saying it that way to be mean, since for all he knew the two FBI men were really what they'd claimed. It was that the first rule of the Reid technique, which most police forces and official agencies used to work confessions out of innocent people, was to never let the person proclaim themselves not guilty. It made it harder to coerce a confession from them later. That meant, given his innocence, that he was best off proclaiming that as soon as possible. They should have tried to stop him from doing it, interrupting him, so he rushed the words, getting them out before they could.

  Jason had the internet, and a lot of spare time over the last year. Given his adversarial relationship with law enforcement, it had made sense to learn things like that.

  Daniels shook his head.

  "I don't suppose that you have an alibi for the fourteenth of this month?"

  He had to count back, but then nodded.

  "Yeah, I do. I was on my fourth day at the Placemont, in Las Vegas? I didn't leave the building at all that day, and was on camera the whole time. What's this about? You said serial killer. Carl said that I was the only clown..." It was all the information that he had, but the two men looked at each other, then nodded.

  "Mr. Hadley, our records show that you were in contact with a Margaret Winthrop, earlier in the month. I don't suppose you can explain why?"

  It took him a second, since she'd given him a slightly different name. "Maggie Winthrop? She hired me to perform at her son's birthday. Seth, he turned sixteen... Oh, crap." He felt his face fall. "Maggie? She's so nice. What... Happened?" Really, he wasn't certain he wanted to know.

  The other agent took a breath, glanced at the wall, then fixed him dead on, looking him in the eyes and not blinking.

  "She was last seen on the fourteenth. Being shoved into a late model American car. Color blue. The gas station cameras show what appear to be a thin man dressed as a clown doing it. When we asked for a list of names of people in this area, yours was the only one we were given."

  Shock ran through him, and his mind raced, but he really did have a good alibi. An almost perfect one in fact. He couldn't even have snuck out unseen if he'd wanted to. Not from a casino. It got worse when Daniels spoke, his voice tired and a bit rough.

  "Yesterday morning, at about eleven a.m. a jogger found her body in a ravine, near Prole park. She..." He went silent. Then the agent fixed him with a dark gaze too. "We'll check out that alibi. Do you have numbers we can call?"

  He did. That had become important, dealing with new acts, so he'd memorized the ones he needed, wanting to have them always right there in his head, ready to go.

  It paid off, because Greg Michelson had him cleared about ten minutes later, and even had the video footage separated out, showing that he was, well and truly, there the whole time.

  Both the agents seemed a bit upset to hear it, Jason noticed.

  Because that was a comforting thing to see.

  Chapter eight

  Jason really would have thought that having an alibi would get him free of the interrogation chamber almost immediately, but it didn't work that way. Even given that he didn't know anything and was out of town at the time, the two men grilled him about what he'd done, and why. Over and over again, for hours. Looking for loopholes in his story, or inconsistencies.

  Luckily for him, that didn't happen. It was the kind of thing that worked pretty well, if a person wasn't very bright, or had spun a complicated lie. The bread and butter of police work required a certain low I.Q. level from the people they went after. The very intelligent most often weren't caught at all. Then again, they committed different crimes, didn't they? Things that were so close to legal that they generally got away with it for a long time, until hubris caught up with them. That was what took most of the really big white collar criminals down, eventually. They grabbed for too much, or pushed the boundaries of whatever it was they were doing, and eventually someone would figure it out.

  Since he was innocent, it made it pretty easy to keep on top of his story.

  "And again, gentlemen. I got the call at about four in the morning. I'd gotten up to go to the bathroom, and picked up. It was Carlos Nevaro, who goes by the stage name The Great Mantooth. A friend of his, Max, desperately needed people to fill in at the casino, so was willing to take me, even if I am a clown. I did well enough that he kept me on as an assistant. Making schedules and handing out coupons and fliers on the main floor during the day. Some small organizational things with the big stage acts too. So I was there through the entire time window you mentioned, in the very well monitored hotel, the entire time. Well, except once or twice, when I took the trash out, since it was needed and there were no janitors around. That was it. Even at that, I doubt I was ever off camera, outside of my room, which is on the seventh floor." He'd said it about twenty times before, but didn't let himself get bored with it. The whole thing was a trick. It was meant to trap him into saying the wrong thing, so they could hold him, letting Richmond have another crack at him, he bet.

  Or possibly not. It was, after all, just that the two men were desperate and had been chasing a serial killer across the country for long enough that anyone they talked too would be a good enough person to suspect. Except that Greg, who he decided he loved, actually sent the files to the men, so they could see that Jay was well and truly cleared.

  He'd also thought that about Maggie too, he remembered. It had been just a mental turn of phrase, and not a real emotional bond, but it seemed important to him now. Someone had killed her. Dressed as a freaking clown. If that wasn't about framing him, then what were the odds?

  After it was so clear that he couldn't have done it that even the FBI was finished with him, he tilted his head. It was a bad idea to get involved, he knew. But the whole thing was too weird. Strange
on a level that called to him.

  "Is... I mean, I've only been doing this kind of clown stuff for less than a year. Eight months. I was on the street before that, in Vegas, mostly. After it came out that Carl was the father of my daughter, and that he'd had Lynn, my ex, marry me, to use as a source of cash and security, instead of paying for her himself. I told people about that after, so it's in the records, if you dig enough. Before that I was a history professor. You mentioned that this is a serial thing? Being FBI that means in more than one state, and you're specifically looking for clowns. So... A clown murderer? How long does this go back? I mean, so I can clear myself for the whole thing." It was a bit self serving sounding, but both men looked at him strangely. Probably because they hadn't noticed letting all of that drop, until it was mentioned.

  McNab, which turned out to be the other Special Agent's name, once he was introduced, shook his head.

  "That, is fucked up. No wonder you figured that we were trying to frame you."

  Jay nodded back, his hands, red rimmed and aching, flat on the table. They still tingled a bit, from the nerve damage. Thank god he didn't work with his hands for a living. Not like a surgeon, or a magician.

  "I didn't even get into the tracking device they have on my car, or how they pull me over every other time I drive anywhere, even without reason. Richmond keeps stealing my license too, and dumping it on the roadside, so that I'll end up having to drive without it. I put in complaints, but was told that it wasn't illegal, strictly speaking. So, yeah, I think I need to prove to you that this wasn't me. I can go over my life history, if you want, how far back do you want me to go?"