by Robin Ray
below.
As she lies twisted and unmoving on the knotted ground like a logic puzzle toy, the assailant’s car door opens then closes. The driver walks over to the bridge and stares at the maimed body below, his red-gloved hand tapping casually on the wooden railing.
A car pulls up into the unpaved lot next to the station. Mar Vista’s auto, there only a couple of minutes ago, is gone. The new car’s driver, Jean Lynwood, steps out, makes a beeline to the front door, unlocks it, and enters. Flicking on all the lights, she takes a quick glance around the studio. Entering the bathroom-sized teletype room, she lifts up the long continuous stream of paper flowing from the AP wire machine, peruses its contents briefly, and rips off a large section. Then, over the din of the tapping teletype noise, she hears something which sounds like a coin rolling in the next room.
“Paul?” she calls out. “Is that you?”
She sticks her head out the door. “Paul? Jeremy?”
Jean, folding the ripped-off teletype, walks down the hall towards a recording studio. Entering the room, she turns the lights on. Besides a stack of records, a few cabinets, a few mic stands and a piano dusty enough to write the Declaration of Independence on, there is nothing else in the room. Turning the lights off, she exits.
Strolling past the teletype room towards the broadcast booth, she is surprised to find the lights in the teletype room have been turned off. The clear sliding door, however, is still open.
She reaches in to put the lights on. The Clown darts out at her with his knife drawn as soon as the lights flick on. Jean shrieks then forcefully slides the door shut on The Clown’s arm. Screaming, he withdraws it.
Racing into the broadcast booth down the hall, she frantically locks the door and grabs the phone off the wall. She dials some numbers, but to her surprise, nothing happens. Tracing the entire length of the telephone wire, she realizes it has been cut.
“Dammit!”
She then quickly rifles through the desk for another phone. There is a loud knock on the door. Jean, looking around the room quickly, grabs a heavy microphone stand from a corner. There is another knock on the door. She hears a voice calling out from behind it.
“Jean? Jean Lynwood? Open up. This is Lincoln Mar Vista, Special Investigator from Jefferson County.”
Cautious, Jean tiptoes towards the door. “How can I be sure?”
He slips his business card under the door. She picks it up.
“You might be in danger,” he warns her. “All the phone lines have been cut. I just came back from calling the sheriff because I left my stupid cell phone at home.”
Jean, turning on the video monitor over the giant mixing board, sees Mar Vista standing at her door. Slightly relieved, but still cautious, she opens the door a little and peers out.
“Why are you here?” she asks him. “Where’s the clown?”
“He’s here? Now? Where?”
The Clown suddenly appears from out of the dark behind Mar Vista. Jean gasps.
Mar Vista spins around. The architect of agony holds a 7” knife to the PI’s neck
“Don’t move,” he commands the detective. Pulling open Mar Vista’s jacket, he un-holsters the gun from his leather shoulder harness and shoves it in his back pocket.
“Now get out of my way,” The Clown orders him. “I’m not here for you.”
“Take it easy, huh?” Mar Vista pleads. “I have a wife and kids.”
“Do something!” Jean screams.
Spurred into action, Mar Vista grabs The Clown’s wrist with the knife. The practitioner of pain tries to stab the knife in, but Mar Vista stops it just centimeters from his chest.
“Move out of my way!” The Clown orders again.
“I won’t let you hurt her!” Mar Vista promises.
The Clown, pulling away, slices Mar Vista’s hands. He yells in pain. Trembling, the Special Investigator reaches into the back of his belt area and brings out the handclaw stolen from the broadcast room’s cabinet. However, before he could act, The Clown thrusts his knife straight at Mar Vista’s face, planting its sharpened carbon steel smack between his eyebrows.
As the PI spins backwards to the floor, the handclaw loosens from his grip and flies towards the broadcast room. Jean quickly picks up the implement and slams the door.
The Clown bangs his shoulders against the locked entrance. “Open up, woman!”
“Leave me the fuck alone!”
Quickly scanning the room, she grabs the metal arm chair and props it up beneath the door’s handle. Silently, she places her ear to the door listening for the intruder. Suddenly, The Clown crashes his arm through the booth’s large glass window. Jean screams. The frightmare on two legs raises his bloodied knife as she fiddles with the booth’s door. Just as the intruder strikes, a shot rings out. The startled Clown falls to one side, then looks up momentarily to see who shot him before his lights go dim.
Jean, peeking out the crashed window, stands horrified as she watches Sheriff Torrance standing in the hallway with a smoking gun in his hand.
“You okay?” he questions the startled DJ.
“Yeah, yeah,” she replies, fighting to catch her breath.
The lawman then takes out his walkie talkie and calls his station.
“Hello, Billy?”
“What’s up, Sheriff?” the voice on the squeaky walkie-talkie replies.
“Get two ambulances over here at the radio station right away.”
“Which…”
“The little one on Route 32.”
“Ten four.”
Torrance stashes his walkie talkie away as Jean opens the broadcast room’s door and steps out. Walking into the hallway, she watches as Torrance kneels down and palpates the Clown’s neck. Finding no pulse, he rises.
“This is bizarre. You’re not hurt?” he questions her.
“Nah, just shaken up.”
Torrance removes a handkerchief and hands it to Jean.
“I’m burning up in here. Can you soak this for me and get me some water?”
“Okay.”
When she leaves for the bathroom, Torrance carefully removes The Clown’s red foam nose and pats him down looking for some ID. There is none. Seconds later, Jean returns with the wet handkerchief and glass of water and hand both to the lawman. Using the wet cloth, he starts wiping off The Clown’s makeup. Both Jean and Torrance are shocked when they realize who the person behind the get up is.
“Al Canyon!” Torrance expels. “I can’t believe it.”
“I’ve seen this boy,” Jean attests.
“He’s just a high school kid. Unbelievable. Man, the criminologists are gonna be studying this for the next ten years.”
Torrance goes over to check Mar Vista’s pulse. Like Al, he is also gone, the knife still sticking grotesquely out of his forehead.
“Century City won’t be the same after this,” Jean imagines.
“I wonder why Al was here. Did he ever make threatening calls to you?”
“I don’t know him, really. I think I only met him once but we didn’t talk.”
“Poor kid. He must’ve been so tormented by the other murders so badly that he resorted to this. Kinda like some psychological capture-bonding empathetic response. I’ve studied this, just never ran into it in the field till now. He seemed so balanced. His family’s gonna be crushed. I guess you just never know. The human psyche is so fragile.”
They hear the ambulance’s siren squealing to a halt outside. Torrance motions to Jean.
“Let’s go.”
Torrance and Jean watch as the two covered corpses are taken out by paramedics into two separate ambulances. Several police officers are speaking to Mayor Crenshaw who also arrived to be briefed about the situation. Of course, members of the press are broadcasting their reports. A small crowd of onlookers has also gathered. Julia and Laurel pull up in the parking lot.
Laurel, already teary-eyed, races over in time to see her brother being loaded into the first ambulance. A cop restrains her. Julia, stan
ding by Laurel’s side, turns and gazes at Jean and Torrance.
“What are you gonna do now?” Torrance asks the DJ.
“Since the danger’s over,” Jean suggests, “I may as well start cleaning up the place.”
“Now?”
“The show must go on.”
“Why don’t you wait for a few hours till the boys from forensics give the all clear?”
“I guess I don’t have a choice.”
They watch as the young mayor walks over to Laurel and hugs her.
Mayor Crenshaw, Julia, and Laurel, all still in shock, are sitting in the living room of Laurel’s house on Ocean Boulevard with all kinds of emotions running through their confused minds. A young deputy enters from the kitchen with a pot of coffee and four cups.
“I know they only pay me to watch the place,” the deputy states, “but I figure I may as well donate my culinary skills.”
He sees his attempt at levity is lost on the small gathering. “Sorry. Java, anyone?”
He places the coffee pot on the center table, pours out a cup, and offers it to Laurel. She kindly refuses it. Crenshaw pours himself a cup. Laurel turns to Crenshaw.
“Thanks for stopping by, sheriff. You didn’t have to.”
“Nonsense. I’m not here as a politician, Laurel. I’m here as your friend.”
“Thank you.”
“I know how unbearable pain can be sometimes.”
Laurel twiddles her thumbs and sighs deeply. Crenshaw has another sip of coffee. Julia starts feeling a little uneasy at all the silence.
“You know what?” she remarks. “It’s too quiet in here.”
Getting up, she puts on the radio. Jean’s broadcast is on.
“Do we have to hear that?” Crenshaw asks.
“Sorry,” she