They found the second woman’s body on Saturday, lying in a ditch on Route 12, covered with a similar array of torture wounds. It was the same place where the Clayton Killer’s second victim was found, less than ten feet from the exact spot. It was now obviously a serial killer, and it seemed just as obvious that this new killer was trying to communicate something, but what? Was he saying “I’m the same,” or “I’m different”? Was he telling us he wanted to be like the first killer, or was he hinting that he already was? More than anything else, I wondered who he was talking to: the police? The whole community? Or was he sending this message to the only other killer in town?
Was he talking to me?
I needed to see the body up close, to see what, if anything, the killer was trying to tell me. It could be as simple as “I’m here,” or as dangerous as “I know what you did, and I’m coming for you.” If I could examine the corpse I’d know just what to look for: claw marks, missing organs, specific lacerations that would point to a knowledge of the previous crimes. The previous body’s location had been all over the news for days, and anyone in the world with a good Internet connection could have looked it up and planted this body in the same place, but the specific details of the previous attack had never been released to the public. If certain things were the same, I’d know for sure the attacks were related.
Unfortunately, the police weren’t likely to release the details of this attack either, so I had to wait for an embalming—if we got to do one. I spent Saturday waiting, trying to be patient, but by Sunday afternoon it was too much. I had to know something about the body—anything—and I didn’t dare just sit around until the body was shipped away like the last one had been. My only hope was Agent Forman: he’d talked to me about the last one, and maybe he’d talk to me about this one, too. It was worth a shot, but I had to be careful not to look too interested. I couldn’t give myself away. I needed an excuse, but what?
A memory—he’d specifically asked me to contact him if I remembered anything new about the night Neblin died. I’d ignored the request, because I didn’t want to share anything else about that night, but now it was the perfect excuse to get into the station and talk to Forman. All I needed was a memory, either real or very plausible. I pored over my memories of that night, analyzing each bit of information, comparing what was true to what I’d already told them.
I’d gone into the house through the cellar door, using a key I’d stolen previously, but I’d locked it afterward and no one had ever known. I could point them down there, but any evidence they might find would point to me. I discarded the idea and moved on.
After the attacks that night I’d smashed and hidden all three cell phones: Mrs. Crowley’s, Mr. Crowley’s, and Dr. Neblin’s. If I suddenly “found” one of the pieces, by accident, I could take it in and identify it as a piece of Crowley’s phone . . . but that was no good either. No one but the police, and me, knew that the phones were a key part of the investigation. My mom didn’t even know. Turning them in would look too suspicious.
What could I do? What could I tell him? I’d described the killer in vague terms, describing a large, dark shape that suggested neither Mr. Crowley nor a demon. I’d described my own actions, hiding Mr. Neblin’s body behind the Crowley’s shed and hoping the killer didn’t find me. I’d described the sound the killer made that brought my mom out of the house to find me—a kind of strangled roar. These were things they already knew, and they were virtually the only things I felt confident enough to reveal. Anything else would point back at me as a liar, or as a criminal in my own right.
What I needed to do was to find more details in the information I’d already given. If seeing the killer from my bedroom window was innocent, then suddenly remembering an extra detail—the style of coat he was wearing, maybe—should also be innocent. I needed something specific, so I got on the Internet and looked up a few department store catalogs, browsing through men’s coats until I found a good one—thick and rugged, like a rancher’s coat, all straight lines and sturdy fabrics. It would look imposing on a large, shadowed figure, and had no bulges or hoods to make it distinctive; it should be entirely acceptable that I’d forgotten it until now.
Now all I had to do was tell Forman. I didn’t bother waiting; I just got in my car and drove straight to the police station.
“Hey John,” said Stephanie the receptionist. I’d come in often enough since January that she, and many of the cops, knew me by sight. I didn’t know much about her because I did my best not to look; she was very attractive, and my rules against looking at women were just as strict with women as they were with high school girls.
“Hey,” I said. “Is Forman around?”
“He is,” she said. She spoke more slowly than normal, and her words trailed off a bit at the end. She was probably tired from the frenzy of activity over the weekend; normally she didn’t even come in on Sundays, but a corpse like this one was sure to mean a lot of extra hours. “He’s very busy,” she said. “Do you need to talk to him?”
“I do. He told me to contact him if I remembered anything new about the Clayton Killer case, and I did. I know you’re busy right now, but he told me to come in as soon as I had anything new.”
“Sure thing,” said Stephanie. “Sign in.” In my peripheral vision she picked up a phone and held it between her ear and her shoulder. One hand dialed while another one made a few clicks with her mouse. “Hello Agent Forman, I have John Cleaver here to see you.” Pause. “He says you asked him to come in. Apparently he remembered something important?” She glanced up at me and I nodded. “Thank you, I’ll send him in.” Stephanie hung up the phone and pointed at his door. “He’s only got a few minutes, but you can head on in.”
I nodded and walked to his office, in an old conference room just off the lobby. Forman looked up briefly when I entered, then dropped his eyes back down to the stack of papers in front of him. The conference table was still covered with files and folders, just like always.
“Have a seat, John,” he said. “You say you’ve got something new?”
“I do,” I said, sitting at the end of the table. “I know you’re busy, but you seemed really anxious to hear anything I might remember, so I thought I’d better come in.”
Forman looked up and watched me for a second, his head cocked to the side. “I did,” he said after a moment. “I did indeed. I was actually going to call you yesterday, but then we found this new body and things went all haywire.”
“You were going to call me?”
“A new avenue of inquiry has opened up in our investigation, but that can wait. What did you want to tell me?”
“A new avenue of inquiry?” I didn’t want to play my hand just yet, in case he was thoroughly unimpressed and sent me away; better to draw him out and try to learn as much as I could first.
“Yes,” he said, “even before the new victim was found. That makes two solid leads just this weekend. You could say it’s been a great week—just please don’t say it in front of the victim’s family.”
“So you’ve already identified the new victim?”
He smiled. “Just a tasteless joke. Thanks for not calling me on it.”
He paused, as if waiting for me to say something. I decided the easiest way to avoid suspicion was to ask the most obvious question.
“Everyone’s saying the Clayton Killer’s back, because of where the body was found. Do you think it’s the same person?”
“I don’t,” he said, still watching me, “but I do think it’s someone who was involved in the earlier killings. Maybe not the Clayton Killer himself, but someone who knew him. Maybe someone who worked with him.”
“Serial killers don’t often have accomplices.”
“Not often,” he said, “but it’s not unheard of. And a relationship between them doesn’t have to imply a close one, or even a good one. They could have been antagonists, or maybe rivals. It may be that the new killer is showing the old one how he would have done it better.”
I started to ask another question, but Forman cut me off.
“Enough small talk,” he said. “What have you got?”
I laid it out for him, hoping that a smooth flow of conversation might get him talking about the new victim again later. “The killer’s coat,” I said. “He was wearing a big coat, like a workman’s coat. I can’t remember the color, because it was so dark, but the outline was pretty recognizable.” The real killer, Mr. Crowley, didn’t actually have a coat like that, but I wasn’t trying to help the investigation—just build trust with Forman.
“Interesting,” he said. “What sparked this memory, if I may ask?”
I’d prepared for that question. “It was in a commercial—some people caroling in big heavy coats in the middle of summer. I don’t remember what it was for, probably a cell phone or a truck or something, but as soon as I saw the coat on one of the guys it struck some kind of chord in my head, and I knew I’d seen it before.”
“Interesting,” said Forman. “So you’re saying the guy in the commercial is the Clayton Killer?”
What? “No, of course not; there’s probably a million coats like that,” I said. “Of course I’m not saying that. But you asked what sparked the memory, and that was it.” His comment worried me—it meant he probably wasn’t taking me seriously. Why not? Had I said something to tip him off that I was lying?
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I know. I’m just in an odd mood today, honestly; lack of sleep. Just forget about it.” He swiveled in his chair and picked up a thick folder from a low table behind him. “Now we’ll be happy to follow up on that information, but first I wonder if you have a minute to discuss this other item?” He swiveled back to face me, holding the folder.
I nodded warily. “The new avenue of inquiry.”
“Exactly. You see, we’ve subpoenaed Dr. Neblin’s case files.”
His expression was flat and passive, but his words hit me like a sledgehammer to the gut. Dr. Neblin was the man who’d diagnosed me with Conduct Disorder, and one of the three people in the world who knew about it; if they had his files, the confidentiality laws I’d been hiding behind for months had just evaporated. I can only imagine Forman’s surprise when he found out that a key witness in his case was also a sociopath.
“There are a lot of interesting things in there,” said Forman, setting down the folder and opening it carefully. “I kind of wish we’d been able to pull this sooner.”
“I’m kind of surprised it took this long,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Forman nodded. “How much of this were you planning to tell us?”
“Only the parts that have a bearing on this case,” I said.
“None of it.”
Forman nodded again. “Dr. Neblin was found dead across the street from your house. You were covered in his blood, though you claim you were trying to help him escape the Clayton Killer. That all seemed pretty believable, especially given that you were the one who called the police that night. But this . . .” He tapped the paper. “This changes everything.”
“Now that I’m a sociopath I’m suddenly a suspect? Isn’t that some kind of disability discrimination?”
Forman smiled. “Yes, he does suggest that you may have sociopathic tendencies, but there’s a lot more than that in here. Neblin points out several major changes in your behavior after the killings started last fall. Changes that could be read, in a certain light, as being common to the behavioral shift between a potential killer and a practicing one.”
I wanted to protest immediately, to tell him I was not a killer, but I stopped. If I protested too much I’d look guilty. It might be better to go straight for the sarcastic approach.
“You’ve got me,” I said. “I killed Dr. Neblin. With an axe. Dipped in poison.”
“Very cute,” he said, not smiling, “but no one is accusing you of killing Dr. Neblin.”
“Most people don’t use poison,” I said, ignoring him, “because they think a big axe blade can do the job on its own. And they’re right, but I say they have no style.”
Forman shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands out. “What are you doing?”
“Confessing,” I said. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“Dr. Neblin wasn’t killed with an axe.”
“Then it was a good thing I put that poison on there.”
Forman studied me, as if he was watching for something—or listening, to something only he could hear. After a moment he said, “Did you ever want to kill anyone?”
“You’re going to have to arrest most of Clayton County if wanting to kill someone is suddenly a crime. They practically lynched one of the suspects, you know.”
“I was there,” he said, and an odd look came into his eyes. “Mobs can make people think and feel some pretty crazy things. Your case is different, though, as I think you have to admit.”
“I didn’t kill anybody,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible, like I was letting him in on a joke instead of protesting my innocence. “I’d be pretty stupid to come straight in to the police station if I had.” I knew as soon as I said it that it was a bad argument—serial killers often involved themselves in their own investigations. Edmund Kemper even volunteered at the police station, and was good friends with most of the cops on his case. I waited for Forman to call me on it, but he didn’t mention it.
“What fascinates me the most,” he said, almost to himself, “is that I didn’t see it earlier.” He was furrowing his brow and scrunching up a corner of his mouth, which usually meant the person was confused. “I’m a criminal profiler, John—I identify sociopaths for a living. How were you able to hide it from me?”
Because of my rules, I thought. I don’t want to be a killer, so I have rules to help keep me just as normal as everyone else.
Well, normal on the surface. Somewhere inside, Mr. Monster was just waiting for me to make a mistake. And so, it seemed, was Forman.
“I’m not really a sociopath,” I said, hiding behind the definition. “I have Conduct Disorder, which is much less developed. People my age almost never become serial killers.”
“Almost never,” he said, “but sometimes.”
“I was in therapy to deal with it,” I said. “I follow strict rules to help me avoid temptations. I’ve been completely open about my involvement in this case, and I’ve involved you at every step of the way. I’m trying to be the good guy here, so don’t hold this one thing against me.”
Forman stared at me for a while, for much longer than I expected, then grabbed a notepad and started scribbling something on it.
“Thanks for the tip about the killer’s coat,” he said, then tore off the note paper and handed it to me. It was a phone number. “If you remember anything else you don’t need to bother coming in; just call.”
He was sending me away, and I still hadn’t learned much of anything about the new corpse. I thought about asking another question, but it was too dangerous—he was letting me go now without any further questions, which meant I might have convinced him I was innocent. There was no reason to rouse his suspicions again by asking questions about a corpse.
I took the note, nodded, and left.
“How could you do this!” Mom shouted, pacing back and forth in the living room. I was sitting on the couch, wishing I were somewhere else. “After everything we’ve done—after all the rules and the therapy and everything we do to help you fit in, now Agent Forman thinks you’re a suspect.”
“Technically, therapy was the main culprit here,” I said.
“The main culprit was you,” she said, stopping and staring at me sternly. “If you’d never gotten involved with this to begin with, the FBI wouldn’t even know who you were.”
“I was trying to help,” I said, for what seemed like the millionth time over the past five months. “Was I just supposed to sit there?”
“Yes!” she shouted. “Yes, you can just sit there—you don’t have to right every wrong you see, just like you don’t have to run out in the middle of the night so a killer can chase you home.”
So that’s what this was really about—she was afraid that I was going to chase another killer and get myself killed. How many fights had we had about this? I rolled my eyes and turned away.
“Don’t you ignore me,” she said. She walked around into my new field of view, her eyes wide and imploring. “I’m not asking you to never help—you know I want you to be a good person—I just want you to stay away from certain things. It’s one of our rules, even: ‘when you think about killing, think about something else.’ Anything else. But don’t run out and get right in the middle of it!” Her face fell and she grimaced. “I just—I can’t believe you did this!”
“And I can’t believe you’re asking me to stand by while people get killed,” I said.
“That is not what this is about!” she shouted. “This is about staying out of trouble—”
“Which is going to leave other people in trouble,” I said. “I went outside that night to try to save our neighbors from a killer.”
“And it was very brave, and it was very stupid. You don’t chase a killer for the same reason that you don’t run into a burning building.”
“You just stand outside and listen to the screams?”
“You call the police!” she said. “You call the fire department, you call the paramedics; you let the people who know what they’re doing do their job.”
“It was a monster, Mom, the police couldn’t have—”
“John—”
“You saw it!” I screamed. “You saw it with your own eyes, so stop pretending it wasn’t real! It was a monster, with fangs and claws and I stopped it, and instead of a hero you’re treating me like I’m crazy!”
“We don’t talk about that—”
“Yes we do!” I felt a sharp pain every time she denied it, like a knife in my chest. I could feel a hole inside of me growing wider, deeper, darker—the need to kill, unsated for so long, growing harder and harder to resist. “I can’t pretend it wasn’t real any more than I could sit here doing nothing while it killed everyone we know!”
“We don’t know for sure—”
“You saw it!” I shouted again. My eyes felt hot. “You saw it! Please don’t say you didn’t; please don’t do this to me.”
She fell silent now, staring at me. Watching. Thinking.
The phone rang.
We stared at it. It rang again.
Mom picked it up. “Hello?” She listened for a moment, shaking her head. “Just a minute,” she said, then covered the mouthpiece and looked at me. “This discussion is not over,” she said. “I’ll be right back so we can finish talking about this.” She uncovered the phone and walked into her bedroom. “Just a moment, ma’am,” she said, and closed the door.
I left immediately, struggling to sneak out quietly when all I really wanted to do was smash something. I ran to my car and started the engine, pulling out in a wide curve to head back out of our one-way street. Mom was watching through the curtains, shouting something through the glass but not coming after me. Did she think I was running away, or did she know the real reason?
That I was leaving to stop myself from hurting her?
The roar of the engine was dark and hungry, like a beast breaking free of a cage. Mr. Monster wanted to ram every car he passed; to run over every person he saw; to wrap the engine around every pole on every corner in town. I fought him back as I drove, keeping my hands steady and the speed low.
There were times when I needed to be alone, but more important than those were the times when I wanted to be alone but knew it was a bad idea. Alone—on the shores of Freak Lake, lighting fires at the warehouse, hiding outside of someone’s window—I couldn’t trust myself. Not tonight. I needed other people, and I needed the ones who wouldn’t judge or threaten or condemn. What I needed was Dr. Neblin, but he was gone forever.
Brooke? Her presence would probably calm me down, but how long would it take, and how much would she see in the meantime? I couldn’t risk horrifying her, not when she was finally starting to like me. I could visit Max, and sit back while he droned on about himself, or his comics. But he was sure to eventually start talking about his dad, and I didn’t want to deal with that tonight. Unfortunately, that was pretty much everyone I knew.
Except for Margaret. I turned and headed toward her neighborhood, taking deep breaths and driving slowly. I didn’t want to risk an accident, and I didn’t want to let reckless speed become a temptation to slam the car into a target of opportunity. Margaret was the happy one in the family; the simple one, the rational one. We could all talk to Margaret because she never took sides and never started fights. She was our refuge.
When I pulled up in front of her apartment I could see her through the window, talking on the phone. It was probably Mom, warning her that crazy old John was out causing problems again. I swore and pulled away again. Why wouldn’t she leave me alone?
There was one place I was sure to get away from her: Lauren lived just a few blocks away, in an apartment of her own. She and Mom hadn’t spoken since Mother’s Day, and only barely spoke before that. There’s no way Mom would call her, and if she did Lauren wouldn’t answer.
I paused in front to look for Curt’s truck, but he wasn’t there, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. This was not the night to seek him out; I needed to stay calm and forget all about the bodies and the investigation and everything. I parked and walked into the complex, trying to remember which apartment was hers. I’d only been here once before. The stairs were crumbling concrete slabs embedded in a rusty metal frame, and the brick walls burned red in the early evening sun. It was either the third door or the fourth . . . the third door had a rolled-up newspaper thrown against it, wrapped in dirty plastic. I skipped it and knocked on the fourth.
Lauren opened the door, and her mouth smiled almost as soon as her eyes widened in surprise—almost as soon, though not quite.
“John! What are you doing here?”
“Just driving around,” I said, concentrating on breathing slowly and evenly.
“Well come in,” she said, standing back and gesturing inside. “Make yourself at home.”
I stepped through the door and into the room, unfocused and uncertain. I wasn’t here for anything specific, just because I needed to be somewhere, and this was the only place to do it. Now that I was here, I didn’t know what to do.
“You thirsty?” asked Lauren, closing the door.
“Sure,” I mumbled.
Her apartment was clean and bare, like a well-kept shell. The kitchen table was scratched, with the veneer peeled back in places to expose the plywood beneath, but it was washed and spotless, and all the chairs matched. The glasses in her cupboard were few and mismatched, and the water from the tap sputtered erratically when she turned it on. She handed me the glass with a smile.
“Sorry there’s no ice.”
“It’s fine,” I said. I didn’t really want the drink, but I took a sip to be polite.
“So what you up to?” Lauren asked, moving to the living room and flopping down on a couch.
I followed her slowly, feeling the tension that swirled inside of me slowly beginning to seep away. I sat down mechanically. “Nothing,” I said. “School.” I wanted to talk, but it felt better simply to sit here, saying nothing.
Lauren watched me for a moment, her energy visibly draining away as she studied my face. She spoke knowingly. “Mom?”
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“I know,” she said, pulling her feet up onto the couch and resting her cheek on her knees. “It’s always nothing.”
I sipped the water again. There was nowhere to put the glass, so I took another sip.
“Is she still mad?” asked Lauren.
“Not at you.”
“I know,” she said, gazing at the wall. “She’s not mad at you either. She’s mad at herself. She’s mad at the world for not being perfect.”
Lauren was blond, like Dad, while Mom and I had jet-black hair. I’d always seen the two women as polar opposites, both in looks and personality, but in this light she looked more like Mom than I’d ever noticed before. It might have been the shadows in her eyes, or the way her mouth turned down at the corners. I closed my eyes and leaned back.
There was a knock on the door, and my insides twisted instantly back into a tight knot.
“That’s probably Curt,” said Lauren, jumping up. I heard the door open behind me, followed by Curt’s voice.
“Hey sexy—oh, Jim’s here.”
“John,” said Lauren.
“John. Sorry man, I’m crap for names.”
He walked around my chair and sat on the couch, pulling Lauren with him. I wanted to get up and leave, right on the spot, but something stopped me. I took a sip of water and stared straight ahead.
“Still quiet?” asked Curt. “You realize I’ve never heard him actually talk? Say something, dude, I don’t even know what your voice sounds like.”
There were so many things I wanted to say to him, so many insults and put-downs and threats I’d come up with since the last time I saw him. None of them came out now. I wasn’t afraid of anyone—I’d mouthed off to the bullies at school, I’d challenged an FBI agent right to his face, and I’d gone toe to toe with a demon, but for some reason I was completely cowed by Curt. Something inside of me went completely inert around him. Why?
“He gets a drink and I don’t?” asked Curt. “What, no love for the boyfriend?”
Lauren slapped him playfully on the shoulder and stood up to get him a glass of water.
“And put some ice in it this time.” Curt grinned at me. “Your sister’s like the lava queen—she’s probably going to put it in the microwave.” Lauren turned on the tap and Curt turned to yell into the kitchen. “Not water, babe, soda.”
“I’m all out,” said Lauren. “Shopping’s this weekend.”
“Whatever,” Curt called, then turned back to me. “She’s always forgetting something. Women, eh kid?”
That’s what it was—the thing that kept me down. It was all around him, in his words, his attitude, and even the way he smiled.
He was exactly like my dad.
It was the way he treated people, gregarious and cheerful but completely removed. Aloof. He was so excited about himself that there wasn’t room for anyone else—we were an audience for his jokes, and a mirror to reflect his actions, but we were not friends and we were not a family.
And if we made our own actions instead of reflecting his, would Curt explode like Dad did? Did he yell at Lauren? Did he hit her?
“You still haven’t said anything,” said Curt, taking the glass from Lauren’s hand and settling back into the couch. Lauren snuggled up under his arm.
“I was just leaving,” I said, standing up. I couldn’t stay with him any longer. I stood there a moment, as if waiting for his permission, then forced myself to turn away and walk into the kitchen.
“You just got here!” said Lauren, jumping back up. “Don’t go yet.”
“Don’t let me scare you off,” said Curt.
I set my glass down on the table, then thought better of it and moved it to the counter. It had left a moisture ring on the table, and I wiped it away with my hand.
“We could watch a movie,” said Lauren. “I don’t have very many, but there’s . . . there’s that cheesy kid one Dad sent me for Christmas. The Apple Dumpling Gang.” She laughed, and Curt groaned.
“Please no!” he said.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I have to go.”
“Now your movie’s scared him off,” said Curt, still lounging on the couch. “Hey Lauren, you want to get a pizza?”
“Bye Lauren,” I said, and hurried outside.
“Bye John,” she called, her voice higher than normal. She was worried. “Come back soon.”
Mr. Monster promised, silently, that he’d come back to visit Curt as soon as he could.