Disclaimer: I do not own I Am Not A Serial Killer or the John Wayne Cleaver trilogies.
An Old Friend
by Finary Lane
Chapter 1: A dusty, old case
(spoilers for half of I Am Not A Serial Killer)
"Detective Bowen," called the lieutenant, "Come in."
Max turned the handle slowly. There was something about the lieutenant that sent him on edge. He wasn't sure what. His palms were sweaty and disgusting. He wiped them on pants as he walked into the cramped office. The lieutenant sat in swivel chair, unimpressed with Max so far.
The room was stifling, hot as a sauna and dark enough that Max had to squint. He couldn't remember the lieutenant's name. As far as he could recall, he was just Lieutenant. Lieutenant Lieutenant. Haha. It wasn't funny. The bustle of the city outside ad the cramped spaces were wearing him down. He wasn't used to such hustle.
"Country boy, eh? From, uh," he glanced down at his file.
"Clayton County, Lieutenant," filled in Max.
"Right, right. That. Anyways, welcome to our humble city. Don't make yourself too comfortable, I'm sending you out."
"Already?" said Max, a little surprised.
The lieutenant opened a drawer instead of answering and pulled out a file and two lollipops. He offered one to Max, who declined politely.
"More for me," shrugged the lieutenant as he began sucking on a one. Max squirmed uncomfortably until the lieutenant tapped the file he had taken out. Dust danced in the sunlight filtering in between the blinds.
"So, Bowen, how do you feel about F. B. fucking I.?"
Max spluttered at the lieutenant's language.
"They're alright, I guess?" he replied awkwardly.
"Wrong answer. They're assholes. And do you know why they're assholes?"
Max didn't answer.
"It's because they don't tell us shit, and then they cover up their fuck ups."
He tossed the file towards Max.
"So we have to do it ourselves," he finished. "You see, Detective, as the newcomer, you get your very own old, weird-ass, unsolved, shady-FBI-business case. Don't worry too much if you don't get anywhere, no one really does. It's mostly to get you used to how we do things around here. Transfers come from all sorts of places. Like… Clayton County. Where the hell is that?
"Anyways, this incident is from about six years. I remember it because it was all over the news and there were wanted posters and the whole deal. Horrible murders, tons of bodies were were found. I was one of the first police officers there. I didn't even want to know what the official causes of death were. Hell, I threw up a few seconds after I walked in there.
"Funny thing is that they found an FBI team round back. And not just any FBI team, one of those top secret, only-a-few-people-know-they-even-exist teams. All dead. There was this puddle of weird black goo that forensics never identified and one guy had gas pumped into his veins and his heart had been ripped out. Sick, right?
Max was pale. Black goo…
The Clayton Killer left black goo too….
No. There was no way.
"The FBI took over not too long after and wouldn't answer our questions to close the case. They did throw out wanted posters though, for the one guy from that team to have survived the massacre."
He flipped open the file to a profile.
"This guy. John W. Cleaver. Dunno his middle name, his files are locked tight by the FBI. I want you to find him and question him on what happened that night so that we can officially close the case."
Max took a few seconds to find his voice.
"...Wayne," he managed.
"What?" said the lieutenant.
"His middle name. It's Wayne. Like John Wayne Gacy…."
John. How long had it been since he had last thought about John? When he had last seen Brooke, probably. Hadn't he kidnapped her or something? He wasn't sure. He hadn't wanted to know at the time. He hadn't wanted to think about that sick bastard he had once called a friend. He kind of regretted it now.
But he couldn't deny the connection. John. Brutal murders. Ok, those kind of went hand in hand. John followed death like a moth followed light. But the black goo. Unidentified black goo. That was the MO of the Clayton Killer, a case he hadn't really looked into until he started working at the police station. Clayton didn't have many cases, but most of them were in recent years. And most of them involved John. Dear Lord, that guy had been busy when they were teenagers.
He'd always thought of John as this reclusive, silent type who lived in the morgue and read too much about psychopaths. Who knew he was so popular with the serial killers?
He thought about John. How incredibly interested he had been in the Clayton Killer. Max had gone along with John's ramblings halfheartedly, more interested in Marci than a serial killer. But in retrospect, it was obvious that John had been profiling the Clayton Killer. John was creepy, but he was just that: a creepy teenager with a fascination with serial killers. And when one came to his town, he had been ecstatic. John was not the Clayton Killer.
But Max had seen John's little smirks and the secretive glint in his eye. Max had never asked about it. It was public knowledge that John kept cadavers in his basement. Max didn't want to know what John might think was necessary to keep secret.
Thinking about it now, however, is it possible that John had actually figured out something about the Clayton Killer. He had been the only person to ever see the Clayton Killer. No, even John wouldn't have kept something like this from the police…. Two police officers were killed by the Clayton Killer after responding to an anoymous caller… Holy crap.
Why hadn't he seen it before? John followed death around like a moth to light. And he had a lot of faults, but he was brilliant. Of course he would manage to profile the Clayton Killer. Of course he would follow him. Of course he would witness one of the murders long before Crowley was attacked.
John was a terrifying guy but…. he had been the one who was scared. The police hadn't been able to do anything. What did you do when the police couldn't help you? If there was one thing that Max had learned during his time as a police officer, it was that when people didn't believe the police could help.
It depended on the person. Some would obey the crazed killer. Would John? John electrocuted-to-death-the-guy-who-kidnapped-him-and-locked-him-in-a-closet Cleaver? Hell no. It wasn't his style. Some would find someone stronger to protect them. Who did John have to hide behind? Max? His twig of a mother? His aunt? His sister with the abusive boyfriend? He didn't have anyone. So that was out. Or he….
He didn't go to "F. B. fucking I.," right?
It seemed to fit with his involvement in this case, but no. If the FBI had shown up in Clayton County, everyone would have know within hours. FBI stealth had nothing on the observation power bored, old ladies spying through the blinds.
So what had John done? Taken on a serial killer straight on at fourteen? That was ridiculous. John wasn't stupid.
What really confused Max was why John would have suddenly spoken out as a witness after Crowley's death but not before. It could only mean that whatever had been scaring John before didn't scare him anymore. That he had no more reason to fear the Clayton Killer. That he believed the Clayton Killer to be dead or couldn't harm him anymore. But what could have killed him? John hadn't mentioned anything about it. Why wouldn't he mention it if something had happened to the Clayton Killer? He could have laid everyone's worried to rest so why…?
Self-incrimination. It fit. Now that, that,was John's style. Lying to everyone about the Clayton Killer's death to save his own hide. But that would bring him right back to John taking on the Clayton Killer head-on. It didn't make any sense. By that time, John would have known about him for months and known he would be killed if he tried to attack him.
He had figured out the killer's pattern months prior when he witnessed on of the murders the first time around. He had known who the killer was for months. Figured out his motivation. His strengths. His weaknesses.
John had been planning the Clayton Killer's death for months.
Now that, that was really John's style. Stalking and plotting were John all-the-way. But how had he managed that? And where on earth did hide the corpse, anyways? It wasn't as if he had a convenient corpse locker in the basement where he could stuff it away. The cops had come very quickly and John had been right there. He wouldn't have had the time to dispose of the body elsewhere. So where had it gone?
….In his convenient corpse locker in the basement. Gosh, he was dense sometimes. John wouldn't have to hide the corpse at all. He lived in a morgue. It was perfectly ordinary to find a corpse in a morgue, especially when people kept getting killed by a serial killer as of late.
A finger snapped in face.
"Hey. Bowen. You in there? You've been zoned out for the past ten minutes. You know this guy or something?"
"Yeah," said Max hesitantly, "I knew him in high school. He's a real fan of, um, serial killers."
"You don't say?" The lieutenant rolled his eyes.
He stared at Max for a second.
"Well?" he drawled, "Get out of my office and get started, Detective."
Max scampered out of dreary office file in hand. He pulled out his new cell phone and dialed a number before bringing it up to his ear.
"Hi, Brooke," he began, "I was wondering if you had any idea where I might John? Yeah, I've been thinking about, uh, reconnecting with him. Yeah…."
Author's Note: There is next to no IANASK fanfiction. Well that needs to be rectified, hm? Please leave me a review!
