Disclaimer: I don't own Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, or anyone mentioned in it (they were all real people anyway), and it's a pity I don't own Perry Smith either. Even though he is dead. Which sucks.

Author's Note: I have searched the 'net far and wide, and not found a single fanfic on Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. I never thought I would grow to love the book I had to read for AP English summer homework, but I ended up writing even fanfiction for it! Boy, I need a life. This story is written in the point of view of a character who is mentioned only a couple of times in the book. I made up her real name, just so you all know. I couldn't find her true name anywhere. Also, keep in mind that I wrote this in a little over an hour way past midnight after a burst of inspiration from an article mentioning the graves of the killers. Enjoy, everyone, and please review!

Flowers for Perry
An In Cold Blood fanfiction
by Ducky in Spandex

The Kansas sky is dark and dismal, covered with a thick blanket of gray clouds. It's a dreary morning, and the only thing that will come from these hopeless clouds is rain. I really should have paid attention to the weatherman on the news before I left the motel this morning.

I look away from the garish clouds reflecting through the taxi windows and instead begin to stroke the flowers in my hands. Red roses and pink carnations—they will bring him peace in the Hell I imagine he is suffering in. Perry never received many flowers when I nursed him at the State of Washington hospital all those years ago, so I used to bring him roses and carnations everyday, so he would feel that someone cared for his well being. I learned early that he didn't like white flowers, because he believed they brought bad luck. Oh, Perry, you and your superstitions, I thought to myself.

I had never thought such a gentle, sensitive man could ever murder. Never. I had heard of the Clutter family murders, and the trials and appeals, and the executions of Richard Eugene Hickock and Perry Edward Smith, the convicted killers. But I could hardly believe it all when I first heard it. Perry had been so kind to me when he was hospitalized for those six months. I had grown rather fond of him, and I always looked forward to the times I had to come and check his vital signs, examine his crippled legs, and administer painkillers. We often chatted during my breaks, and I learned a lot about him. Whenever I gazed into his dark, misty eyes, I saw a rare, remarkable man: a poet, an artist, a musician—and yet, I saw the troubled, unloved boy hidden in his anti-social instincts.

I longed to save him, to be more than just a nurse who came periodically to check up on him and help him heal his wounds. I empathized with him, listened to his soft voice. I inspired him to read books like Gone With the Wind and This Is My Beloved. I watched him paint. I listened to his beautiful music, his enchanting poetry, and his dreams of Mexico. I would have stayed in contact with him, helping my Perry O' Parsons become the One Man Symphony. I would have married him and given him the love and understanding he longed for his whole life. I would have done all these things, but the brutal reality is that I didn't. I had let him go after those six months, wished him luck and waved goodbye.

The taxi finally arrives at the cemetery, just north of the Kansas State Penitentiary.

"Thank you," I tell the driver, handing him the money and carefully stepping out of the car. Flowers in hand, I make my way to the sexton's office, being careful not to trip on my black dress.

I wonder what he would say if he saw me right now, in a black gown instead of a white nurse's uniform, with my plain curls now cascading down my back (instead of the short bob they used to be styled in when I first met him) and my cheeks tinted with light rouge. Would he think he me pretty in this funereal attire? Would he sweep me in his over-muscled arms and sing me an old tune of love and sunshine? Or perhaps he would hum a requiem?

Wake up, I tell myself. Perry is dead, and even if he were alive to see you, he would not behave that way. You are just a nurse, and he didn't care to remember you after he left. You knew he'd forget you, no matter how much you hoped for the opposite. What makes you think he ever loved you anyway?

"May I help you, miss?" asks a clerk when I enter the sexton's office.

I blink, the clerk's voice rousing me from my negative thoughts. "Yes, I'd like to visit the grave of Perry Edward Smith." My fingers tighten around my bouquet of flowers.

"Sure, thing, miss," says the clerk, and he rises from his seat behind the counter. "I'll take you to him."

'I'll take you to him…' He makes it sound as if Perry were still alive. Ah, If only he were…

When we arrive at the grave, I nod my thanks to the clerk, and he departs.

What a meager grave. All he gets is a little marker with his name, birth date, and date of death:

PERRY EDWARD SMITH
OCT. 27, 1928
APRIL 14, 1965

Well, what can you expect from people who hardly know the corpses they are burying?

I step carefully to the soft brown earth of his grave. I kneel and gently place my flowers on the earth before the marker, making the sign of the cross as I rise. Flowers and a prayer, to give him peace. Suddenly I feel something small and wet fall upon me and I look up. A soft morning rain falls, rather than a booming thunderstorm. Soft rain for my gentle Perry, for that was the true Perry to me, not the criminal who was prone to bouts of fury. I close my eyes and let the tender raindrops caress me like a lover, kissing my dry but rouged lips. It is as if Perry's soul is manifesting itself in these sweet, soothing raindrops that smell of his cologne, and I smile and relish the thought.

"You're here to see the infamous murderers' graves too, aren't you?"

I start, my eyes flying open in surprise at the sudden sound of the inquiring voice. I blink and stare at the visitor, whom is a middle-aged man clad in a hat and trench coat. I am rather annoyed, for I did not appreciate some stranger interrupting this tender moment with my former patient's soulful rain.

"Perry is an old friend of mine," I say, observing the man carefully. "Who are you?"

"Alvin Dewey Jr.," says the man, extending his hand to me, which I shake in reluctant greeting. "Forgive me for interrupting you; I am one of the detectives who investigated the Clutter murder case, and I was acquainted with the murderers personally. Who might you be?"

I hate the way he refers to Perry (Hickock I never knew, so I did not care too much for him): Murderer. I abhor it. "I'm Lucy Althea Glendale; I took care of Perry during his hospitalization after his motorcycle accident back in 1952. He used to call me Cookie."

Mr. Dewey's brows suddenly rise. "Cookie, you say?"

I nod slowly at him, giving the man a questioning look. "Yes, why?"

Mr. Dewey begins to search in his pockets, and eventually pulls out something. "Perry briefly mentioned you in one of our interviews. You might want to see this." He hands it to me.

I soften and my eyes begin to water. It is a photograph of 31-year-old Perry, shirtless. He is in a sunny, tropical environment. Mexico, perhaps? Well, wherever he is in that photo, Perry is smiling, and my heart breaks to see such a beautiful smile on a dark-skinned face. He is posed beside his catch, a ten-feet-long sailfish, with that amazing, ecstatic, and proud smile on his face. A sob escapes my throat when I observe his expression of unflawed fulfillment and beatitude that wins over the brown streakiness of the photo's poor quality. He seems so happy. My fingers run gently over the face in the photograph, and something catches my eye. Tears begin to pour down my cheeks.

There, on his right biceps, is tattooed the name "Cookie."

After all these years, he had not forgotten me. This single thought brings me to complete tears, and I cannot speak for my crying. Even as I weep and sob, I manage to smile, a tear falling onto the sheet of laminated film, and I tenderly kiss the Perry in the photograph, holding the captured memory close to me. Only one thought passes through my mind, one thought that surpasses all others and throws me into a tear-filled, bittersweet trance:

He had loved me after all.