Stacy Green - The Smiley Face Killer: Killer Shorts: Murderers Among Us

The Smiley Face Killer

Killer Shorts: Murderers Among Us

Copyright 2016 Stacy Green

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher, except where permitted by law.

ISBN: 978-1-944109-33-2

Published by Vesuvian Books

www.vesuvianbooks.com

Chris Jenkins

P retty, happy white boy. Slamming back another beer, the center of attention among his admiring buddies, ego unfazed by the ridiculous, cheap Native American costume, the confident strut of an athlete. Unoriginal, even predictable, in his white male superiority.

The watcher drains his gin and tonic and nods at the guy slumped on his stool at the end of the bar. His cohort ignores him and takes another pull of the amber liquid. The watcher slips away into the cold Minneapolis night to wait.

He secures the wool scarf more tightly around his face, leaving just enough room to suck on his cigarette as he passes the time, undaunted by the twenty-degree chill of the frigid northern Midwest. Patrons enter and leave, their steps unsteady from liquor, chattering happily about their plans for Halloween.

His hands itch with the desire to see whats taking so long. Patience is an essential part of the game but not a virtue that comes easily to the watcher. His crew is behind the guys to the east, so he settles his nerves. They need this score to pull even.

Midnight passes. The watcher senses the commotion, a tingling building at the base of his spine and slinking to the rest of his nerve endings.

Come on!

Two men hustle the pretty boy mark out of the bar. Big guys, wide shoulders and poised to fight, prepared for the worst. Ex-military? Off-duty police? The watcher doesnt know and doesnt care. His cohort has done his job.

That other dude started it!

Beneath the bright light of the bars sign, the target looks as childish as he soundsa little boys face, big-eyed at the realization, mistakes come with consequences.

The watcher will teach him that lesson tonight.

The pretty boys friends hang out of the bars entrance, booze-laden voices instructing him to just hang out for a few.

Too late. Embarrassed, his prey flips off his friends and struts away from the bar, the suede fringe of his costume fluttering in the icy winds. A costly display of male ego aggression.

He has no idea this is his last night on earth.

* * *

A cold northern wind screamed over the Mississippi; the watcher pushed off his perch against the brick building and stepped out of the shadows. Tightening his scarf, he strolled down Hennepin Avenue, shoulders hunched against the cold, following the young man.

His targethe hadnt bothered to learn the boys namewas already fifty feet ahead, his long strides only broken by the occasional stumble.

The watcher patted his jacket pocket. The syringe was still in place, ready to go. Once he injected the drug, hed have complete control. All those muscles, built through years of athleticism, would mean nothing against the prick of the needle.

The mark lingered at the greasy smelling pizza joint, no longer prowling like a hungry animal. His posture curved, arms banded around his chest so tightly the muscles in his back bulged. Testosterone ebbed, cold set in. Perfect.

The watcher slowed to a stop and melted into the shadows to wait. Would his quarry go inside to warm up and calm down? If so, this entire night would have been a complete waste of time. The setup, perfectly executed, all for naught. Theyd have to try another night, start the chase all over again.

The mark shook his head, kicked a broken bottle on the sidewalk, and resumed walking.

The watchers chest relaxed. The hunt resumed. His adrenaline pulsed through every chamber of his heart, sweat beaded beneath his winter hat. His fingers twitched. The chase was a drug, the catch his high.

The watcher closed the distance, his fingers around the syringe. Almost too easy. His boy would soon reach the parking garage, wandering alone in a rough area of town.

Hey. The watcher matched the mans pace now. Nice costume.

The target stumbled, head whipping to the right. Round face, skin as fair as a babys. Eyes still glazed from drinking, but his entire body shivering and pink from cold. Thanks. Suspicion burned in his roaming gaze, no doubt checking for a weapon. His body already poised for defense, biceps large beneath the flimsy costume.

The watchers mouth watered. Nothing gave him as much pleasure as a fighter.

Looks pretty thin, though, the watcher said. What are you doing out here dressed like that?

Bunch of bullshit, the angry young man walked faster, anger resonating in his voice. Got kicked out of the bar. Dont have my keys or phone. Walking home.

The watcher shook his head, pulling his face into a concerned mask. No way, man. Too cold. You can share my cab.

No thanks, the mark said. I can handle it. Going to find a payphone and call a friend.

Theyd reached the parking garage. No security camerasthe watchers partner would have seen to that. As planned, the yellow cab waited.

Come on, the watcher pointed to the cab, pulling on the mans elbow. Talk about fate. Dont bother your friend. Besides, youll still have to freeze your balls off while you wait for them to show up.

Dark, worried eyes flashed to the car, his fingers tucked beneath his armpit for warmth. He swayed, eyelids heavy. He scanned the watcher, no doubt assuring himself the smaller man was no threat. A blast of cold wind sent them both staggering back. The target shivered again. Yeah, lets go.

The watcher smiled. The kid never even noticed the cabs off-duty sign. Menespecially ones his agenever really believed they could become a victim. Whats your name?

Chris. He crawled into the back of the cab, and the watcher took his seat up front. His other associate caught his eye. Just one more stop to make.

I can take you boys, but I already got a call. Have to pick another guy up a few blocks away.

Thats cool, the watcher said.

Chris grunted, rubbing his hands together. Heat. Thats all I care about.

The watcher smiled. Let the fun begin.

* * *

C hris Jenkins disappeared on Halloween night in 2002 after being kicked out of downtown Minneapoliss Lone Tree Bar and Grill by two off-duty cops. Chris had no wallet or phone, and police initially believed he walked across the Hennepin Avenue Bridge and went off on his own somewhere. The family never bought it.