Killer Clown by Terry Sullivan & Peter Maiken

Author:Terry Sullivan & Peter Maiken [Sullivan, Terry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Pinnacle
Published: 2013-04-02T03:00:00+00:00

To the amazement of observers, every day the policemen ate a hearty lunch. As Genty said, there is nothing worse than dealing with something yucky on an empty stomach. For most of the officers, the excavation was harder physical labor than they were accustomed to, and they worked up substantial appetites. Moreover, lunch was a welcome chance to relax and blow off some of the pressure they had accumulated in the pit.

The kitchen was a kind of neutral zone between the trenches in the front and the command post in the dining-recreation area at the rear. Lundquist used Gacy’s microwave oven to warn up the food delivered by caterers. At first, the men got their meals from the flight kitchens at nearby O’Hare, but they soon tired of Chicken Kiev and Beef Granada and switched to more mundane fast foods and delicatessen fare. The officers were highly amused when a local hotel sent over several trays of “finger” sandwiches. In the pecking order of dining room seating, the diggers were first, the dirt carriers next, the others last.

If mealtime at noon and happy hour at the end of the day were necessary relief valves, so was morbid humor. A visitor might have been even more shocked by the jokes coming from the sheriff’s policemen than by what he saw in the crawl space. It was not that the men lacked human feelings. On the contrary, their work was so devastating that those feelings had to find an outlet that would allow them to do their jobs. Sergeant Des Re Maux, back from vacation, watched his men closely for signs of depression. “If they’re not grab-assing and busting each other’s balls,” he said, “then I’m worried about them.”

The result was a steady stream of jokes, most of them utterly tasteless. Once all the bodies were removed, some of the policemen planned to put plastic skeletons in the crawl space, install a glass floor, and turn the house into a gay disco. They cautioned each other at lunch: Don’t throw your chicken bones in the pit, or Dr. Stein will go berserk. They had good and bad news concerning a strident tyke who was then selling cars on local television. The bad news was John Gacy’s escape from jail. The good news: Timmy from Long Chevrolet was missing. And everybody, of course, knew that Gacy wouldn’t be going out this New Year’s Eve because he couldn’t dig up a date. As Pat Jones said, it was like whistling when you’re afraid.

The officers had a ghoul pool, in which they bet on how many bodies eventually would be recovered. The estimates ranged from five to twenty-four. Everyone was low. Taking a cue from a movie just opening in Chicago theaters, they got themselves T-shirts emblazoned with “The Body Snatchers, No. 803640,” the six digits referring to the case number, with large numerals “27,” signifying the body count, on the other side. (That number also proved low.)

A brisk souvenir trade flourished as policemen grabbed

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