Tears of a Clown
Popular culture has seen many fads come and go. Whether you were into hula hoops, Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, mood rings or Pokémon cards, you were once part of a craze that hit the American consumer. Even if you never bought a pet rock or Rubik's Cube, you might have played Tetris on a Game Boy or Angry Birds on your iPhone.
As rookie detective Letitia Romney jogged through the park early one Monday morning, she could not help noticing the teenagers and adolescents who gathered there to participate in the latest fad: pantomime. Despite the early hour, there were close to a dozen people in painted white faces silently telling stories with facial expressions, gestures and body language. One young man acted out planting, watering and picking flowers. Another was playing an imaginary game of basketball while two others were having a tug of war with an invisible rope. Although the law enforcement officer was not particularly fond of miming, she realized there were a lot worse things the youngsters could be doing with their free time.
Perspiring from her run, Letitia left the park and headed back to her apartment above the Idle Hours Bookstore on Main Street. When she passed the alley that lay between St. Michael's and the dry cleaners, which led to the church's off-street parking area, she spotted another mime standing in the shadows between the two buildings. The girl wore what appeared to be a white spandex bodysuit with a ruffled blue collar beneath a black, hooded cape. Her skin—at least the parts that were visible—was coated with white greasepaint. Iridescent teardrops left a trail from the corner of her eyes and down her cheeks.
Suddenly the mime stepped out of the alley and blocked the sidewalk.
"Excuse me," Letitia said politely. When the girl continued to block her way, she added, "I need to get through."
The silent, white-faced figure raised her arm and pretended to wrap something around her neck. Then as her hand pulled in an upward motion, her head fell sideways to rest on her shoulder. Her eyes widened, and her tongue came out of her mouth. It was clearly a pantomime of someone being hanged.
"Cute," the detective said facetiously. "Now, if you can please get out of my way. I have to go home and get ready for work."
The mime ended her performance, bowed and then, walking backward, returned to the shadows of the alleyway.
I think I liked it better when teenagers were glued to their phones all day, texting, Letitia thought as she unlocked her door and let herself into her apartment.
After a quick shower, she dressed and ran out the door. Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the police station parking lot to find Cliff Somerville, her partner, walking toward his unmarked car with two cups of coffee.
"Perfect timing," he said, handing one of the cups to her.
"What's the rush?"
"A call came in about a possible suicide."
As usual, Cliff got behind the wheel. Given his years of experience on the force, she put up no objection. One of only two women of color on the town's payroll, and the only black, female detective, she was often seen as a token in the mayor's promise to embrace diversity in the predominantly white community. Many white males on the police force resented her promotion, believing it was not earned by merit. Although her partner had never actually said anything, she sensed he was not one of them. He seemed to respect her and have confidence in her ability to do the job.
"You look tired," she observed as she sipped her hot coffee.
"I didn't get to bed until after midnight. The game ran into extra innings."
"I hope the Yankees won, at least."
"They did," her partner declared, grinning ear-to-ear. "With a two-run homer in the bottom of the fourteenth inning."
Letitia had just finished her coffee when Cliff pulled into the driveway of a bilevel built in the mid-1980s. Once out of the car, the two detectives could hear a woman's mournful cries coming from the house.
God, I hate this part of the job! she thought.
When she entered the house, she tried not to look at the middle-aged woman who was sitting on the couch clutching a tissue in her hand. Before speaking to her, the detectives followed a patrolman to the garage.
"Our guy is out here," the uniformed officer announced.
The body of a middle-aged man, presumably the husband of the woman sitting on the couch, was hanging from a rope tied to an exposed support beam in the ceiling. Although it was not the first corpse the rookie had ever seen on the job, the sight of it made her stomach lurch.
"You okay, Romney?" Cliff asked after briefly speaking to the medical examiner. "You look a little green around the gills."
"I'll be all right."
"Good. Let's go talk to the wife," he said with a sigh.
In cases of suspected suicide, the questions were routine. Did the deceased have a history of depression or mental illness? Was he taking any prescription medication or recreational drugs? Had something recently happened to upset him? etc.
"If it was foul play, which I highly doubt," the senior detective said when they headed back to the station, "there's no way that tiny woman could have hoisted her husband up with a rope. He's taller than she is by a good half a foot, and he must weigh close to a hundred pounds more."
Letitia, who was lost in her own thoughts, paid no attention to her partner's assumptions.
"The mime," she uttered in a voice so soft, it was barely audible.
"What's that you said?"
"I was just thinking about the mime I saw on my way home from the park this morning."
"Be thankful it was only one. These days they're all over the place. It's as though we've been invaded by an army of Marcel Marceaus."
"This one was different. She had tears painted on her face."
"Reminds me of that old Smokey Robinson song, 'The Tears of a Clown.' But that was well before your time."
"This girl was a mime, not a clown."
"Same difference. They both wear face paint and costumes and are annoying as hell."
"This one stepped out from an alley and stood in my path. Then she pretended to hang herself. It was as though she knew what was in store for me this morning."
"It's a coincidence. That's all."
"You're right," Letitia declared, not wanting word to get out that the force's only black, female detective believed a teenage mime could predict the future.
* * *
As she ran along the park's footpath the following morning, Detective Romney scanned the faces of the mimes entertaining the mothers and children who frequented the playground. None of them had iridescent tears painted on their cheeks.
She could have done her makeup differently today. In which case, I wouldn't be able to recognize her.
Like the previous morning, as Letitia walked past St. Michael's, the young mime stepped out from the shadows of the alley to block her way. The girl's sudden appearance startled her.
"You again," the detective said. "Why did you pretend to hang yourself yesterday?"
The mime did not reply. Instead, she acted out the role of a person injecting a hypodermic needle into his arm.
"What's your fascination with death?"
When the girl raised her head and looked into Letitia's face, the law enforcement officer could see there were real tears in her eyes in addition to the painted ones on her cheeks.
"Who are you?"
Rather than answer any questions, the mime retreated to the shadows from which she had emerged. When the detective attempted to follow her, however, she found the alley deserted.
Where did she go?
What followed was like an instant replay of the previous day's events. Shower. Dress. Drive to the station. Cliff once again met her in the parking lot with two cups of coffee.
"Why do I suddenly feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day?"
"We got another one," her partner said, handing over the coffee cup. "Two for two this week."
"Suicide?"
"That or an accidental overdose."
"Overdose?" Letitia cried.
"Yeah. You have heard the term before, I assume," he teased her.
"Please tell me someone washed down a bottle of sleeping pills with a vodka chaser."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but no. It appears to be a shot of heroin in the arm. Why do you ask?"
In answer to his question, she described her second meeting with the mime, leaving out the part where she seemed to mysteriously disappear in the alleyway.
"And you think this kid is some kind of psychic?"
"To use your words, she's two for two."
"Coincidence."
"You said that yesterday."
This time, when Cliff pulled up in front of the victim's house, he did not immediately get out of the car. Instead, he turned and faced his partner. All signs of humor were gone from his usually amiable face.
"We're partners, you and I," he said. "We put our lives in each other's hands. To build that type of trust requires honesty, and sometimes the truth hurts."
"What are you getting at?"
"You're the only black woman on the force. Not just that, but you made detective in a fraction of the time it took everyone else. I think we both know why that happened."
"And for some unknown reason, you decide to tell me now that you think my promotion was unfair."
"Hell, I learned years ago that life is unfair. I got no problem with you being a detective. Furthermore, I think with a little experience, you'll be a damned good one. I just want to warn you that such preferential treatment comes with a price. Everyone on the force is watching what you do. Some are hoping you'll screw up so that they can come in for the kill."
"And I thought the police were supposed to be the good guys."
"Some of us are; me, for one. That's why I'm telling you to forget about this crying clown you saw while you were out jogging."
"She's a mime, not a clown."
"I don't give a rat's ass if she's goddamned Ronald McDonald! As a partner and a friend, I'm warning you to keep quiet about this Bozo. If anyone gets wind of the story, they might use it against you. The police shrink will be called in, and before you know it, you'll be a crossing guard at the elementary school."
* * *
Despite encountering the mime for the third day in a row, Letitia said nothing to her partner. He had given her sound advice, and she was going to take it. Not even the fact that the silent stranger predicted a third suicide in as many days swayed her from this determination.
"Experts say these things come in clusters," Cliff announced as he looked down at the empty container of antifreeze lying next to the dead body. "Usually among people with something in common, such as teenagers attending the same school. I've seen it before where one kid kills himself and then others follow the leader."
"It doesn't appear these three people had much in common," Letitia pointed out. "They're different ages. They come from different socioeconomic backgrounds. They don't even live in the same neighborhoods."
"I'm not entirely sure yesterday's death was a suicide. The guy had a history of substance abuse. His overdose was probably accidental."
There was no question about the cause of death of the fourth victim, which occurred the following day. In this instance, the deceased left a note behind.
When the rookie detective walked into the police station earlier that morning with two cups of coffee—it was her turn to buy—she did not need her partner to tell her there was another call to 911. A fourth encounter with the mysterious mime had forewarned her.
"You're not going to believe this," Cliff said.
"There's been another suicide."
"Bingo!"
She did not ask how. The girl with the painted face and the iridescent tears had mimicked the act of drowning. What the mime did not "tell" her was that the death occurred in the swimming pool, not the bathtub.
"Ever seen that TV show 1000 Ways to Die?" the veteran detective asked as they were leaving the scene.
"No. Can't say that I have."
"Well, this is surely one that should have been on there. Imagine strapping a sewing machine around your waist to weigh you down and jumping into the deep end of a swimming pool. This one gets an 'A' for creativity."
The suicide that occurred the following day—yes, there was another one—was not nearly as creative. Number Five, as Detective Somerville referred to her, had slit her wrists and died of exsanguination.
"I'm beginning to think there must be a pattern here," he said. "In my thirty years on the force, there were only three suicides in this town. Now, we have five in five days."
"So, you no longer think the overdose was an accident?" his partner asked.
"I don't know," he replied with frustration. "Why can't we have a bank robbery or a nice, simple homicide to solve?"
"A nice homicide? Seriously?"
Rather than return directly to the station, the two detectives stopped at a diner after questioning the deceased's ex-husband. Letitia, a healthy eater, ordered a salad whereas her partner asked for two cheeseburgers and a side of coleslaw and fries.
"Just between you and me," he said as he squirted Heinz ketchup onto the hamburger buns. "Have you seen that clown lately?"
"You mean the mime?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, I have. I've seen her every day this week. And always in the same place. For some reason, she likes to hang out in the alley between the church and the dry cleaners."
"Did she give you any indication that ...?"
His voice trailed off as though he was embarrassed to ask the question.
"She acted out all five deaths."
It was not until he finished devouring one burger, the coleslaw and half his fries that he asked the next question.
"Did you ever consider the possibility that this girl doesn't really exist?"
"You think I'm crazy?" Letitia asked defensively.
"Not exactly. I'm just wondering, what if it's you? What if you're the one who has the power to see the future? What if she's just the tool you use? Don't mediums go through a spirit guide when they conduct seances?"
"Since when are you into spiritualism?"
"I'm not."
"Look, weren't you the one who told me not to say anything about this mime business? You warned me that if anyone found out, it could jeopardize my career. So why are you bringing it up now?"
"You're right. Just forget I said anything," Cliff suggested and scooped up his second cheeseburger.
* * *
Since the rash of suicides did not equate to a serious threat to public safety, there was no reason for the detectives to give up their weekend and work overtime. Since she was not on duty, Letitia slept late on Saturday. Well-rested, she stopped at Starbucks for a coffee before heading to the park. As usual, there were a number of mimes present. When she ran past the playground, she saw a group of four huddled around the drinking fountain.
"Excuse me!" she called. "I was hoping you could help me. I'm looking for someone: a young girl, about my height. She wears a white bodysuit with a blue ruffled collar, a black hooded cape, white face paint. Do any of you know who she is?"
There were no verbal answers, but all four heads shook from side to side in a negative reply. The detective thanked them for their help and continued her run. She asked the same question of every mime in the park; however, no one admitted to knowing the girl in the alley. When she finally completed her run, she walked down Main Street toward St. Michael's, fully expecting to encounter the mysterious stranger.
She's not here, Letitia thought, relieved and at the same time disappointed. Maybe I got here too late.
Sunday was a no-show as well. Then on Monday morning the mime with the iridescent tears was back at her post. This time, when she stepped out of the shadows, she began acting out a person turning on the ignition of a car, most likely meant to signify suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning.
"Who are you?" the detective demanded to know. "What are you? A psychic? A fortuneteller? How do you know these things are going to happen?"
The white-faced girl continued her deadly pantomime as though she had not heard the questions.
When Letitia reached out to grab her by the arms, the girl nimbly evaded her grasp and escaped into the alley. The police officer pursued, but there was no sign of the mime anywhere. She ran between the buildings and nearly collided with a middle-aged woman in the church parking lot.
"Did you see her?" the detective cried.
"See who?"
"The mime. She ran down this alley just a moment ago."
"I haven't seen anyone but you."
Maybe Cliff is right, Letitia thought as she stood in her shower, letting the hot stream of water rinse away the lather from her bodywash. Maybe it is me. Maybe the mime is some sort of spirit guide, after all.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. There were far too many maybes. She was a cop, and cops dealt with facts, not maybes.
When she arrived at the station, sans coffee cups—it was her partner's turn to buy—she was surprised to find Cliff sitting at his desk, calmly reading the newspaper.
"What's up?" she asked.
"Nothing," he replied with a smile. "Not a single 911 call this morning."
The expression on the veteran detective's face changed when he saw the look in his partner's eyes.
"Were you expecting a call to come in?" he asked.
Letitia nodded her head.
Twenty minutes later, when the dispatcher alerted them to yet another possible suicide, Cliff turned to his partner and asked, "How?"
"Carbon monoxide poisoning. Victim probably turned the car on in the garage."
Once Detective Somerville saw the body behind the wheel of the late model Lexus, he was convinced that his partner's predictions—whether they were the product of her own mind or that of the young mime—were genuine.
* * *
Of the six deaths—which both detectives now agreed were all suicides—only one, the man who slit his wrists, involved a bloody corpse. All six victims were easy work for the morticians who displayed their remains in open caskets. The next three were definitely closed-casket cases. Tuesday's suicide jumped from the top of a fourteen-story building, Wednesday's stepped in front of an oncoming train and Thursday's poured gasoline on himself and lit a match.
"What's next?" Cliff asked angrily. "Is someone going to blow himself up with a hand grenade?"
"I'd ask the mime, but she never answers me," Letitia foolishly replied to his rhetorical question.
"What's this about a mime?" Cary Bagwell, one of the other detectives, asked, having overheard the conversation.
"It's nothing," the veteran cop insisted. "It's just my partner and I joking around."
The rookie, dealing with the stress of nine suicides in less than two weeks, the last three of which had been incredibly gruesome, finally cracked.
"Why don't we tell him, Cliff?" she cried. "Why keep it a secret? Why not alert the media that the only black, female detective on the force is receiving messages from an imaginary mime? Wouldn't they love to know that I had advance knowledge of all the suicides before they happened?"
"Is this true?" Cary demanded to know.
"Yes, it's all true. Every damn word of it!"
The chief of police, hearing the detective's raised voice, stepped out of his office and demanded to know what was going on.
"Romney here is seeing visions like Joan of Arc," Cary answered.
"Joan of Arc heard voices," Cliff corrected him, hoping a little humor would disarm a possibly volatile situation. "My partner sees mimes, and they don't speak."
"You're seeing things, Romney?" the chief asked.
"Yes, sir."
For Letitia, it was a relief to have the truth out at last.
"A young girl dressed like a mime. She warned me, through pantomime, of each suicide before it happened."
"Not exactly," Cliff said, hoping to present an explanation that might salvage his partner's career. "While you may not have been aware of them, the deaths actually occurred before the mime appeared to you. We may not be dealing with psychic visions at all. Your mime may somehow learn of the suicides before the authorities do."
"That doesn't explain why she disappears whenever I try to follow her down the alley."
You blew it! Cliff thought, closing his eyes in defeat. I might have been able to save you but not now.
"Bagwell," the chief shouted, "you partner with Somerville until further notice. And Romney, I want to see you in my office right now."
I've got only myself to blame, Letitia thought as she ran through the park the following morning. Cliff tried to warn me, but I didn't listen.
The fact that she had lost her detective shield and was now assigned to a desk job did not bother her half as much as seeing how much pleasure it brought the chief of police to demote her.
Maybe I should consider a career change. After this fiasco, I'll never get another chance to make detective. If the mayor still insists on a diverse police force, they'll find another black woman to take my place.
Upon completing her run, she wiped the sweat off her face with the small towel she kept tucked in her belt and took a long swig from her bottle of Dasani. She then left the park and walked along Main Street, deeply regretting her outburst of the day before.
Why didn't I keep my mouth ...?
Someone suddenly stepped out of the shadows of the alley and interrupted her train of thought.
"It's you," Letitia grumbled when she saw the mime blocking her way. "You can save yourself the trouble. I'm no longer a detective. Why don't you go visit Cary Bagwell? Give him my regards if you do."
The mime did not move. Instead, she reached her hand out for an imaginary gun and pointed the muzzle at her forehead. Then she made an exaggerated gesture of pulling the trigger. A moment later the white-faced young woman vanished into thin air.
I AM crazy!
Demoralized, the former detective forced herself to walk to the back of the bookstore, unlock her door and enter her apartment. Once inside, she shuffled, zombielike, into her bedroom and removed the pistol she kept in the drawer of her night table.
* * *
"You call this coffee?" Cliff complained when Cary handed him one of the cups he had purchased at the gas station on his way in.
"Yeah. What's wrong with it?"
"Romney used to bring me Starbucks."
"Next time, I'll stop at Dunkin'. Okay?"
"Cheapskate."
Cliff was about to toss his half-full cup of cold, bitter coffee into the trash when the call came in from the police dispatcher. There were reports of a shot fired in the vicinity of Idle Hours Bookstore on Main Street.
"Thank God it's not another suicide," Bagwell said.
"Let's go check it out."
Detective Somerville was just pulling up in front of Idle Hours when he spotted Letitia's car parked on the side of the building. He was overcome with a sense of dread as he recalled his former partner telling him she lived in an apartment above a shop on Main Street.
When the owner of the bookstore saw the two detectives, she confirmed Cliff's fears.
"The shots came from the apartment above my store."
"How do we get up there?" Cary inquired.
"The entrance is around back."
The veteran detective raced up the stairs, his new partner following closely behind.
"It's not locked," he announced, easily pushing the door open.
A few moments later, he found the body.
"You'd better call it in," he said, trying to keep all hint of emotion out of his voice.
As his flustered partner fumbled to get his iPhone out of his pocket, Detective Sommerville leaned over to examine the corpse of the young woman in the white bodysuit with a ruffled blue collar. Although her hands, throat and neck were covered with thick white makeup, the dark skin of Letitia Romney's face was clearly visible beneath the hood of her black cape.
It WAS you, he thought, as he stared at the iridescent tears that trailed from the corner of her eyes and down her ebony cheeks. Only this time, the suicide you foresaw was your own.
Salem once wanted to be a mime, but he couldn't remain silent for any length of time.
