The Carma Klown 8

Chapter 8

© 2013 by the author

Wednesday, ca. 1:30 p.m., June 9, 2010

“You have no memory of being in the video.”

“No, Captain. When the alert came through on my phone, I thought it would be some emergency. I haven’t had anything to do with this case. It didn’t cross my mind that I would get involved in it.” Patrolman Patrick Reilly sat at the table in the conference room. There was a white Styrofoam cup filled with coffee, now cold, in front of him. Every few minutes he picked the cup up and shifted it an inch or so to a new position. He refused to look at Altmann or Baker. He spoke in a tremulous whisper, interrupting his words often to swallow nervously and glance out the window at the building across the street from One Police Plaza. The man had looked so large and muscular in the video; in person he was hunched over and defeated looking. He had shrunk into himself.

Reilly had been picked up at his apartment and brought back to Midtown for questioning. He had blushed when he had opened the door to Baker’s summons and sat unspeaking in the car the entire way back, staring blankly out the window and refusing to acknowledge the other officer’s presence either verbally or physically. His entrance into One Police Plaza was met with embarrassed silence. Conversations stopped in mid-sentence, and eyes shifted away, only to focus on Reilly’s slumped figure after he had walked past. When the elevator had stopped midway at the sixth floor, a pair of cops waiting to board had taken one look at Reilly and then backed away, apologizing for intruding and muttering something about taking the next car. None of the police or civilian staff who worked at One Police Plaza knew what to say to him.

A doctor had been waiting in the conference room with Altmann, and he had quickly drawn the blood sample and conducted a brief examination. In response to a request from Altmann, Reilly had turned his back and lowered his pants. With one hand, he pushed down his shorts on the left side to expose his buttock and The Carma Klown tattoo. Baker had taken several photographs. The doctor touched the skin around the tattoo cautiously and then said a few words to Reilly on how to treat the tattoo and what to expect. He pulled a handful of individually packaged alcohol swabs from his bag and handed them over. Reilly held them in his hand and looked at them without comprehension. After a few seconds, he dropped them on the table.

“Can we get you something? A cup of coffee?” Without waiting for Reilly to speak, Altmann poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of Reilly. “I know that this is a difficult time, but we have some questions for you. You know that any assistance you can give us will help us catch this guy quicker and put a stop to him. And the sooner the better. I’d like to be able to wait another day or two to give you time to compose yourself, but I don’t have that luxury, Pat. Is it Pat? Do people call you Pat or Patrick?”

Reilly’s right hand lay on the tabletop. His only response was to twitch it in a gesture of indifference.

“Let me just verify some basics first, Pat.” Even as he said that, Altmann knew that Reilly would understand what he was up to—simple, factual questions to put him at ease, questions that had familiar answers.

“Your name is Patrick Michael Reilly. You live at 1189 North 26th Street, Apt. no. 44, in Brooklyn.”

Reilly nodded.

“How long have you been on the force?”

“Five years in March.”

“And you work out of the 62nd on the night shift? 9 p.m. to 7 a.m.?”

“Yes. I usually get there about 8:45 most nights. The shift is supposed to end at 7:00, but it’s usually closer to 8:00 by the time I get away.”

“What days are you on?”

“Thursday night through Monday morning. I have the rest of Monday until Thursday at 9:00 p.m. off.”

“You go home and go to bed when you get off work?”

“No. I’m too wired and I don’t like to go to sleep just after I’ve eaten breakfast. So I wait until around 11:00 and then I sleep until 5:00 or so.  Then I go to the gym and work out and shower. I get something to eat and then I go to work.”

“You live alone?”

“Yeah.”

“So we figure that the video was made last night. Tell me what you have been doing since your shift ended on Monday.”

“Like I said, I get off Monday at the end of my shift and I’m free until Thursday night. Sunday night was quiet, and I left the precinct just after 7:00 Monday morning. I stopped and had breakfast at this place near the precinct. I usually go there. Then I went home. I picked up some juice and bread, a six pack, at the store on the corner and then I went to my place to change. I wanted to jog to unwind and get myself tired. So I changed into shorts and a T and then went out. I was out for over an hour. It was after 10:00 when I got back. I took a shower and then I went out to run some errands. I had to get a birthday present for my sister’s kid and then pick up some laundry. I got back about noon and then went to bed.”

“You keep the same schedule on your days off?” interjected Baker.

“Yeah. When I first started working the night shift, one of the old guys told me to do that—to keep the same schedule every day so that your body knows what to expect.”

“That’s what I was told when I was assigned to the night shift when I was a patrolman. I don’t know if it works or not. I was always tired.” If Altmann was trying to establish a rapport with Reilly, he didn’t appear to be having any success. After waiting for a moment for Reilly to respond, he continued, “So you went to bed. When did you get up?”

“The usual time. I went to the gym, did my work out. I got cleaned up and then I went to this Italian restaurant in the neighborhood. My days off are the only time I can eat a decent meal. I was back home about 10:00, maybe a little after. I started watching TV—I found a rebroadcast of some of the games I had missed when I was on duty. I followed my usual schedule, except on my days off, I go jogging before breakfast. So Tuesday, I was out running from around 7:00 a.m. until maybe 8:30. I showered, ate breakfast, cleaned my apartment. I went to bed around 11:00. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up the next morning when my phone rang with the alert message.”

“So you slept from Tuesday about noon until Wednesday morning?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s right. At least I thought I had. Like I said, I usually try to stay awake nights, so that I don’t get off schedule. But sometimes, you know, you get tired and you end up falling asleep.”

“Did you get up during the night?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t usually get up. I’m a pretty sound sleeper. Once I go to bed, I go to sleep and don’t wake up until the alarm goes off.”

The two older cops shifted in their seats and thought with longing of their younger days when they had been able to sleep through the night without having to get up and use the toilet.

“So you woke up this morning when the alert came over the phone. Then what?”

“Well, I waited for the message. I was really surprised when the video started. I haven’t been following this case. It’s kinda remote from my life, you know. So I didn’t understand why the department was sending everyone this video. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing that would involve the whole department. But I figured there must be a reason they were making everyone watch it. I still don’t understand that. Why did the department send the video to everyone? It’s like they were trying to shame me.”

“No, the department didn’t send the video. This Carma Klown guy somehow got into the system and hijacked it. We’ve got one of our computer guys tracing how he did that right now.”

“Nobody told me that. Nobody’s told me anything. They just send this video out and the next thing I know you’re outside my door and you haul me off downtown. Everybody’s acting like I done something wrong. You make me get undressed. I don’t even know what you were looking at. I didn’t even know I had that tattoo on my butt until that doctor starts in about the skin peeling off.”

Neither Baker nor Altmann knew what to say.

After a moment, Reilly resumed speaking, but more to himself than to the others present. “I didn’t even realize it was me at first—not until I saw my badge. All I had was my phone and the image was so small and dark. I thought the guy looked familiar, but I didn’t think it was me.” He looked up at the two men for the first time. “Why me? I don’t know this guy. I’m not involved in this case. Why did he pick on me? Why did he put that tattoo on my butt? How am I ever going to go back to work? I can’t face the guys now that everybody’s seen me acting like an idiot.”

*****

Wednesday, ca. 3:00 p.m., June 9, 2010

The difficulty was maintaining his audience’s interest. He couldn’t keep doing the same thing over and over. He had used roughly the same scenario for the first six tapes. The response had been gratifying. Each of the uploads had been copied and reposted several dozen times, and the number of views was now in the millions for each. “Likes” outnumbered “dislikes” by a hefty margin. But that would soon change unless he could come up with something new to titillate his fans.

And another problem was beginning to appear. Popularity brought dangers with it. He had expected that. It was one problem with putting stuff out there online—it was impossible to maintain control over it. Already, he had noted two or three instances of video rants in which “worthless, pathetic, old faggot” was used as  a catchphrase for “korporate kriminals” (as one video was entitled). The Carma Klown was in danger of becoming a meme. What next—The Carma Kat dealing in a cutesy way with a “kanine”? Imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, but he’d just as soon be the only supplier of The Carma Klown videos. No one else would get it right. And if there were too many Klown-style videos, his would lose impact. It all came back to the problem of inventiveness. He had to keep outdoing himself. He didn’t want to paint himself into the Lady Gaga corner, where each new costume had to be more outrageous than the last in order to maintain an edge. Not that his fans weren’t being helpful. They were coming up with so many possible subjects for The Carma Klown treatment. It’s too bad that so many of them were too far away to use now. Perhaps in the future, he would have to take a vacation in LA, or Atlanta, or Dallas, or—well, the list of cities was endless. He could even set up shop in London or a dozen other cities outside the United States and keep himself occupied for a long time.

And his fans were generous with suggestions about how he could humiliate his next victims. A few of them were useful, but most of them were just plain sick. He had had no idea of how many perverted people there were until he began posting the videos. These nutjobs got off on the humiliation, and they wanted more. They just didn’t understand that the humiliation was simply a tool, a way of punishing these criminals and making it harder for them to continue to do what they were doing. After watching someone beg to be allowed to pay to rim another man, who would want to do business with that man again? And these creeps wanted to meet him and were volunteering to help make the videos. Their minds were sewers, and they expected him to welcome them as brothers and sisters in his endeavors. Wackos. Sick wackos. That’s what they were. They nauseated him.

Of course, that wasn’t the only problem that success had brought. The Carma Klown was beginning to attract copycats. The Klown now had a Facebook page and several Twitter accounts, none of which he had started. It was annoying to have others taking advantage of his success, and he was contemplating his revenge. There was, however, one good aspect to all of this. Tracking down the fake Klowns would keep the police busy. He might even be able to help them a bit with that—be the concerned citizen-hacker the police undoubtedly needed. They weren’t the most computer-savvy group around, and, to judge from the amount of whining in his case file, they felt restrained by legal niceties. Of course, the more obnoxious of his copycats needed a stronger lesson.

No, he didn’t need helpers or assistants. If he ever wanted a helper, he would find one on his own. Well, not so much find one as create one. The same method he used to create the “volunteers” for his videos would work nicely to manufacture an “assistant producer” or “klownette.”

He yawned and poured himself another cup of tea, caffeinated this afternoon. He had so much to do, and he still needed to put in another couple hours planning the next session. He had been reviewing porno videos for ways to humiliate the next men on his list. The problem wasn’t a lack of ways. There were so many ways in which a common sexual act could be twisted just a bit and used for his purposes. The videos seemed to glory in each of them. He had already jotted down several pages of notes. The beauty of many possibilities was that they required no special equipment. Why buy a dildo when the local supermarket offered so many vegetables with the right shape? The police might be able to trace the purchase of a dildo over the internet or in a sex shop (there had been a risk in buying the two pig-tail butt plugs, but he had used a randomly selected “volunteer” to do that—no one would be able to link him to the grandmotherly woman he had enlisted to help him with that). But who would note the purchase of a cucumber or even one of those long, thick white Japanese radishes? And there were so many other tools and fluids at hand. Humiliating the next man was not the problem—the problem was finding a way that would both satisfy his fans and leave them hungry for more. But it might be a while before they could look at a cucumber without thinking about The Carma Klown. The destruction of innocence in the produce section was just a side benefit but not to be disdained for all that. Oh, there were so many rewards.

And he mustn’t forget to prepare the next red herring for the police. Poor Michael Chang—I hope, the man thought, that they pay you overtime. I’m going to make sure that you are kept very busy.

*****

Wednesday, ca. 3:00 p.m., June 9, 2010

“I didn’t know what to say to them. I don’t know how they’re ever going to be able to go back to work. Everybody on the force saw that video. I couldn’t face people if it had been me, could you?” Altmann’s voice betrayed his distress. Both Phil Redding and Jerry Baker shook their heads. They were sitting in Altmann’s office discussing the interviews with Reilly and Milowski. They had talked with each for over an hour, trying to establish a link between them and The Carma Klown. But neither patrolman remembered anything of Tuesday evening and had encountered nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary in his life.

“It would be hard,” said Baker. “But you set them up with the psychiatrist. Maybe she can help them.”

“I doubt it. She may help them to forget, but nobody else is going to. Every time they see those poor guys, they’ll see that video in their mind’s eye and think about that obscenity coming out of their rear ends and them squealing as they tear into those donuts. Jesus, that was disgusting. I’ll never get that picture of Reilly looking up into the camera with his face covered with frosting and smiling. Or  Milowski.”

Redding nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it will be even worse for Milowski. He’s older, and he’s got older attitudes about gays. He worried that everyone will think he’s gay now. That seemed to be his primary concern during the interview.”

Like Reilly, Milowski remembered nothing of what had happened Tuesday night. He had finished his shift at the courthouse and gone home, ate dinner, and settled in for a night of watching TV. That was the last thing he remembered before waking up in his bed the next morning. He had gone to work and, like everyone else on the force, had received the alert and watched the video. He, too, had not realized that he was part of the video until The Carma Klown had shown his badge. He had noticed that his butt was sore but had attributed it to sitting too long.

“Well, we didn’t learn very much from either of them,” said Altmann. “Maybe the blood screens or the clothes they were wearing or the searches of their apartments will tell us something. What now?” All three men turned to the door leading to the squad room. An uproar was spreading from the back of the room. “Captain, Sergeants,” a detective leaned into the office. “They found Frank Milowski—the guy in the video.”

“I know who he is. What’s do you mean they found him?”

“Captain, they found his car parked off of Riverside. The patrolmen recognized his badge number from the bulletin. He’s dead. It looks like he stuck his gun in his mouth.”

Altmann sat back down and covered his eyes. Everyone stopped and waited for him. The room grew silent.

“Captain?” Sergeant Ryan spoke hesitantly, uncertain whether it was wise to interrupt.

“What?”

“The cops on the scene—the 4th sent one of their detectives to take charge of the crime scene—a guy named Williamson. He wants to know—since this involves The Carma Klown—if the task force will assume control of the investigation or should he carry on.”

“I guess it’s ours.” He spoke tentatively and then more decisively.“Yeah, it’s ours.” Altmann stood up. He saw everyone watching him and realized that they were waiting for orders. He pushed past the crowd clustered around his office door. “Okay, listen up. You all know what this guy is capable of. He’s made threats and he’s shown us what he’s willing to do. There are dangers involved in taking part in this investigation. So I’m not going to force anyone to work for the task force. I’m asking for volunteers.”

Dozens of hands shot up. No one wanted to be left out of the hunt for The Carma Klown.