[personal profile] seymoure

“Is Clown White Racist?”

So let’s all drink to the death of a clown
Won’t someone help me to break up this crown
Let’s all drink to the death of a clown
Let’s all drink to the death of a clown
The old fortune teller lies dead on the floor
Nobody needs fortunes told anymore
The trainer of insects is crouched on his knees
And frantically looking for runaway fleas"

-Sung by The Kinks

(“Death of a Clown”)

We did have something to work with.

They didn’t have time to clean up the blood. There was a lot of blood. So much the CSU tech said it was doubtful that the bleeder could have survived.

We had some DNA, if we had had nothing else, we now had something.

Then the radio message caught us flatfooted.

They were reporting a mass shooting at the opera.

Almost 50 dead and uncounted others injured.

The bastards had hit both places at once, with the same clown costumes. Any question of a single madman was out the window now.

We jumped into a police cruiser and raced to the site.

Nate was running that operation.

“They came after you, too?” He asked me.

“Tried to fire bomb the place,” I told him. “Nobody was hurt, though, thank the universe.”

He huffed. Took off his hat (one of the few people who still wore a hat these days. I guess he watched too many cop movies from the 40’s) and sat down hard.

“Those bastards killed 53 people, so far,” he said, in a voice barely hearable. “There are still 15 or so who are critical and might go at any time. There are also about 70 hurt. That was with 25 police here.”

I sat by my friend’s side and put my hand on his leg, comforting, “Automatic weapons can do that kind of damage, ya’ know.”

“Well, when there were 4 of them, all with machine guns,” he said through gritted teeth, “it was like the climax of a Tarantino movie.”

“Four of them?’ Harry injected.

Nate looked up angrily. “Yeah,” a moment of relief seemed to sneak in, “but we got two of them.”

We were slapped in the face with wet fish.

“One dead,” Nate added, “and one on his way to lock up.”

“We gotta talk to him,” Max said in a voice that could have been saying, “We ought to beat him to death.”

“Yeah, we took a picture without the make-up and sent it to the FBI,” Nathan informed us. “We should get enough info to be ready to start the interrogation.”

Harry and I both squinted in thought, but Max had to go farther.

“What did he look like?”

“Six four or so, muscular and black,” Nathan answered.

“They have all looked Caucasian so far,” I remembered; “That seemed to be uniform. This is definitely different.”

“The one we killed was white,” Nathan said. “We sent his picture to the FBI for identification, too.”

I suddenly felt like my collection of the DNA of one of them wasn’t such a big deal after all.

“Let’s head back over to the station house so we can get that info from the FBI,” Harry decided. “Armed with that, we might make some headway.”

Max and I agreed, but Nate had to stay and head up the clean-up team.

I was in a hurry.

We were finally going to get to the question here.

Or so I thought.

© C. Wayne Owens

Back to the Beginning

Continue on to Chapter 12


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seymoure

July 2017

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