D A Novel (George Right) - By George Right Page 0,72

no wonder, if it blew his mind! And now he's back to take revenge on our town!"

"I repeat–you've watched too many stupid horror films," the sergeant shook his head. "First, his name is Dobbins, not Robins..."

"He slightly changed it, that's all. Have you ever seen him? Or have any of your people?"

"No, we didn't need to. But..."

"I think nobody here saw him!" Mike triumphantly exclaimed. "He is too disfigured to show himself, and besides he can't walk. All contact with the town authorities go through his deputy..."

"And this all, of course, again is not supported by anything except your rampant imagination. All right, boy. You'll sit in the cell until morning and that's for your own good. I understand that you're off your nut because of your girl. But you should chill out if you don't want to spend serious time in jail."

When the heavy cell door slammed behind Mike, he unwillingly stretched himself on a narrow jail bed. He didn't think that he would manage to fall asleep, but the young healthy organism soon prevailed over all ruefulness.

When he was awakened, however, it was still dark in the cell; dawn was just breaking. At first Mike stared with muddy sleepy eyes at Hopkins who stood over him, then jumped up from the bed:

"Has she been found?"

"Not yet," the sergeant shook his head. "But you know what I'm going to tell you? However dumb your story was, you managed to arouse my doubts. I made a call to the missing boy's teacher without waiting for morning. Cyril Parker is the boy's classmate."

"Bring your friends..." remembered Mike. "He was his friend?" he asked aloud.

"Actually, no. We already questioned his friends... The teacher said that John–the missing boy–and Cyril did not get along well. Not that it was a serious hostility. But John periodically teased Cyril and the latter seemed unhappy about it. It never came to fighting. Maybe because John was stronger..."

"Sure. The meek creature got revenge in a different way. He invited his enemy to the carnival..."

"We don't know that yet. We'll question Cyril, but–you know, minors have rights... we can't do it right now. I'll try to get a warrant. Since we still have no proof, I'll take you to our artist. Do you remember the faces of workers at this attraction? Can you describe them?"

"Some of them, yes."

"Great. Let's go. If at least one of them is in our files..."

Mike spent the next hour with the police artist, giving descriptions and correcting the sketches until he was completely satisfied with the similarity of the drawings to the originals. The artist asked him to wait in the room and left with the pictures. Mike believed that now he would be released from the police station, but the expectation lingered.

At last, hasty steps approached from outside and the door swung open. On the threshold appeared Hopkins with a big yellow envelope in his hand. He looked very irritated.

"It seems you're looking for serious trouble, boy.” the sergeant said angrily, approaching Mike who was seated at a table. “You wanted to pull a prank, huh? Do you understand that giving false testimony is a criminal offense?"

"False? Sergeant, everything I told you I've seen with my own eyes, I swear! How can it be a prank if Jane has disappeared!"

"Probably you know a bit more about her disappearance than you're saying, huh? And you try to throw us off the scent, inventing all this nonsense. But you could have thought up something less stupid!"

"I don't understand what you're talking about!"

"You don't understand? " Hopkins pulled two sheets of paper out of the envelope and placed them on the table in front of the young man. The left one was a police artist drawing made from Mike's description, the right–a printer copy of a photo. "Damned similar, aren't they?"

"Sure! The clown! So you know him?"

"Pogo the Clown. His real name is John Wayne Gacy. Tortured, raped and murdered 33 people. And this?" He put another photo on the table.

"The cashier! Spitting image! Even the eye squints the same way!"

"His eye is glass. This is Henry Lee Lucas. The most terrible serial killer in the history of the USA and probably, of the whole world. 11 cases of murder were proven in court, but actually there were at least three hundred. Lucas himself spoke about six hundred."

"So what are you waiting for?! The whole gang is there! Arrest them!"

"There is one little problem," Hopkins stretched his lips in a scornful smile. "Gacy was executed