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Chapter One
The Bookstore
There's a little strip mall in an older, residential area in Las Vegas, far from the chaos of the other, more famous Strip. From the university, it's a straight shot down Flamingo Road, a major artery of the city named after Bugsy Siegel's original resort.
Typical of such malls, the row of shops contains an insurance agency, a hobby shop, an army recruiting office, a tuxedo rental outlet, a beauty shop, a used bookstore, and the obligatory Chinese restaurant with a $4.75 lunch special. There's also a kickboxing studio, which is why on this particular day in August 1993 I happened to be there.
I was early for my appointment with my karate instructor and I needed a place to escape the heat. Assessing my options, the bookstore seemed especially invitingcool and quiet inside, and with plenty to occupy my attention. I was already feeling a bit stressed from my first week as a university student, so I welcomed a few minutes to literally chill out.
As I began strolling the aisles, I noticed I was one of the store's few customers. Even so, I was invisible to the bored cashier, who was alternately thumbing through a book and taking inventory of others lying on the counter. In fact, there were books everywhere, some still resting in boxes, others neatly organized on the shelves. It was as if the owner couldn't quite figure out how to make inflow and outflow mesh.
Because true crime had been an interest of mine since my early teens, I soon found myself in the store's crime section, staring at titles that somehow seemed familiar: Killer Cults, FBI Killer, Evil Harvest, Brother inBlood. I couldn't help noticing that, more often than not, "blood" was the common denominator: Blood Echoes, Blood Games, Blood Lust, Blood Sister, Blood Warning. Whoever came up with these titles seemed to have a thing for blood.
Like many people, I was secretlyand a bit guiltilyfascinated by such material. It can be exciting to peek through your fingers at something forbidden and terrible. Just ask the millions of rubberneckers who slow down at accident scenes, hoping to catch a glimpse of a body.
Among the hundreds of books that screamed with promises of blood and pain, one in particular caught my interest: Hunting Humans. A big, thick encyclopedic volume, it presented profiles of some of the world's most famous serial killers. As I stood in the narrow aisle turning pages, I began reflecting on how well camouflaged these predators are, prior to being caught. They look like anyone else, live apparently normal lives, often appear charming, sociable, and productive. But at the same time, they stalk and kill people, sometimes torturing and mutilating them.
I wondered what it must be like to look in the mirror and realize you are the bogeyman. How are these people able to live with themselves?
I was jolted out of my reverie by the sound of voices coming from across the aisle. "Do you have a store credit?" I could hear the cashier ask someone. I didn't catch the answer because, in my mind, an idea was beginning to form. It was something on the edge of my consciousnesssomething I couldn't grab on to.
The title of another book captured my attention: The Killer Clown. Now, that's interesting, I thought, reaching for it. I'd always been afraid of clowns.
As a child my most frequent nightmare took place at my grandparents' house. In the dream I was supposed to be taking a bath, but a strange sound drew me out of the tub to investigate. I started walking toward the stairs when I heard a scream, followed by a liquidy cackle. Looking down the stairs, I saw my grandmother sprawled out on the floor, blood slowly dripping from her mouth. Somewhere close, I heard an eerie laughter.
I turned in the direction of the voice and was startled to see a clown sitting on the stairwell's balcony, laughing at me. I particularly remember the big red smile on his face. At that point, I'd always wake up.
My parents and grandparents tell me that, as a kid, whenever I'd see a clown, I'd start crying in fear. Even today, there's something about that painted-on happy face and exaggerated show of good cheer that I don't trust. There's something about the masks that clowns wearI can't help feeling that the intention is to deceive. Call me paranoid, but I find myself wondering: Who's the real person hiding beneath that makeup?
The idea that a killer would dress himself up as a clown to entertain sick children by day, and then stalk the streets for prey at night, seemed inconceivable to me. Yet I could identify with people who led double lives. How many times had I exuded confidence when taking an exam, or engaging in a debate, when, in fact, I was less than sure of myself?
I decided to buy both booksthe one about hunting humans, and the other about the killer clowneven though it would put a crimp in my student budget. At the time, I had no idea the true cost would ultimately be much higher.