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UTHORITIES NOW SUSPECT that the serial killer lives near Petaluma…’
The cafe cheered loudly as their hometown name was read aloud from that day’s paper.
‘…lives near Petaluma based on tyre tracks, security footage, and other forensic evidence authorities don’t wish to disclose at this time.’ Before Roy had even finished the sentence, the cafe had begun a semi-earnestly triumphant chant.
‘Pet-a-lu-ma,’ with a resounding series of claps after the name.
This went on for a few minutes before dying down. Tommy, a young brown-haired man with a well-manicured moustache in a style that went out of vogue long before he was born, sat at the counter, taking in the bizarre scene.
‘So y’all are pretty proud of this association?’ he asked the waitress, reading her name tag as he spoke.
‘Emma?’
Emma, who had been pouring coffee, turned to face him.
‘I’m sorry, come again, sweetheart?’
‘I asked if you were proud of being associated with this serial killer?’ Tommy repeated.
She set the coffee pitcher down and wiped her hands slowly before answering.
‘To be honest, I’m not, but I don’t give it much thought one way or another. I think people are just tired of our city being known as the place American Graffiti was shot.’
Tommy stirred in his seat a bit.
‘That’s why I came here, actually,’ Tommy said, a little softly.
He didn’t get a reply from Emma, who had busied herself rinsing out coffee mugs.
‘I’m actually a screenwriter myself. I’m studying film at Berkeley.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Emma asked, not a hint of interest or concern beyond her tip in her voice, not that Tommy needed an excuse.
‘Yeah! I actually want to write a screenplay about a serial killer, and so when one started striking around here and I found out this was where George Lucas got his start, I just had to come out and stay for a while,’ Tommy continued excitedly.
‘Well, I guess it’s an exciting time. I do hope they catch the guy soon, though. I work late and have kids; I don’t like the idea of anyone like that living around here.’
Tommy wasn’t listening.
‘My screenplay is about two killers named George and Richard who are targeting 7-Eleven cashiers. The authorities don’t know there are two and dub the killer the Slurpee Strangler, but the media keeps talking about how the 7-Eleven cashiers might be dangerous. Do you get it?’
Emma was spared having to answer by a table nearby calling her over. Tommy wasn’t deterred, though, and looked around for someone else to talk to.
At the end of the night, Emma was surprised to still see Tommy at the counter.
‘You need anything, hon?’
Tommy, who had been feverishly typing on his laptop, didn’t look up.
‘Sir?’ Emma prodded.
‘Oh, sorry, I was just taking notes about my screenplay. I’m fascinated by the pride this town seems to have in being home to a serial killer.’
Emma resisted rolling her eyes.
‘We are about to close,’ she said, politely but firmly.
‘Oh, yeah, sorry, okay,’ Tommy replied, closing his laptop. He left a good tip, making sure Emma was looking before leaving it on top of the cheque.
He went outside and was surprised by how much it had cooled down. He got into his car and let the heater run for a minute as he stowed and secured his laptop bag. Backing out of the parking lot carefully, Tommy got onto the freeway, wanting to visit one of the serial killer crime scenes before going back to his Airbnb.
The path took him to a desolate dirt road up a hill, stark in contrast to the packed and paved streets near his university. He had grown up in LA so he appreciated the rural aspects of the area. Before he arrived at his destination, he saw a hitchhiker who was so far into the road Tommy actually swerved into the opposite lane for a moment in panic. Deciding impulsively that this would be a great story for an interview on The Tonight Show or something, he decided to pick the person up, pulling over.
The hitchhiker walked slowly over to Tommy’s car, and although Tommy had rolled down the window to ask where he was headed, didn’t wait for permission to open the door and get in.
‘Uh, where to, pal?’ Tommy asked, a little taken aback but wanting to make sure the moment played out right.
‘I’m staying in Petaluma tonight,’ the man responded in a low, growling voice.
‘Oh, yeah, me too. Okay, I’ll drop you off,’ Tommy said in what he hoped was a casual but confident tone.
Deciding to skip the crime scene and just head back to the city, Tommy turned the car around. The hitchhiker was wearing a beat-up brown coat, had unkempt greying hair, and a tattered backpack which he kept on his lap, one hand almost entirely inside it.
‘What’s in the bag?’ Tommy asked, trying to make conversation, but the man only grunted in reply.
Tommy let a few minutes go by before trying again.
‘You got a name?’ Tommy asked, receiving another low grumble in reply.
‘What?’ Tommy coaxed.
‘Preston,’ the man said clearly.
‘Well, hi, Preston, I’m Tommy. Thomas, actually, named after my father,’ Tommy replied proudly.
‘I hated my father,’ Preston grumbled under his breath.
‘Okay, yeah,’ Tommy replied, rolling his eyes.
‘I’m not gonna be like your therapist, man. I’m in school for film, not psych,’ Tommy boasted.
Another few minutes of silence before Tommy spoke up again.
‘Actually, I’m writing a screenplay about serial killers based off the murders happening here. Do you want to hear about it?’ Tommy inquired, confidence absolutely dripping in every word.
‘Uh,’ Preston tried to reply, but before he could fully respond, Tommy started off.
‘Well, okay, so it’s about two killers named George and Richard who are targeting 7-Eleven cashiers. The authorities don’t know there are two and dub the killer the Slurpee Strangler, but the media keeps talking about how the 7-Eleven guys might be dangerous. Do you get it?’
There was a long pause before Preston replied.
‘Yeah, obviously. It’s about the Bush administration.’
‘What?’ Tommy asked, befuddled.
‘Yeah, I mean, George and Richard? 7-Eleven? Racially motivated killings? Ostensibly Muslim workers, who the media falsely claims are dangerous? It’s not, like, subtle, man,’ Preston went on, his low voice carrying in the silent car.
‘No, that’s what? Not at all! What the fuck? That’s not at all what it’s about, you fucking philistine. You don’t know anything about film,’ Tommy was shouting now, his free hand off the wheel waving around in the air triumphantly.
‘I just, God, I’m so sick of people fucking saying that. George and Richard are incredibly common first names, and 7-Eleven is like the largest minimart franchise in the country. It’s not like about any of that.’
‘Listen,’ Preston tried to cut in, but Tommy cut him off.
‘No, you know what?’ He pulled the car over to the side of the road, and before Preston could even react Tommy had pulled a gun out of his laptop bag from the back seat, pointed it at Preston’s head and fired, leaning over the body and shoving him out of the car.
‘It’s about violence and religious dogma, asshole,’ he said to no one in particular as he pulled the door closed and drove off.
The next day, Tommy once again sat at the cafe counter. Roy read another headline aloud, but the crowd was much more sombre.
‘Serial killer strikes in Petaluma city limits once again; tyre tracks confirm the same car was used as previous murders.’
The patrons murmured to themselves about safety before going back to their meals. Tommy solemnly stirred his drink, his laptop open with a list of character names until a young woman sat down next to him.
‘Hey, whatcha working on?’ she asked, gesturing to the laptop. |
