Sad Clown- Jars of Clay: If I left the Zoo, 1999

***

Morning blared into his eyes and he shut them against it after revealing them via a slit crack. Bringing the back of his palm to his forehead, he thought he was running a fever. He could imagine himself without the aid of a mirror. His hair would be askew; his suit rumpled.

His eyes- dead.

How else would he look? Human?

A cherub?

Isaiah thought too highly of him; doted too much on the brother he hardly knew.

The sharp blades of grass pricked the parts of his limbs which were not covered by cloth. He still wanted to sleep as his lids were heavy with the events of the night before. However, an obsessive sense of duty took hold of him.

He had work to do and a debt to pay.

Slowly, he let his eyes get accustomed to the glaring light as he struggled up. The sight of the cemetery beside the ancient church that Daniel had told him about - where the dead young priest served his vocation- did not faze him. He had spent a lonely night in the place for the dead and it did not bother him. He was one with them. It was only a matter of time- a matter of the most dispassionate entity in the entire Universe.

Time. It would not stop to respect grief. It would not cease ticking to prolong the ecstasy of happiness.

It was most impartial; and heartless.

But it could not erase, contrary to what everybody said. It had to bow down to the immense power of memory.

Brushing loose soil away from his body, he walked away from the grave that he had rested his body for the night without a backwards glance, not even a brief sign of thanks to its resident at sharing its space of eternal rest.

It would all be repaid when he was done.

***

"Here’s your keys, enjoy your stay in Eaeshore Motel." The counter girl rattled dully as she passed Elijah the bunch of keys to his room with impassive fingers. Without even looking at him, she went back to filing her long, manicured nails. Her attitude suited Elijah just fine. If she had shown the slightest interest to chat him up, he would have wasted a minute more than necessary.

The small establishment with the most unimaginative name was the only bed and breakfast lodging in the whole of Eaeshore. Like all others dwindling businesses, its physical skin was flaking away to reveal the gray cement underneath. Its once flawless complexion gave way to years of neglect which was no tremendous loss. The two-storey whitewashed building was a plain Jane, designed with functionality, not aestheticism, in mind.

Walking up the creaky stairs, Elijah had a sudden thought of termites chipping away the wooden structure that had rotted at various parts. Perhaps the stairs would fall and bring him down with it, crushing him under its weight and let him just die.

With some hint of regret, he realized that was not going to happen.

He finally entered his room after wrestling with the rusted lock. Throwing down the haversack he had packed last night before setting off to Eaeshore on the bed, he saw a faint cloud of dust mushrooming around the bag; floating before dispersing into thin air upon the impact. That common phenomenon of a dusty place fascinated him and he just stood there, concentrating at a particular fleck of dust that was illuminated by the sunlight that slanted through a small gap in the window. It danced like a child as it soared, drifting along with the currents of air molecules- minute and inconsequential, it had no worries. Only when it vanished- having floated out of the stream of light into the shady area- did Elijah, the sole audience of its number, broke away from his absorption.

The bathroom beckoned him and he decided to do some washing up before getting into action again. Not only for the sake of cleanliness, he too wished the coldness of the water would break his body away from the stasis of deadness and jolted his mind awake.

He needed some form of stimulant. His razor mind was not working with him as its legs were still trudging through the sludge of his past. The fragrance of the shampoo waft to his nose but it did nothing to lift his spirits as the reek of the sewers wrapped itself around him.

Smelling like vanilla when he stepped out, he thought he stunk like a skunk.

Closing his eyes, he saw the two plains on the opposite side of a yawning chasm. One was fuzzy, where the trees blended with the grass and the sky. He could tell the different entities but he could not tell where the tree ended and the sky began. The tapestry was blurred and marred with something so painful. There was sunlight but it was in a pitiful supply- more from the artist’s imagination than the bright orange ball in the heavens. The only thing that was clearly discernable was the rain that pelted, creating a fog of speeding droplets; falling from the fortress of clouds that flashed the occasional blinding white lightning. Saltpeter thunder cracked and rumbled the heavens- heavy blows from Thor’s hammer strengthened with ignited gunpowder.

That was Lijah.

And the other plain was shrouded in black. At first glance, anyone would be dispose to think of it as a void. But it was not. There were still the same trees, the same grass and the same sky. Should light suddenly flashed across, the person surveying the artwork would be astounded by the distinctive sharp lines that separated one object from the other. But the ink covered everything; covered the keen mind that drew the picture.

That was Elijah.

It used to be clear where he belonged. Now, he jumped into the hollowness of the abyss instead.

***

Pushing thoughts of Isaiah's to the deep, dark attic of his mind- the attic which archived his sordid past in antique trunks all bounded with iron chains and locked up; antique trunks that were already veiled over with thick layers of cobwebs but apparently crow-barred opened recently- Elijah forced his mind to concentrate on the case. The only way he could manage to stop the throes of bitter memories was to swallow it and let it corrode with the acid in his stomach. Focus had never been such an elusive individual until then.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deep- but it was difficult. Once the floodgates of the past were broken and shattered- the torrents allowed through- there was no stopping the gushing, crushing mass of water from invading. Daming up the violent waterfall by the sheer power of his will, he drained away the excess liquid and emptied his mind.

Empty. He would be empty again. It was easier. It was safer.

Frowning at the sudden thought which sounded like a flat lament but still a lament nonetheless, he bit his lower lip and chewed on it for a while. His preoccupation with the going-on in his mind almost cost him his target. Benedict Olsen had just stepped out of his hostel block. Other than the earrings that lined the sides of both his ears and the purple highlights in the dirty blond hair, Ben appeared like a normal college student- in a sleepy stupor, clutching a barely used textbook loosely in his hand. He looked much handsomer in actuality than from the print-out that Lynn had retrieved from the Eaeshore servers- looking normal with a hint of life rather than a cocaine addict.

The appearance of Ben in his line of sight jolted him away from his mind’s distractions. When he was sure that Ben was clearly out of range, he stepped out of the Toyota he had just rented from Eaeshore Rent-A-Car- a set of lock picks in his jacket's pocket. He had left his Mustang behind the café’s car park and hidden Isaiah’s Lexus in some deserted area. Somehow, he did not want to return to the café anymore until it was absolutely necessary, neither did he want to call attention to himself. Network could well-absorb the extra cost of another rented car.

He had a lot of snooping to do. Interviewing people could only bring so much information. He was good at analyzing people but he knew also knew that serial killers were more adept actors than him.

They had to be. Or he would join them in line someday and self-destruct along with all those villains from the tear-stained pages from his history- bounded by anger; forgotten until recently.

He knew exactly which room he was looking for from the information that was gathered by Lynn. Feeling slightly affected- the heaviness settled with even more vehement- he paused for a while to recollect himself.

It was a tedious, repetitive process. Now, he remembered why he chosen Elijah instead of Lijah. Lijah would whine, lay in self-pity. Lijah was weak; laden with emotional baggage and love for his brother and his mom.

Slowly, he became gradually confident that Elijah was once again seated on the throne of his self-control. He glanced around once and ascertained that no one was around; a necessary process knowing how tight hostel mates could be. Fiddling with the lock in front of him; he set to work. Having performed clandestine operations many times, starting with an incident of blackmail in his teenage years, Elijah wasted no time with the simple lock.

Throwing the door opened, he was greeted by a cluttered rubbish dump. It was nauseating. The room looked filled to the brim with assorted garbage. Tidbits packages; books; blankets; empty condom wrappers; and pornographic materials. Ben was looking to be an extremely unlikable guy; infused with the sin of sloth and lust.

Eying the two books near the bed- among a mountain of towels all entangled up together- he postulated that either Ben was a real Nazi freak or he was one satanic poser. Posters of Hitler, swastikas and dark, demonic heavy metal bands plastered the walls into one interesting tapestry of the philosophies of hate. However, Elijah could not believe this to be the room of the serial killer. It would be announcing to the world that he was the culprit. His brief stint with the FBI for real had taught him one thing- most serial killers were very normal in all outwards aspects.

If this was a phase that Ben was going through, it would be a phase that Ben might just look back and chortle heartily with a mild embarrassment at.

If not, then maybe soon, he might either join the underground Nazi resurgence groups or go exploring for the Thelema Abbey.

Wading his way through the rubbish on the floor, Elijah approached the wardrobe and opened it up. The sight that was presented to him caused him to break into sardonic mirth.

The wardrobe hid Ben's secret world perhaps. An enlarged and terribly flattering photograph of an enigmatic mien of a gorgeous female with curled, long raven tresses was almost worshiped with fingerprints. The words written by a mauve lipstick on her collarbone wiped away the smile on Elijah's face though.

A dried rose was stuck next to the photograph and Elijah committed the face and name to memory.

Rummaging through drawers of socks and underwear, Elijah tried to find something that could link Ben to the case or absolved him from all guilt. When nothing showed up, he averted his efforts to his study table.

Ben's interest in Nazism for whatever reason was apparent even for someone opaque to judgment. Yet he could not place Ben as his numero uno suspect. He still had no lists of suspects which was a pathetic outcome for a lackluster investigation that demanded the highest level of urgency.

When he spotted nothing of interest besides some books on Wagner and Darwin, he decided to try the obsolete computer on Ben's desk. Getting the aged pioneer of Pentiums to start was a severe drag but he waited with the patience of a saint. After finally being able to access the computer, he breathed out audibly; a little frustrated to see that Ben used the computer for nothing but word processing. No games, no networking devices, no internet explorer even. No one could ever hack into his computer.

But a file caught his eyes. A file labeled blatantly as [journal]. It was the only Word document anyway. Maybe that was why Ben wanted his computer to be completely safe from the prying eyes all throughout the Internet.

It was too large to be downloaded onto a floppy and thus, Elijah opened it up- another process which took an eternity to complete execution- and very quickly, tried to peruse through the hundred odd pages of font 8 letterings.

A migraine. He was getting a migraine. Searching for keywords instead like Nazis, philosophy, Wagner and Darwin, he was surprised at how few lines was dedicated to the theme that the owner adorned his room with. The only mentions of those keywords came up most prominently in his final year group project. He did a search for victims; killings but nothing of interest came up.

Then he did a search for Magdalene- playing with fate; a roulette spinning on the gambler’s table. The first entry for the name was almost poetic and sweet; bordering on the beauty of a sonnet. A beauty with the nature of a bludgeon; aided by the cruelty of the remembrance of heartbreak.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he stopped the wisp of memories from forming into ghosts to haunt him. Keeping his mind a blank, he shut down the computer. Magdalene’s full name was mentioned, italic and typed with a decorative font; almost as if the typist was singing the name prettily as he keyed it in.

Noting down the make and model of the printer that Ben had, he very stealthily stole out of the room after making sure that he left the room in the same chaotic state as he had visited it.

***

"Elijah, Isaiah’s going to be transferred to Mount Sinai. Are you coming to see him?"

"Hmm." Elijah kept one hand on the steering wheel while gripping the Nokia with the other. He noticed Lynn’s tone had softened; a result of their encounter the previous night.

His expression was grim. He found no words to answer her.

"Forget it. Forget I even asked. Goo…" Her impatience and petulant tone suited him more. He preferred to deal with people the way they were; hated it when they treated with kid’s gloves the moment they learned a little of his history. He was not feeling sorry for himself; why should they?

"Lynn…" He began; silently cursing himself for almost missing a turn. Alvin’s house was just around the corner.

"Yes?" An excitement crept into her voice and he was bemused; she probably thought he was going to change his mind.

"Do a check on a girl called Magdalene Ashriel for me, will you?"