John John and I became lifelong friends at the wrestling camp. The two of us and this other guy—who wanted us only to call him The Mauler—were inseparable for those two weeks. That was until The Mauler took a power bomb from one of the veterans and died right there in the ring.
It was a freak accident. We all took the move. The guy placed our heads between his legs and wrapped his arms around our chests, then lifted us up, slamming us to the mat on our backs. You're supposed to position your arms a certain way, which The Mauler didn't.
John John and I were crushed, but it brought us closer, probably kept us in touch since. But if he was a murderer I'd like to think I'd have seen some indicator, maybe a head in his freezer or a naked corpse in his bathtub.
Nonetheless the navy cops wanted to use me to help get John John. They gave me a polygraph, which I passed. Like I told them, I knew nothing about any baby killings.
They asked all sorts of weird questions before they got to the murders: whether I was gay, if I've ever eaten my own feces. Just mean, stupid questions.
When they were through humiliating me they took me back to the office. Jones slammed two photos on the table as soon as I sat down.
"Recognize either of them?" Smith said.
"You know I recognize this one," I said, pointing at the first photo. "It's John John."
"AKA Jonathan McCreary," Jones said.
"Is that his name?"
"Yes! God, five years and you never get his full birth name?"
"Ours has not been a deep relationship."
"Whatever," Smith said. "What about the girl?"
Smith motioned at the second photo of a very pretty girl who indeed looked familiar to me.
"Damn it," I said. "That's the mermaid."
"Mermaid?" Jones said. "You really are about to enter kindergarten, aren't you?"
"She's also the one-legged naked chick in John John's picture," I said.
"Now we're getting somewhere," Smith said.
"You're looking at Peg Leg Penny, also known as Peg Leg Bonnie, but who also goes by Madison. She's the girlfriend of John McCreary, also known as John John Leprechaun, also known as Clyde Clyde Thalidomide. Hence their gang name—the Mailroom Bonnie and Clyde.
"What the fuck?" I said.
"Did you know John John was a thalidomide baby?" Smith said.
"He does seem very old and more than a little retarded with his flipper hands. He's also always calling radio stations and screaming that it's Thalidomide Thursday."
"I'll bet he does that every Thursday, doesn't he?" Jones said.
"He'll do it any day of the week. It doesn't matter. Every day is Thalidomide Thursday."
"Now you're puttin' the pieces together, Motorbike Mike," Smith said.
"So here's what's gonna happen," Jones said, handing me a stack of papers. "You're gonna take this bit of light reading with you. It's everything we have on McCreary. Then you're gonna set up a meeting with him, his chick too."
"I didn't even know he had a chick," I said.
"Well, ask about it," Jones continued. "Tell him you'd like to meet her. Be the third wheel at a nice dinner like the unattached asexual you are."
"Then call us," Smith said. "So we can be there."
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" Jones said. "You wanna obstruct justice? You obviously want to solve this case. You carried a dead baby here, for God's sake. Now, do you wanna be Mark Harmon on the awful show or don't you?"
"Of course I do."
"Then get us the Mailroom Bonnie and Clyde," Smith said. "That's all. Now get the hell outta here."
I left. On the cab ride home I read about John John's childhood. Not only was he a minor thalidomide baby (he did only have flipper hands after all), but his father was a real hard ass. Like Tiger Woods's dad raised him to be a golfer, or Andre Agassi's father raised him for tennis, John John's dear ole dad tried intently to bring up a serial killer.
He did everything: he wasn't there for his son; he married a prostitute who was a complete psycho; he dropped John on his head whenever he could so he'd have the brain damage so many murderers have; he even hired male babysitters who he thought might be molesters.
John John's father did whatever he could do to make his son a murderer—and it worked. The files concluded that John John, scarred from being a deformed child, was out to hurt healthy babies. The prostitutes—well, why does any serial killer target hookers? He hates women and his own mother.
This was a revelation. I thought John John was just a bizarre guy with cool fish hands. Now to learn that he's dating a one-legged mermaid and was born to kill? That was fucked up.
So I went to John John's place. I knew I had to cooperate with the police. What kind of friend was he anyway, handing me one of his innocent baby victims in a box?
When I arrived he seemed to have been waiting for me.
"Mikey," John John said after he opened the door. "So how'd it go with the Navy cops?"
"They laughed at me," I said. "They wouldn't even look in the box."
"What?"
"Yeah. Whatever. I mean what can I do? I dumped the baby somewhere and ran."
"Why'd you do that?"
"Because it's not cool carrying around a dead baby."
"I guess not."
"So listen. What do you say you and me go out tonight and pick up some dames?"
"You wanna score some knighted English women?"
"No, just some regular girls, ones with big tits."
"That probably wouldn't be a good idea. I mean for me. I don't suppose I ever told you I have a girlfriend. But let's get back to this dead baby and where you..."
"A girlfriend? When did this happen?"
"A while ago. She's shy. Look..."
"What's her name?"
"Madison."
"Well, we should go out to dinner tonight, the three of us."
"She doesn't eat."
"No?"
"Strangest thing. She just never eats. Anything."
"She can watch us eat. What do you say?"
"No, the mere sight of food makes her break out into a rash and hives. She popped in once after I ordered a pizza and got a tumor the size of a watermelon. It's just not a good idea."
"You're lying, John. What are you hiding this girl from me for?"
"I'm not."
"Then call her. Right now. Let's do coffee. She can be around coffee, can't she?"
"Well, one time..."
"John."
"Fine, I'll ask her," John John said. Then he hesitated. "Yeah, let's have coffee tomorrow morning. Let's end this thing."
"What do you mean?"
"None of your beeswax, John."
