Silent Screams (30 page)

The Adam’s Mark was the kind of hotel built for conventions and large groups of people. Easily accessible from I-95, it stood twenty-five stories high, a hulking monolith on the outskirts of downtown Philadelphia. After catching a cab from the train station to the hotel, Lee walked into the lobby and told the young desk clerk he was there to see Samuel Hughes. To his surprise, Samuel was registered under his own name.

The lobby was full of fantasy and science-fiction fans—large, oddly dressed people with pasty skin and pale, intelligent faces. Some wore medieval tunics and tights. Others wandered about dressed in jeans and T-shirts with dragon emblems on them. One nerdy-looking man with greasy black hair wore a vest covered with buttons with sayings like
MY MOTHER IS A KLINGON
, and
MY OTHER CAR IS A MILLENNIUM FALCON
.

The desk clerk refused to give Lee the room number until he presented his ID, showing his identity as a civilian consultant to the NYPD. It looked exactly like the ID a cop might carry, except that the background was red instead of blue. Fortunately for him, she was too young to know that this position gave him no legal authority—and, in any case, the NYPD had no real jurisdiction in Pennsylvania. She dispatched a porter with a master key to follow Lee to the room.

When their repeated knocks on the door received no answer, the bellboy unlocked the room to let Lee inside. Lee thanked him and sent him away with a ten-dollar tip. He didn’t know what he would find inside, but he didn’t want anyone else around when he found out. He pushed the door open, stepped inside onto the plush carpeting, and closed the door behind him.

The first thing that hit him when he entered the room was the smell of death—and fear. The air was heavy with the scent of panicked sweat. It was dark inside, and his first impression was that he was alone in the room.

But then he saw, silhouetted in the yellow light of the street lamps coming in through the window, the body hanging from the wooden rafters.

It swung back and forth, moving in the air currents created when Lee entered the room. He switched on the overhead light, and looked at the face. It was indeed the same thin, ascetic young man he had seen at the funeral in Westchester. An overturned footstool lay on its side underneath his feet. By all appearances, he had hanged himself from the strong oak beams that straddled the ceiling of the room.

Technically, Lee knew, he should call the hotel security staff and alert them, but instinct told him that something wasn’t right. He didn’t know what it was yet, but
something
. He moved around the room, careful not to touch anything—to keep the crime scene pure, but also to avoid leaving evidence that might lead to him needing to explain later why he was there.

Crime scene
—the phrase popped into his head, even though at first glance it appeared to be a suicide.

Lee approached Samuel’s body. Unlike the girls he had left in the churches, who looked so lifelike even in death, Samuel looked
dead
. There was no color in his face—it was the sickly color that comes when all the blood has been drained away from the skin, leaving a grayish white pallor. The eyes were wide open, and Lee felt an accusation in the stare of those dead eyes, as though Samuel somehow blamed him—for what?

The suicide note was short and to the point:

The first thing that struck Lee as odd was that it was typed. Who types out a suicide note? Did he write it before he left for the convention? If so, why go to Philadelphia to kill himself? And why did he
type
the note? Presumably, he could have used the computers in the hotel, but why go to the trouble of
typing
the note? Why not just write it by hand on hotel stationery? And why did he tell his mother he loved her when he had brutally killed her hours earlier?

The questions swirled around Lee’s mind as he worked his way through the room, taking note of everything he saw. A suitcase of clothes lay open on the bed. He looked through the clothes, all neatly packed—underwear, socks, shirts, enough for three days. Another puzzle. Why take clothes for three days if you planned to kill yourself the night you arrived?

A musty, sweet odor hung in the air. It smelled familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

He went over to the body to examine it more closely. Samuel was fully dressed, in black slacks and a pressed white shirt, with conservative oxfords and argyle socks.
Why hang yourself wearing shoes?
He tried to think of seeing any photos when he was enrolled at John Jay of people wearing shoes when they hanged themselves, but couldn’t think of any.

He examined the footstool that lay beneath the body. When he stood it up, it was not tall enough to reach Samuel’s feet. Lee felt a surge of adrenaline through his veins. Samuel could have looped the rope through the rafters without the help of the stool, but if he had hanged himself standing on the stool, it would have to be at least tall enough to reach his feet.

There was no doubt in Lee’s mind now that this was a staged crime scene. Someone had killed Samuel and then tried hard to make it look like a suicide—but not hard enough. The details didn’t add up. Either the murderer lacked knowledge of forensics, or he was in a hurry.

Lee went over to the suitcase full of clothing. Perhaps it held a clue, something to help identify the murderer. He searched the clothes, but found nothing helpful. Seeing the hotel phone on the bedside table, he punched the
Speaker Phone
button, and, on an impulse, hit the
Redial
button.

The musical pattern of the numbers was so familiar to him that he didn’t even have to wait for the voice mail to pick up. In an instant, everything became horrifyingly clear to him. In a flash, he saw every misread clue, every wrong turn in the road, every false lead. He knew now what the musty, sweet scent in the air was.

His hand trembling, he put the receiver back in its cradle.

Depression began to tug at him, seeping into his stomach like poison, threatening to spread upward, turning his limbs to stone as surely as if he had seen Medusa herself.

“No!”
he muttered through clenched teeth, fighting it off with all his might.
“Not this time you don’t!”

He took a last look around the room. There was nothing more he could do for poor Samuel. He would leave the crime scene untouched for the local police to ponder.

He had to go, now—before it was too late.

Dr. Azarian’s house was not hard to find. A handsome Edwardian brick structure in an affluent neighborhood, it stood at the end of a short stone walkway. The front gate was open, and Lee went through it and up to the front door. The house was dark, though, and the blinds were drawn. He stood on the front stoop and peered inside. There was no sign of life—no sound, no movement. He walked around the house and looked in all of the windows. He found no sign of forced entry, no indication that anyone was inside. He glanced at his watch. It was only five o’clock, and the Vidocq Society meeting would not start for several hours yet. Kathy and her father could be anywhere.

He had an idea. Forcing himself to breathe against the rising panic in his chest, he turned from the door and stumbled out into the street. A little old lady bundled up in a blue woolen coat was pushing a shopping cart loaded with groceries down the street.

“Excuse me!” He was afraid his voice came out too high, too urgent. Not wanting to alarm her, he kept his distance several feet away.

The woman looked up, startled, her body already tightening in response, her eyes apprehensive.

“Excuse me,” he repeated more softly, “do you know where the nearest Catholic church is?”

That seemed to relax her a bit, but her eyes were still wary. She wore garish blue eye shadow, and black mascara was caked thickly on her lashes, giving the impression of a wrinkled, wizened Kewpie doll. Then her face spread into a smile, and she lifted one gloved hand from the handle of her shopping cart and gestured north along the street.

“There’s one just four blocks up,” she said. Her voice was thin, like a shredded nylon cord. “I prefer St. Michael’s, of course,” she continued, her tone conspiratorial. “Father Paul is very young, you know, but he gives a wonderful sermon.”

But Lee was already running in the direction she had indicated.

“Thank you,” he called over his shoulder.

By the time he reached the church he was out of breath, more from fear than exertion.

The church was a heavy, neo-Gothic monstrosity, built during an era when labor was cheap and building materials plentiful. The main chapel loomed over the street, and various gray stone outbuildings sprawled from beneath its buttresses like chicks under the wings of a great stone brooding hen. A clunky sign, made out of the same gray masonry, sat on a little square of grass outside the church.

Welcome to St. Mary’s
Come Worship With Us
And Celebrate the Glory of God

Lee dashed up the shallow front steps, but the heavy wooden front doors were locked. He raced around to the side of the church, where a single door faced the side street. When he turned the brass handle, the latch clicked, and the door opened inward.

He pushed open the heavy oak door. It was dark and quiet inside, the only light coming from flickering votive candles along the far side of the chapel. A deep animal instinct warned Lee that he was in danger, but his feelings for Kathy propelled him forward.

He crept forward into the semidarkness of the chapel. The air was heavy with bayberry incense. He felt his breathing thicken, and tried to clear his throat without making any sound. He thought he heard a scurrying sound at the back of the church, and he froze, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

He took a few steps toward the noise, and a strange sensation crept from his fingertips up his forearms, as if ants were running up his arms. He shivered and took a few steps toward the choir loft, the burnished mahogany pews glimmering in the dim light.

As he rounded the corner of the pews, he heard a rustling sound over his right shoulder. He wheeled toward it, but too late. A flash of light blinded him; then a heavy object crashed down on the back of his head. He felt himself falling, and then the blackness closed in around him, cradling him in its dark embrace.

He awoke with the feeling that he was floating above the ground, but as his body regained sensation he realized that he was tied to the heavy wooden cross above the altar. He struggled to move, but he was bound firmly. His arms ached, and his head throbbed. Kathy was stretched out over the altar, and a dark figure in a black robe was bent over her. She was wearing a long white dress. He recognized it as a choir robe.

“Stop it!” Lee cried out as loudly as he could to the figure bending over her. “Leave her alone!”

The man looked up, and Lee saw the face of his mentor and surrogate father, John Paul Nelson.

Nelson smiled up at him. “Nice touch, the robes, don’t you think? I found them hanging in the vestibule.”

Lee looked down at his mentor through bleary eyes. “Please, don’t. I—I understand you.”

“Oh, please! No one ‘understands’ me!”

“No, you’re wrong—I do, I swear it.”

“Nice try, Lee.” Nelson’s voice was harsh, the vowels twisted into diphthongs, consonants sharp as the prongs of a garden rake.

Lee pulled on the ropes binding him, trying to wrest free.

“Why did you have to ignore me?” Nelson said. “I begged you—
begged
you—not to take on this case! I tried to protect you. Even all that rubbish about your sister—that was to throw you off—but you just had to persist, didn’t you? My God, I never wanted it to come to this!”

Lee craned his neck to peer at Kathy, trying to see if she was still breathing.

“Oh, she’s still alive,” Nelson said. “I don’t kill them all at once, you know…press and release, press and release. You’d be surprised how long you can keep someone alive throughout slow strangulation. But then you know that, don’t you? You know a lot of things about me—except the things that count.”

“Why? Why did you do it?”

“Well, my dear old dad
was
a member of the Westies, after all. You could say violence runs in our family. If you’d bothered to actually profile me, you’d see I have a tidy little history of violent behavior. I’m just very good at hiding it.”

“But the women…why…?”

“Oh, come
on
, Lee! Haven’t you ever wondered what it felt like? Not just to study them from a distance—but to actually
be
a killer?”

Nelson’s face was eager, his eyes shining in a way Lee had never seen before.

“Why did you have to kill Eddie?”

Nelson snorted. “That’s obvious, isn’t it? He was getting too close.” He sighed. “I sent you so many warnings, and you ignored them all.”

Lee groaned and struggled to free himself, but the ropes binding him were firmly tied.

Nelson watched him. “You know, I never imagined that sailing class at summer camp would be quite so useful,” he said. “It just goes to show that you never know what’s going to come in handy. I learned quite a few nifty knots. Of course, you have to have a mind for it. Fortunately, I do have a knack—for knots, puzzles, mazes of all sorts.”

He looked up at Lee with an expression of mock sympathy. “I thought you were a puzzle solver yourself, but you seem to have come up a bit short this time, I’m afraid.”

Lee tried again to wrench himself free, but the ropes only cut more deeply into his flesh. His head was pounding, and his whole body ached.

“Save your strength,” Nelson said. “There’s no point in wearing yourself out.”

A drop of sweat from Lee’s forehead fell on Kathy’s face, and her eyelids fluttered.

“Come to think of it, what’s a Christ figure without a little stigmata?” Nelson said, and seized the ornate Greek cross on its long pole. He raked the sharp edges savagely across Lee’s ribs, slashing a wound in his right side. Lee couldn’t help crying out in pain.

“There, that’s better,” Nelson said. “More like the real Christ on the cross.”

Lee groaned and fought to remain conscious.

“Does that hurt?” Nelson snarled. “I didn’t invite you here, you know.”

“Just—let—her—go,” Lee pleaded, the words forcing themselves from his throat. “I won’t turn you in—I won’t tell anyone.”

Nelson snorted. “And if I believe that, I’ll bet you have a bridge in London for sale too.”

He crossed himself and kneeled at the altar.

“Bless this act of deliverance, oh Heavenly Father, as I deliver the soul of your servant into your care.”

He looked up at Lee, who was running out of strength, panting from the effort of trying to free himself.

“I don’t believe in God, of course, but I like saying the words all the same.”

Lee felt the blackness threatening to close in again.

“You know, you should feel honored to witness her transformation,” Nelson said, his voice sarcastic. “That’s what
he
thought. Poor Samuel—what a nutcase. He thought he was saving them from sin—sending them to God. Poor deluded idiot.”

“Why did you do it?” Lee gasped.

“Why did I strangle nice Catholic girls who never did me any harm?”

Lee nodded weakly.

“You’d be surprised how easy it is. After a while, you develop a taste for killing—you actually get to like it. And the Biblical carving was a nice touch—my idea, of course, but Samuel took to it, and did a nice job of it, I thought, didn’t you?”

Nelson’s eyes were the eyes of a fanatic. He didn’t so much look at Lee as right through him. It was like being looked at by a sleepwalker. His calm was more terrifying than an outpouring of raw fury might have been.

“But—
you?
”

“Oh, don’t be so
naïve
, for God’s sake!”

“But
why
?”

Nelson’s face darkened with rage.

“Because they didn’t deserve to live and serve God after He took Karen away from me!”

“Oh my God,” said Lee. “It was Karen’s death—”

Nelson laughed—an ugly, grim sound, like a rock hitting water.

“Yes, that was my ‘precipitating stressor’—classic textbook case, eh? Except who would have thought the pursuer would become the pursued? Now, if that’s not irony, I don’t know what is!”

The pursuer becomes the pursued
…. the phrase repeated itself in Lee’s foggy brain as Nelson leaned over Kathy’s motionless body, his red hair reflecting the single overhead altar light. There was a tiny bald spot on the top of his head, the scalp pink and bare, and Lee was reminded of the tiny pink feet of a litter of newborn mice he had seen as a boy. The color had struck him at the time as sickly, and now, as he tried to keep from passing out, the pink bald spot seemed to shift its shape and grow in size….
Can this be it, then?
he thought.
This is really what death is?
He felt an odd peacefulness settle over him, as if he were watching the entire scene from very far away, through a thick layer of gauze.

“I’m sorry about her, I really am,” Nelson said. “Everyone will think that Samuel did it, of course. He
did
do some of them, you know—once I convinced him of the rightness of it.”

“You used him,” Lee said, pushing through the fog in his brain.

“I realized early on I needed a fall guy—a patsy, as they so colorfully call it in old movies. He was a good student, one of my best. Little did I know how good he’d turn out to be, actually,” he added, pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. “That was the only real gamble I took—but it worked out in the end.”

“Samuel’s dead,” Lee said. “You killed him.”

“I knew you’d track him down sooner or later.”

“Christ, you even smoked a cigarette while he died!”

“Ah, yes—the clove cigarettes. That is a rather distinctive odor, I suppose. But I couldn’t very well let him live, could I? Any more than I could let you live—or her, for that matter.”

Nelson leaned lower over Kathy. Lee saw the glint of metal, and saw the knife descend over her body.

With tremendous effort, Lee shook himself out of his stupor. He felt a roar well up in his throat, and gathered all his strength to rock his body forward. He felt a screw on the wall behind him give way, and he paused for breath, then gave one last desperate lunge forward. There was a crunching sound as the screws tore away from the masonry wall. The cross teetered for a moment, then thundered down over the altar. Nelson stood frozen, as if he didn’t believe what was happening, then tried to dodge out of the way—but it was too late. The heavy wooden cross came crashing down on him.

The last thing Lee was aware of before he lost consciousness was Nelson’s body folding underneath him like a puppet whose strings have suddenly been severed.