The Screaming Room (10 page)

The voice of the TV spokesman for Hair Weave International startled Driscoll out of his sleep. What happened to Robert Taylor and Lana Turner? he wondered, taking in his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was Lana Turner turning down the overtures of Mr. Taylor in a black-and-white film on American Movie Classics.

“Call me now and I'll throw in a year's supply of conditioner at no extra cost!” the adman barked.

“No! I don't need a hair weave. And you can keep your damn conditioner!” Driscoll growled, pulling himself out of the recliner. “Where the hell's that remote?”

The TV spokesman was dialing the number that appeared at the bottom of the screen. Driscoll heard the sound of a phone ringing.

“Yeah, right!”

He leaned forward and depressed the TV's power button and watched Mr. Hair Weave fade to black. Silence prevailed. Momentarily.

Again, he heard the sound of a ringing phone.

Mary?

Following the sound into the kitchen, he spotted his cell phone next to the plate that had held his ham-and-cheese sandwich and answered it.

“Sorry if I woke you.” It was Margaret. She sounded anxious. “The ME just called. We may have ourselves another one.”

“Where'd they strike this time?”

“The Bronx Zoo.”

“The ten o'clock news did a piece about the guy who jumped into the baboons' compound and got ripped to shreds. You're not talking about him, are you?”

“If it wasn't for him, we may have never found the other body.”

“What other body?”

“A precinct detective found the half-eaten body of a young woman in their den. Pearsol's finding it hard to come up with an exact cause of death, with the condition of the remains and all, but she does have sharp force trauma to the right parietal. How she ended up as a Happy Meal for the baboons is anybody's guess.”

“Got an ID on her?”

“I'll say. Try Abigail Shewster.
The
Abigail Shewster.”

“Holy shit!”

“We sent out for dental records just to confirm, but her California driver's license was found at the scene. It makes sense. She arrived in town last Thursday for this week's grand opening of the Zoo's Old World Primate Pavilion. The one the Shewster Pharmaceutical Corporation had so liberally funded.”

“California. That makes her a domestic tourist.”

“Wouldn't be the first time a perp changed the rules.”

“Hold on. I got another call coming in. And I think I know who it is.”

The Mayor's call was to inform Driscoll that Malcolm Shewster would be at Gracie Mansion at six o'clock sharp. It was safe to say that the pharmaceutical mogul would not be in a cheerful mood. Driscoll, too, had been “invited” to attend. That gave him a little more than five hours to get a run-down on the investigation and come up with an answer as to why the New York City Police Department failed to protect the daughter of one of the richest and most influential men in the state of California.

 

The Lieutenant knew the mayoral residence well. He had been a guest of many of its former illustrious tenants. David Dinkins boasted a powerful backhand and often preferred to discuss important police matters on the tennis court. Ed Koch was a gourmet, and Driscoll remembered some memorable entrees. Abe Beame was a gracious host, boastful of the grandeur of the estate. But, with the mansion's present inhabitant, it was strictly business. And business his way.

A member of the Mayor's security detail ushered Driscoll into a Georgian-styled reception area, where a second officer escorted him into the Blue Room. Sitting in a plush divan, a wiry-haired man with eyes the color of Caribbean waters was arguing vehemently with the Mayor.

“John,” the Mayor said without rising, “Mr. Shewster.”

Shewster, clad in a charcoal gray three-piece Armani suit, resembled George C. Scott in some of his memorable roles. Driscoll eyed the handsome silver-haired man with his head tilted forward, his stern mouth above a tightly fitted tie, with eyes simmering, and a look of contempt filling an angry face. He acknowledged Driscoll with a nod.

“The city is responsible for the grief of a father who has lost his daughter because of our ineptitude,” the Mayor pronounced.

“Mr. Shewster, I know what it's like to lose a daughter,” Driscoll said, offering his hand. “My heart goes out to you. We did everything…”

“We didn't do enough!” Reirdon barked.

Shewster, deaf to their exchange, stared at the Mayor. “This killer is laughing at you. The both of you. It's his show, isn't it, Mr. Mayor?”

Reirdon saw the accentuation as a jab.

“Like hell it is!” he growled. “This city is my town.”

“My daughter's body was ripped apart by zoo animals. Save your proclamations for your next campaign.”

Driscoll studied Shewster's face. It was filled with pain.

“Tell me why a twenty-two-year-old woman who comes to your city for a ribbon-cutting ceremony ends up as dinner for caged beasts.”

The Mayor's eyes caught Driscoll's. There was no answer in their exchange.

“A year ago, research and development at Shewster Pharmaceuticals, my company, introduced a miracle drug. After two weeks on it, your arteries are swept clean. Its chemical compound had been designed to Roto-Rooter those arteries like Drano through clogged pipes. Imagine that! An end to heart surgery.”

Neither the Mayor nor Driscoll knew where he was going.

Shewster reached in his vest pocket, produced a Cohiba Crystal Corona, and lit it.

“Word reached me that someone in our department had leaked the formula for this compound to Merck. Now, mind you, our miraculous drug was going through its preliminary testing. We were not yet ready to go before the FDA with our breakthrough. We didn't want to cure the heart this year only to kill the kidney the next. But that doesn't matter,” he grumbled, watching a spiral of cigar smoke loft skyward. “What does matter was that our secret had been funneled to the other side by someone on my payroll. As CEO, what was I to do?” Shewster's eyes narrowed. “I fired the entire department! Four hundred and sixty-three pink slips. Problem solved. Leak sealed.”

“You can't be suggesting I fire my entire police force?” said Reirdon.

“Drastic developments require drastic measures.”

“Mr. Shewster, I'm an elected official. I'm not the CEO of some West Coast medical company. I can't fire the entire police force!”

“Then what is it an elected official can do?”

“Not that we live in two different worlds. But corporate maneuvering has no hold on city affairs.”

“Well, while your city-paid sentinels are standing watch, your killer is knocking off ducks in a pond. And to top it off, nobody sees a goddamn thing until the carcass floats to the top.”

Driscoll was too familiar with the feelings of loss that preyed on Shewster. And of how bitterness spawned rage.

“Why is the body count still climbing?”

“It's just not that simple,” Reirdon replied.

“Let me tell you what is simple. I'm prepared to offer a large sum of money to the man who delivers the psychopath that killed my daughter, an only daughter, found ravaged inside a goddamn cave, three thousand miles from home, in some zoo.”

Tears welled up in Shewster's eyes.

Hmm. Human after all, thought Driscoll.

The grieving father produced a small vial of pills and popped two into his mouth.

“This drug grossed fifty-two million dollars in first-quarter sales this year alone. I never thought that one day I'd be popping them myself. Here. Be my guest.” Shewster tossed the vial to Reirdon.

“A good Merlot does it for me,” the Mayor replied, catching the plastic bottle in midair and handing it to Driscoll.

“Phenaladin 500 mg. Warning: May cause drowsiness. Avoid consumption of alcohol,” Driscoll read. “They wouldn't like that at Sullivan's. I'd better stick to my Harp.”

“These are the best hostility eradicators and anxiety relievers money can buy,” Shewster boasted. “Okay, enough informality. Let's talk about your inquiry. Tell me what you've got so far.”

“Mr. Shewster, our investigations are confidential,” said Driscoll.

“Lieutenant, I'm not ‘Mr. Joe Public.' My corporation hasn't donated millions of dollars toward police associations for nothing; not to mention the large contributions to your mayor's campaign. You'll tell me what I want to know.”

“It's okay, John. Tell him,” the Mayor said.

Driscoll began to fill the man in on the details of the case.

“We were initially going on the theory that only one killer was involved. Now we know there are two. We think acting in tandem. Each of them slipped up once, leaving behind a telltale trace. We found the bloodied fingernail of one of the killers at a crime scene atop the Brooklyn Bridge. Remnants of human skin, detected under the fingernails of a later victim, confirmed a second killer. Then, DNA analysis unveiled something extraordinary. Our killers are twins. Male and female identical twins.”

“No such thing!” said Shewster.

“We thought so, too. But our tests are conclusive. The female suffers from a medical condition known as Turner syndrome. It makes the pair genetically identical in all aspects but gender. It also makes them a rarity.”

“Tell me more.”

“Our first search encompassed the United States, where four such pairs were discovered within a time frame that would make them possible suspects. In order to diagnose Turner syndrome, a blood test called a karyotype must be done. But in all likelihood, no one would have done that at birth. It would have been done later in life. And it has to have happened after 1959, the first year they discovered the method to test for the syndrome. Based on their age, all four fall within that time frame too. We've already ruled out three sets of twins as suspects. Our investigation continues on the fourth while we continue our probe outside the United States.”

“What's the hold up on the fourth pair?”

“There's reason to believe the pair had been raised on an Indian reservation outside of a small town in West Virginia.”

“Where they picked up their penchant for scalping, no doubt.”

“Our investigation is now focused on that reservation.”

“The apprehension of these killers is Job One with this administration,” said Reirdon. “Rest assured that every resource available to the New York City Police Department will be deployed.”

“Save your speech for the tabloids. You still haven't explained how my daughter's body ended up with the apes.”

An exasperated Reirdon glared at the man. “On with the details, John.”

“These twins like to showcase their crime scenes. Forensic evidence indicates your daughter was killed just outside the baboons' compound and that her body was propped up on its protective fencing. We suspect that during the night her body slipped and fell from the fence.”

Sadness returned to Shewster's face. The man's hand gesture entreated Driscoll to go on and so he did.

“We've detected a pattern. These twins have apparently chosen New York City tourist attractions as their killing fields. We discovered the first victim at the Museum of Natural History, a second on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island. Another on the Brooklyn Bridge, a fourth aboard the USS
Intrepid
, and most recently, sadly for you, at the zoo. All the victims thus far have been either foreign tourists or, in your daughter's case, an out-of-towner. Each victim is felled by a forceful blow to the right side of the head. And, of course, the scalping. We're not sure how that ties in, but serial killers have been known to take trophies from their victims. This killer—”

“You mean killers,” Shewster barked.

“We don't know they're working in tandem.”

“Are these sick bastards playing some sort of game? Some sort of competition as to who can kill more people? And, if so, what would the prize be?”

“We don't know their motive,” Driscoll said, flatly.

“Is it money they're after? Maybe the bounty I'm considering will turn them against each other.”

“There's been no evidence of robbery. In many cases, crimes of this nature don't follow any standard of normalcy. They may be simply getting off on the act of killing.”

An electronic purr interrupted the conversation.

“Driscoll, here.”

The look on the Lieutenant's face confirmed what the Mayor feared most.

“Another one?” Reirdon asked.

Driscoll nodded.

“Where?”

“Central Park.” He stood. “If it's all right with you, I'd like to get over there right away.”

The Mayor agreed.

As Driscoll disappeared out the door, Shewster exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and raised an eyebrow at Sully Reirdon.

Hours before news of the latest murder broke, Angus, clad in Old Navy overalls and a blue polo shirt, slid into a fiberglass seat across from his sister. The all-night diner was near empty. It would be some time before the early morning rush of breakfast-hungry New Yorkers would descend upon the eatery. The only other night owl was a bulbous female patron seated diagonally across from the booth where the teens were hunkered down. She had stopped stuffing herself with corned beef on rye long enough to stare openly at Cassie's scarred face.

“And what the hell are you lookin' at?” Cassie asked.

The patron cast her eyes downward and returned to her meal. Cassie turned her attention back to her brother.

“Score?” she asked, eyes wide and expectant.

“Of course,” her brother said with a grin, before disappearing behind an oversized laminated menu. “Hot fudge sundae for me! You?”

“Stack of blueberry pancakes on the way. Tell me! Tell me!”

Angus's face floated up balloonlike from behind the list of delicacies. “It all began with a stroll…”