The Screaming Room (14 page)

Driscoll opened the door to his office and eyed the flashing icon on the IBM desktop. He clicked on his mailbox, saw he had one new message, and opened it. His eyes widened at what he saw. Immediately, he called for Margaret and Thomlinson to join him.

“I wanted another set of eyes to see this so I know I'm not dreaming. We got a message from Angus.” He looked to Margaret, his expression said “you gonna be okay with this?” She nodded. Driscoll swiveled the monitor around for all to see.

“He's calling himself [email protected],” said Margaret. “What the hell does that stand for?”

“A pervert with a graduate degree,” said Thomlinson. “A pedophile goes after the young. An ephebophile prefers adolescents.”

Margaret winced.

“What do you make of the odd duck reference?” Driscoll asked.

“All adults who prey on adolescents are odd ducks.”

“From where we sit,” said Driscoll. “But for him to label an abuser odd may have significance.”

Driscoll read aloud. “Dear Lieutenant, I know you are looking for us. I'm writing to tell you our side of the story. You might call off the search. The scumbags we been killing belong in body bags. They are warped, disgusting pigs! They deserved to die in public toilets because they're made of shit. How would you feel if you was just a kid and your old man sold you to bastards like them so they could get laid, or jerked off, or eaten out, or even worse. Get to fuck you up the ass! All because we look the way we do.”

Driscoll stopped reading and repeated the last line loudly. “‘All because we look the way we do.' That, my friends, is what's driving these two. This adds a major twist. Their true motive is revenge for unspeakable mortification and vile repetitive debasement.”

He continued his recitation. “Me and my sister been swallowing more cum and lickin more pussy than you could in a lifetime. We both had our bodies felt up since before Cassie had tits! I'm talking since we were ten. Ten years old!!! How would you feel? Well the old man is dead now. He ain't dragging us odd-i-twins. That's what he called us. Angus and Cassie, his prized odd-i-twins. His days of dragging us from amusement parks to baseball fields are over. Selling us like we were alien creatures. The alien creatures are the ones we been killing, if you ask me. They been making the old man rich, paying him for all the shit me and Cassie had to put up with. It ain't fair. I don't know if you got kids. But if you do, how would you like it if some motherless sick bastard stuck his finger in them or sucked them off year after fucking year? They're freaky. Let me tell you. We had one prick that only wanted to get naked, lie down, and have me and Cassie have a pissing duel over him. We were eleven! Eleven freaking years old! We figured you got our picture from the reservation. Tell that bitch Taniqua and her mother we sent them the scalps so they'd know the blood of the freaks is on them too. They shoulda never let the old man take us. But, like I said. Dear Daddy is dead. Goody-goody We just didn't stop the business. Now, instead of us taking it up the ass we get to kill the scumbags. I hope you do have kids. Then you'd understand.–Angus.”

No one spoke for more than a minute. It was Margaret who broke the silence. “Good for them,” she said and walked out of the room.

Quiet returned.

“What's that about?” Thomlinson eventually asked.

“Issues,” said Driscoll, making a mental note to ask Margaret if she'd set something up with a therapist. He picked up the phone and hit speed dial. “Communications…. This is Driscoll…I received an e-mail. Time sent says about two hours ago. Any chance we can tell where it came from? The IP address? Let me look. It's 68.219.43.34.” Driscoll gave Thomlinson a thumbs up. “Good. I'll hold.”

Driscoll listened attentively as the response from Communications filled his ear. After ending the call, he turned to Thomlinson. “The e-mail came from MegaBytes, a computer self-serve center, on East Eighth off of University. That's ten minutes from here. Get on the horn to the Sixth Precinct. Tell them what we've got. I want that place sealed and surrounded. The twins might still be there. I want it done now! When you're finished with the call, head over there, yourself.”

“Yessir.”

“I'll have someone reach out to this Webster.com outfit to see what they've got on Angus's OddDuck handle.”

As Thomlinson headed for the door, Driscoll thought of Margaret and the inner conflict this case had stirred. Interestingly, her emotional havoc spawned his. On the one hand, he needed her to stay focused. To avoid subjectivity and help him put an end to the killings. Yet part of him wanted to guard her from the disturbing turmoil the investigation was delivering. Uncertain what he'd say, he picked up the phone and called her.

The call prompted resolution, but not because of anything Driscoll had done. As soon as Margaret heard his voice, she apologized for her unprofessional outburst and pledged her assistance. “I'll try to keep my head on straight” was how she put it. Relieved, he asked her to check into Angus's online account.

Ten minutes later she was in his office to report that she had spoken to Paul Houston, head of communications at Webster.com. “They offer twenty hours of free Internet service per month. If you exceed the limit, they have you set up an account and arrange for PayPal or credit card payment. All you need is access to the Web to start. If you never go over the twenty hours, there's no ID, billing address, or phone number recorded.”

“Cyberspace anonymity.”

“You got it.”

“We'll wait then to see if Cedric comes up with anything. We traced Angus's e-mail to a retailer that provides on-site computer rental. He's probably there now.” A smile creased Driscoll's face. “Margaret, I'm proud of you. I know this case rouses a whole host of frightening memories. And I know resolving mental mayhem isn't easy. You're not alone with your wrestle with objectivity. If what is said in the e-mail is true, the twins have been through hell and that evokes my sympathy. Sadly, though, it doesn't alter the fact that they've murdered people. We have the obligation to stop them. If you need a break, even temporarily, the offer to have you reassigned is an open one.”

“I know. And I must admit, sometimes, late at night, when I'm alone, it's tempting.”

Driscoll fought against the impulse to hold her. For he knew if he did, he'd have a hard time letting go. “Have you called Elizabeth?”

A vacant stare said she hadn't.

“Whether we act on the transfer or we don't, you should call her.” Again, the desire to embrace her. “Promise me you will.”

She nodded.

Driscoll studied her face. It appeared she hadn't slept in days. She returned his steady gaze. He smiled, for he had found a way to caress her. With his eyes. His, holding. Hers, not letting go.

Until the ringing of a phone shattered the trance.

“Driscoll, here.”

“They're long gone, Lieutenant.” It was Thomlinson. “The e-mail was generated from here, all right. I'm looking at the particular computer now. I had the uniforms lock the place down like you instructed and Forensics will dust the PC, but I don't think it's gonna give us any more than we already have. There's a slim chance the twins are among this horde of customers. But I doubt it. I searched every face. They'd have to be chameleons. You oughta see this place. It's like the registrar's office at Columbia on steroids. Customers are going every which way but out with the uniforms at the doors. It's like a Toyota sell-a-thon commercial shown in fast-forward. I feel like I've been time-warped. Anyway, I spoke to one Aleeshia Smathers, the store's assistant manager. She's a college cutie with purple hair and facial piercings. I showed her Shewster's version of Angus. Negative for an ID.”

“Any surveillance camera?”

“None.”

“They use some sort of sign-in sheet?”

“Already had it copied. Running from last night through today. It'll give us the time each customer signed in and the time they left. The co-ed suggests we may come up with zilch, though. She says a lot of customers pay cash and sign in as SpongeBob Square Pants.”

“Okay, Cedric. Have the uniforms get IDs from everyone, including the help. We'll run down each one. When that's done, head back to the house. We'll need to search the obits and resurrect one hell of a dad.”

The obituary search, though computer assisted, was morose, time-consuming, and going nowhere. The three lawmen were convinced Claxonn wasn't the name dear old dad left this planet with. A call to Taniqua only complicated things. She didn't know for sure what name the birth parents went by. Whether the father was actually brother to the mom was now in question. Taniqua believed that to be the case, but was uncertain if it was fact or something made up by her mother, who was a bit capricious.

“They offed the dad. Probably cut him up into pieces and scattered them into the four corners of some cornfield,” Thomlinson said. “We're never gonna find him or any record of him. This pair may be strung out but they're not stupid. They're not about to add patricide to the list.”

“It would help if we had a name,” said Margaret. “Claxonn's not setting off any bells.”

“The name is in the cornfield,” said Thomlinson. “The chance of us pulling off a Lazarus is zero. We're gonna have to make use of Shewster's handiwork. There's a million-dollar target on that face. Somebody's gonna cash in. The only question is when.”

Driscoll had placed a call to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, hoping somewhere, in their vast database, there might be a reference to the twins. He had left his number with Douglas Glasser. Not only had Glasser made good on his promise to have someone call him back, but that someone was now standing inside Driscoll's office introducing herself as Susan Lenihan, a behavior analyst and licensed psychotherapist. Her friendly blue eyes returned the Lieutenant's evanescent ogle, which had not gone unnoticed by Margaret.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Lenihan—”

“Please. It's Susan.”

“Okay, then. Thank you for coming, Susan. This is Sergeant Margaret Aligante and Detective Cedric Thomlinson.”

“Please. Call me Margaret.”

“Cedric.”

“It's a pleasure to meet all of you,” she said, extending her hand.

The four took seats around the Lieutenant's desk.

“I was expecting a return call,” said Driscoll. “And here you are in person.”

The woman smiled.

A bit too flirtatiously to suit Margaret.

“I've been following the story in the papers and on the tube with the rest of New York,” Susan explained. “When I read about the man killed at the aquarium, Francis Palmer, his name set off an alarm. At first, I didn't know why, but I was sure I had heard the name before.”

“He had been convicted of child molestation in Texas,” said Thomlinson.

“That was the easy part. When I ran his name through our system, the conviction popped up. But our database focuses on child exploitation. So I dug a little deeper and realized why I remembered the name. Francis Palmer headed up his own company in Texas because seven years ago he was fired from a Web design and enhancement firm in Silicon Valley, California. The company monitored their employees' work computers. He was let go because they found he had been making frequent visits to Web sites dealing in prostitution. Child prostitution. He was never formally charged because the firm wanted to avoid exposure. But their director of human resources alerted our California branch office in Tustin, and a record was established. Although no further action was taken, the information remained in our database.”

“How is it his name set off whistles?” asked Driscoll.

“That conscientious director of human resources called me for advice. Her boss had ordered her to delete all information related to Palmer. She knew if any investigative agency made inquiry, her company would deny ever having the guy on the payroll.”

“Why'd she call you?” asked Margaret.

“Because she's my sister.” Susan Lenihan blushed.

The door to Driscoll's office opened, and Thomlinson stuck his head inside. “We've got news from Interpol.”

“Let's have it,” said Driscoll, as Thomlinson planted himself in front of the Lieutenant's desk.

“Interpol had their nets set for Guenther Rubeleit and Yen Chan, but had nada on Helga Swenson,” said Thomlinson. “They based their suspicions on reports from overseas ECPAT centers.” The detective was referring to a worldwide network of agencies established to End Child Prostitution, Child Pornography, and Trafficking of Children for Sexual Purposes. “The only thing in line with our evidence is an entry on file for Rubeleit. He liked to trawl the Web for amputees.”

“Some assortment of deviants,” said Driscoll. “That look on your face says there's more.”

“It might make you think twice about ordering sushi.” Thomlinson grinned. “It's about customs in Tokyo, where Tatsuya Inagaki hailed from. Seems Japan has an ECPAT agency too. It's in Tokyo and is called ECPAT Stop Japan. But the country's got its own code of ethics regarding the age of consent for sexual activities and how it applies to the law. This is straight from Interpol. It's Japan's Article One-seven-seven Penal Code applicable to the charge of rape. I quote. A person who, through violence or intimidation, has sexual intercourse with a female person of not less than thirteen years of age commits the crime of rape and shall be punished with imprisonment at forced labor for a limited term of not less than two years. The same shall apply to a person who has sexual intercourse, we're talking consensual now, with a female person under thirteen years of age. The article doesn't say what happens if the recipient of wanted or unwanted sex is male. You're gonna love this. They've got a dating service going on over there. It's called Enjo kosai. Girls of high school age, who don't wanna depend on babysitting money, can get paid to escort older men on dates. That doesn't necessarily mean sex is on the menu…but?” Thomlinson raised an eyebrow. “And so the boys aren't left home on a Saturday night, there's gyaku-enjo.”

“And where does our victim Mr. Inagaki play in all of this?”

“On him they got zip.”

“So, let's see, two of the four foreign victims have a substantiated yen for teenagers. Excuse the pun. And on domestic soil we have Mr. San Antonio, Texas, himself, Francis Palmer.”

The two lawman exchanged glances.

“Wanna flip a coin?” asked Driscoll.

“For?”

“To see which one of us gets to ask Shewster about Goldilocks.”