The Screaming Room (3 page)

Angus sat on the cold slab of slate that encircled the top of the well. They had done it. Finally done it. Yet, he didn't feel satiated like he thought he would. Thoughts ran rampant inside his head. That was the norm. His eyes were distracted, though, lost to the efforts of the orb-weaving spider that was crawling surreptitiously across its web. A nocturnal feeder, the spider. Angus appreciated that, for he, too, despite all that had happened, preferred the night and its often undetected happenings.

He was born at night. Or so he had been told. A harsh night, bitter cold and unwelcome, was how his father had described it. “As unwelcome as you,” he'd scoff. His cruelest derision coming when he was drunk, which was nightly.

Angus's eyes were still fixed on the spider, but the timbre of Father's voice bellowed in the recesses of his mind, unleashing uninvited memories.

“Angus! You little bastard. Get in here!”

“With another can of beer” was left unsaid, but I knew better than to rile the guy, and remembered, robotically, to stop at the fridge before entering the smoke-filled room where Father sat, eyes fixed on the black-and-white screen of the Emerson TV.

“We're not finished yet,” he reminded me with a sneer, causing me to tremble and often wet my pants. “And that sister of yours? I've got something real special in store for her!”

Most nights the Budweiser worked to my advantage, acting as a soporific godsend. But only for the night. Another day would follow, giving way to another night. One more spell of darkness I'd need to live through, saddled with dread. And when the beer didn't work its magic I'd be hauled into the godforsaken room behind the furnace, forced to strip, and climb atop a cold porcelain enamel-topped table.

“Lay still, Angus. Don't make me have to say it again.”

Father would then reach for the rubbing alcohol and sanitize a portion of my skin. With the cold tabletop pressing hard against the side of my face, I eyed the row of shot glasses that held the assortment of inks. I cringed, feeling the touch of Father's rough fingers as he applied the Vaseline. Next came the feel of the small stencil being placed on my body, accompanied by the whirring sound the electric machine made when it was turned on.

It was then that I closed my eyes and forced my thoughts to carry me to that faraway place where I wouldn't feel the sting of the needles perforating my flesh.

Three days had passed since Driscoll appealed to his boss, Captain Eddie Barrows, that he be allowed to tie up some loose ends on a prior case. Something didn't feel right. He couldn't stay focused until he resolved it. Besides, the latest murders were being investigated by capable homicide detectives, and it was Driscoll's feeling that they should stay there. It would give the rookie a chance to sharpen her teeth. So what if the victims were tourists? New York was full of them. His curiosity was piqued, though, by the scalping. What was that all about? He also wondered what the Mayor's reaction would be to his resistance, but that thought would have to stay on hold. Right now, there were more pressing matters at hand. The Mayflower Moving Company had just completed packing all of Driscoll's furnishings and personal belongings aboard their truck. It was time now to pay his last respects to the house that had served as his sanctuary for the past twelve years.

He whistled the first few lines of “Time after Time,” turned his back on the moving truck, and climbed the three wooden steps to his porch. Sinatra's rendition of Jule Stein's love ballad had been his and Colette's wedding song. Driscoll hummed or whistled the opening lines often.

As he pushed open the front door to the Toliver's Point bungalow, the sharpness of Betadine antiseptic and the sterile smell of bleached linen still hung in the air. What had once served as a makeshift intensive care unit for his comatose wife was now a barren room, reminding him of the hollowness of his own life. The hospital bed and the cluster of life support equipment were gone. It had been no small feat to convince an anxious hospital staff to agree to such an unorthodox arrangement as home care for a comatose patient. But that's where Driscoll had wanted his wife. Home. Surrounded by her treasured paintings. And, after his acquisition of some pretty costly medical equipment, funded in part by Driscoll's health insurance and supplemented by a sizable advance against his pension fund, Saint Matthew's hospital had granted his wish.

But now that chapter of his life had ended.

Colette. It was she who had discovered Toliver's Point. While she was a landscape painter at the New York Art Student's League, a friend had invited her to spend a day at the beach. She found the Point's natural setting in an urban environment enchanting. She returned often to sit at the water's edge and paint. She fell in love with the locale to such a degree that five years later she put a down payment on her first piece of waterfront property: a summer bungalow in Toliver's Point.

The first night Sergeant John Driscoll was invited to the bayside community, he thought he had been transported to some distant island. After he and Colette married, the summer bungalow was renovated, winterized, and transformed into a comfortable residence they were proud to call home.

Trying to keep feelings of abandonment in check, he cast one last glance at the walls of the bungalow, emptied now of their aquarelles and serigraphs, bolted shut the door, and headed for his parked cruiser, where he sprang the lock on the trunk and retrieved the for-sale sign, which he planted in the lawn. It was then he heard the sound of tires creeping on asphalt. Two shiny black Chryslers, bookending a Lincoln stretch limousine, pulled in at the curb. Driscoll watched as the limousine's tinted window slid down.

“If Mohammad doesn't come to the mountain, well…then, the Mayor of New York must pay a visit to his top cop,” the Honorable William “Sully” Reirdon said as he stepped from his automobile.

It annoyed the hell out of police brass, but the newly elected Reirdon prided himself on being a hands-on Mayor. Bypassing the police commissioner, borough commanders, and bureau chiefs was commonplace for the man. Hell, he once had a one on one with a beat cop because some alarmed Bronx resident complained of strangers in her neighborhood when she called his weekly
Concerned Citizens
radio forum. And here he was now, in Toliver's Point.

“You're trespassing, Mr. Mayor. This is Democrat country.”

“Well, will you look at that? You've got a million-dollar view of my city,” said the Mayor, casting his stare across the bay.

“You could buy the place, Mr. Mayor. Keep a close eye on your city.”

Sully Reirdon smiled at the suggestion.

“But something tells me you didn't travel out here to discuss beachfront real estate.”

“You know why I'm here, John.”

It was Driscoll's turn to stare across the bay. “I'll sure miss the view, but the efficiency I'll be buying in Brooklyn Heights will cut my commute time in half,” he said.

“John, I am very sorry about your wife. I know I should've been at the funeral, but I was in Albany arm-wrestling with the governor. He knows we need more cops, but he won't release the sixty-three million he promised the city when he was elected.”

“How about assigning some of those cops to a drunk-driving detail?”

“I'll give it every consideration,” the Mayor said with a nod, aware of the automobile accident that had robbed Driscoll of his wife and daughter. “John, despite what Katie Couric says, I'm not an insensitive man.”

Driscoll stared at the politician.

“I appreciate your not wanting to sign off on a case without crossing all the T's. In fact, it's admirable. I'll make certain a competent commander does just that. Right now my city needs you. There's a guy killing tourists, for Chrissake! And that makes him the department's priority one. Do you know how much money visitors dropped in the Big Apple last year?”

Driscoll obliged the Mayor with a shrug.

“Twelve point six billion! I want you to focus on the here and now. There'll be no time to waste on yesterday's cases. Nobody gets to hold New York hostage on my watch. I want this tourist-scalping killer stopped dead in his tracks. And I want it done now!”

“I wouldn't be able to fully focus, Mr. Mayor. I'd be the wrong man for the job.” As soon as he heard himself say it, he knew he had pushed the envelope too far. But there was no way of retrieving what'd been said. “Besides, the fact that these two victims were tourists could be a coincidence. The twelve-plus billion speaks for itself. There's a whole lotta tourists in New York.”

“Coincidences don't happen in my city.”

Driscoll raised an eyebrow.

“You know, John, you're beginning to piss me off!” Reirdon stormed to his limousine and ducked inside. “As long as I run this town and you're on my payroll, you'll do as I say. Peter, get me outta here!”

The Lincoln's tires charred the asphalt. With the two security autos in tow, the Mayor's limo disappeared along Point Breeze Boulevard.

John Driscoll sat on the steps of his porch. Despite his obstinacy, he knew the assignment was unavoidable. It would become his job to formulate a strategy to catch this villain.

Why make waves? You're not the only cop in town, John. Reirdon said he'd have a competent person nail the case shut. It's not like its outcome rests on the type of hammer he uses.

Unpocketing his cell phone, he rang the Mayor on his car phone. Driscoll detected arrogance as Sully Reirdon's voice echoed in his ear.

“So, you've decided to come around, have you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“This city doesn't need a bout of mass hysteria, John.”

“If these murders lead to a rash of killings, I'll need to establish a task force. And it would be a big help if the FBI is kept at bay.”

“You'll wrap this up before it causes an international stir?”

“God willing.”

“What else will you need?”

“Please. No female detectives assigned to this one.”

“I'd have never guessed you were a chauvinist.”

“I support affirmative action and the advancement of all working women. But I just buried my wife. Call it superstition. Nothing more.”

“You have my promise. No women.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and John, there's one thing more.”

“What's that?”

“You'd better lighten up or you'll never unload that house.”

Driscoll could detect Reirdon's smirk right through the phone line.

“Then I'll just bulldoze the place down to the sea,” he said.

“You do that and I'll nail you for pollution of the Atlantic shoreline. What are you asking for the place, anyway?”

“It's out of your price range, Mr. Mayor.”

“Oh, I don't know, I could get an insider's deal on, say, a thirty-year mortgage.”

“Better shop for a five. You may not be in office that long.”

“No, the Atlantic Ocean isn't gonna wash the house away. It's been sitting three hundred yards from the water for the past forty years, for Chrissake!” Driscoll bellowed into the phone to his realtor. “Tell you what. I'll throw in a couple of life vests just in case.” Driscoll wasn't having a good day. “Maybe these folks would prefer the USS
Nautilus
! Hell, if they're left wing, I could get them a good deal on a mothballed Russian sub. Whiskey class!” Driscoll slammed down the receiver, jarring Socrates, his electronic cockatiel, who, faithful to his programming, squawked. The battery-operated bird had been a gift from members of a former command. Though he'd like to, Driscoll felt it would be ill-mannered to dispose of it.

“Lock 'em up! Aawkk! Aawkk!”

The door to Driscoll's office opened. Detective Thomlinson poked his head inside.

“Lieutenant, there's a sergeant here to see you.”

“Throw away the key! Aawkk! Aawkk!”

“Turn that damn bird off, will you?”

Thomlinson walked over to the bird and clicked off its miniature toggle switch.

“A sergeant? What's he want?” Driscoll asked.

“Something about the Mayor keeping his promise,” Thomlinson answered with a shrug of his shoulders. But the look on Thomlinson's face said to Driscoll that something was up.

“Well, then, show him in,” Driscoll said, warily.

With the hint of a smile, Thomlinson reached for the door and invited Driscoll's newly assigned assistant to enter.

The Lieutenant's eyes widened. Standing before him was Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante. A dazzler. At five-foot-seven she had a figure that would rival any of Veronese's models. Her anthracite hair was long and cascaded onto her shoulders like a mane. Her dark eyes sparkled. Her nose was regal, and her jaw delicate. They created a face that was riveting and inviting. Too inviting for Lieutenant John W. Driscoll. There was history between the pair. They had recently worked together on a major homicide and during that investigation had realized they had feelings for each other and had expressed those feelings. Despite the fact his wife was in a permanent coma, Driscoll considered himself a married man and had spent many a sleepless night feeling guilty about his attraction to Margaret. But the attraction, a mutual one, was unmistakably there and so they had started seeing each other socially. At what most considered the close of the case, she and Driscoll agreed it wouldn't be a good idea for the two of them to work together. Margaret willingly took a transfer to another homicide squad and they continued dating. When Driscoll's wife died, the emotionally distraught Lieutenant asked for a time out, a request that Margaret granted.

“Margaret, what gives?” It appeared to Driscoll that Margaret was trembling.

“I come bearing a message. Believe me, it wasn't my idea.”

“Message? What message?”

“Reirdon told me to tell you, and I quote: ‘I'm best suited for the job because no team delivers closure faster than we do. And as far as City Hall is concerned, police officers come in only one color. Blue. And as to gender. They surrender that each and every time they pin on their shield.'”

Was this the man's idea of a joke? Reirdon had promised not to send a female assistant. And of all people, Margaret! Goddamn him! Goddamn that son of a bitch!

Margaret sat down in a swivel chair. She looked dazed. “I swear, John. I had Lieutenant Troy try to convince Reirdon to leave me be. No such luck. The Mayor was hell-bent on having me work with you.”

Driscoll shook his head. That bastard! And look at me. I'm the fool who placed his trust in the word of a politician. He caught Margaret's doleful gaze. She must feel terrible for her unwilling role in this deceitful maneuver. He softened. “I was glad to see you at the funeral,” he said. “That meant a lot to me. But I guess you know that.”

“How's Mary?”

“She's hanging in there. Thanks for asking.”

Margaret smiled.

“Well,” said Driscoll begrudgingly, “I guess if we're going to work together again, now would be a good time to bring you up to speed.” He stuck his head out the door to his office and gestured for Thomlinson to come inside. Once the three were settled, he began. “We have two bodies, and the medical examiner coincides their approximate time of death. That gives us a four-hour window. We know the vics weren't killed where they were found. Crime Scene reports two massive head wounds but no hair, brain matter, or blood splatter where the bodies were discovered. And since the media has been all over it, I'm sure you know both victims were scalped. We could be looking at two perps, but we can't rule out the possibility of one guy doing both murders.”

“The American Museum of Natural History and Coney Island are less than an hour apart. One guy coulda easily done the two,” said Thomlinson.

“I think it's best to consider this the work of one person until the evidence tells us otherwise,” Driscoll continued. “We've got the perp posing the bodies at both sites and concurrent causes of death. And, judging from what the autopsies revealed…” His voice trailed off, his mind wandering to the cold and sterile environs of the medical examiner's mortuary he had visited earlier in the day. He envisioned himself marching down the long corridor toward the double-glass doors marked “City Morgue.”

Behind those doors Driscoll came upon a spacious room with white tiled walls and a high ceiling. High-wattage halogen bulbs illuminated an array of cadavers positioned atop stainless steel gurneys. Those corpses, their chests and abdominal sections gaping, were attended by three coroner's assistants, who were dissecting and weighing lifeless organs.

On one such gurney, near the center of the room, one of the two tourists was being examined by Larry Pearsol, the city's chief medical examiner, and Jasper Eliot, his assistant.

“Item D214B67. Arrival Date, June 4, 2006.” Pearsol's voice boomed into the Uher recorder. “Deceased is Helga Swenson, tentatively identified by International Passport. Remains are that of a well-developed, well-nourished female. Weight sixty-eight-point-six kilos. Height one-hundred-sixty-seven-point-six centimeters. No remarkable scars, moles, or tattoos noted. Initial examination of decedent's fingernails reveals no evidentiary properties. Inspection of genitalia reveals no indication of rape or assault. There is no semen present. Examination of the cephalic region reveals sharp force trauma resulting in a massive head wound, measuring seven-point-six-two centimeters to right parietal, causing fracture to the skull and bone splinters to penetrate the brain. Twelve-point-seven-centimeter linear penetration to the skin of the forehead noted. Irregular tearing of scalp—”

Pearsol hit the
OFF
button on the recorder to tell Driscoll that the same cranial wound pattern and evidence of scalping appeared on tourist number two, Yen Chan.

“Lieutenant, whaddya make of the head wound?” It was Sergeant Aligante's voice. The question rocketed Driscoll back to the present.

“Maybe an ax,” Thomlinson suggested as Driscoll reexamined the eight-by-ten glossies in the open file on his desk.

“More likely a tomahawk. Our boy's into scalping.” Driscoll was becoming more comfortable with Margaret's presence.

“Someone piss off the Navaho and we don't know about it?” Thomlinson ran a finger across his forehead and grabbed hold of his hair.

“The posing says the guy's into showcasing his work,” said Margaret. “New York might be his new exhibition hall.”

“Say it ain't so,” groaned Thomlinson,

“I agree with Margaret.” Driscoll smiled at her. “This guy likes to show off his work. Right now he's probably fantasizing over his kills. But after awhile his recollection of the murders will fade. And so will the power those fantasies have had in keeping him satiated. Once that happens, he'll need to kill again. He's like anyone with a compulsion. He gets high on the first kill, but in order to keep the high going, he'll need to do it again. I'd say our guy'll want to expand. Artists have a whale of an ego. He's gonna want a bigger and bigger audience, a standing ovation from eight million, nine hundred thousand New Yorkers. These two murders may just be the warm-up.”

Thomlinson had a puzzled look on his face.

“Whaddya thinking, Cedric?”

“How the hell does he know his targets are tourists?”

“He's gotta get close enough to hear them speak. That'd be my guess,” said Margaret. “I say he stalks them, waits until they're alone, whacks them, and then drags them off to hide them in some burrow for the night until morning, when it's showtime.”

“Coney Island and a museum. We're talking crowded crime scenes. How come no one saw anything?” asked Driscoll. “And the posing? No one sees that goin' on?”

“The guy's gotta be one strong son of a bitch,” said Thomlinson. “He carried a two-hundred-pound man up the side of the Wonder Wheel, for Chrissake.”

“How's this?” said Margaret. “He selects a number of random targets that he thinks talk funny. Strikes up a conversation with one or more of them, where he learns who's from out of town. Then he lurks in the shadows waiting for one of the poor suckers to stroll into his lair. And, whack! And you're gonna love this. A public toilet! That could be the lair. One of the stalls would serve as a safe place to hide his victim until closing time.”

“And nobody notices the vic's missing?”

“The guy goes after loners.”

“Possible,” said Thomlinson. “But that says two doers. One guy can't spend all that time setting up his targets, kill one of them, wait 'til the middle of the night to showcase his work, and be able to do it in two places at the same time. Remember, the ME coincides their approximate time of death.”

“Okay,” said Driscoll. “We may be looking for a pair of killers. Cedric, get on the horn to the press and the media. We want to hear from anyone, and I mean anyone, at either location who may have been approached by a stranger. Margaret, call the Bureau of Indian Affairs. See if they've got any take on this. Then get a hold of Crime Scene. I want every toilet, every storage area, and any other stand-alone structure at the museum and on the boardwalk swept. They're to look for blood and any other trace evidence that may be related to the crimes. But, Cedric, you have a point. How does our boy drag a two-hundred-pounder up the side of a Ferris wheel?”

“We're lookin' for one helluva bench-presser. Maybe two.”