The Screaming Room jd-2

by Thomas O`Callaghan

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

  Chapter 9

  “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.”

  Chapter 10

  HEUREUX QUI COMME ULYSSE A CONQUI LA TOISON

  That was the inscription etched on the stainless-steel back of Driscoll’s pocket watch. Colette had presented Driscoll with the watch on their wedding night.

  “Happy, he, who like Ulysses, had conquered the Golden Fleece,” was the translation. She had chosen the verse from Dubellay, the Renaissance poet.

  And hadn’t John Driscoll discovered in Colette the magical Golden Fleece, the object of his heart’s desire? Hadn’t he been an urban Ulysses, seeking that other, the woman he would love forever? And hadn’t their love produced a kindhearted child, Nicole? Sadly, though, he had gained the fleece only to see it wrenched from him by a driver plastered on Cuervo Gold.

  Driscoll was alone in his new residence, the Brooklyn Heights co-op. He was feeling morose, contemplating the inscription on the back of the watch, running his thumb along the etching like someone reading Braille.

  He sat at the dinner table, set for one, and filled his glass with De la Morandiere Chardonnay, her favorite wine.

  She was afraid of thunderstorms! The thought raced to his consciousness. He recalled seeing a PBS special on the life of Abraham Lincoln. Mary Todd Lincoln, the first lady, suffered from the same dread of thunder. The president, it is said, was known to leave the affairs of state and hurry home at the first sighting of a storm so he could comfort his wife. Driscoll smiled, remembering cutting short his own shifts and hurrying to Colette’s side when the heat of the day met the cool of the night, producing ferocious late-summer downpours.

  “John, they frighten me so,” she would murmur.

  It became his unspoken vow. To keep her safe from the storm…safe from the darkness…and safe from the perils of life itself.

  Driscoll took another sip of Chardonnay, placed the glass on the table, and headed for the stove, where he would prepare the evening meal: roasted chicken breast with Gruyere and mushrooms. Without warning, a bolt of lightning electrified the sky over Brooklyn Heights, illuminating the small kitchenette in which Driscoll stood, igniting yet another remembrance.

  Colette and he had been strolling the Toliver’s Point shoreline when the first rumblings of a summer thunderstorm intruded on their reverie. Colette clutched Driscoll’s hands and dragged him from the beach as luminous clouds began to billow. They headed for home. As soon as they reached the bungalow, Colette rushed to the bedroom, where she sought shelter under a comforter.

  After the squall passed, she opened her eyes and found herself wrapped in Driscoll’s arms.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “You already know.”

  An impish smile crept across Colette’s face.

  “What?” he frowned.

  “It’s time for some sweetness.”

  Driscoll rummaged through his pockets and produced a roll of butterscotch Life Savers.

  “Silly man,” she said.

  “Some gals are never happy.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Je t’aime,” he whispered. “Are you happy now?”

  “‘Je t’aime a la folie,’ you’re supposed to say. That means you love me madly.”

  “That’s right. I do love you madly.”

  “And I…you,” she said.

  “Then we’d better do something about it.”

  “Let’s get married,” she gushed, her face looking like that of a schoolgirl.

  “But we’re already married.”

  “Let’s do it again! We can have a second honeymoon!”

  “Okay. Where would you like to go?”

  “You pick.”

  “I have a place in mind,” he said. “You’ll love it.”

  “Tahiti?”

  “Arles.”

  “Why there?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to see what Van Gogh saw?”

  “What a fabulous idea! I can pack up my easel and off we’ll go. When are we going?”

  “You pick the date.”

  “How about…my birthday?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Is this for real?”

  “Sure it is.”

  All talk ceased. Eyes danced. Hands intertwined. Driscoll leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her neck.

  “What say we start the honeymoon now?” she murmured.

  “Splendid idea,” he whispered.

  Chapter 11

  Margaret Aligante had put her calls in to Crime Scene and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. She was sure the forensic boys would do their part but had gotten a “not in our neck of the woods” response from a John Nashota at the BIA. She was fatigued. She had spent the better part of the past twelve hours trying to locate Phyllis Newburger. If truth be known, she hadn’t spent much time in the labyrinth that was the NYPD database. This Italian American cop was superstitious, and looking for her childhood psychotherapist in the official archives made her feel as though she’d be inviting someone to take a peek over her shoulder. Margaret, the resourceful woman that she was, chose to cloak herself in the anonymity of the Internet.

  Anxiety lay behind her search. And for this tough cop, anxiety took on but one form: men. More precisely, the prospect of a romantic relationship with one. Sure she carried a gun, was proficient in the martial arts of aikido and tae kwon do, and took nonsense from no one. Still, none of these attributes protected her from the pure dread she felt at the mere notion of getting serious with a man. And despite her ever glow
ing internal red light, Margaret knew she was headed for such a relationship with John Driscoll, once again her boss. They were sure to pick up where they had left off. But now the man was single. Jesus H. Christ! Single! Panic attacks, which she thought she had outgrown, were burgeoning. She knew her only remedy was to seek professional help. But the only psychotherapeutic help she had ever received was provided to her as an adolescent by Phyllis Newburger, who helped her face her childhood demons and withstand their threat. Margaret knew some of those same demons had been awakened, prompting her current feeling of angst. She needed to see the Newburger woman. In her mind, at least, there was no one else to turn to.

  Using Google, she happened upon Newburger’s name in affiliation with a Saint Finbar’s Foundling, in New Rochelle. The Web site indicated that she was the director of placement services, but the article, which extolled and praised the foundling’s humanitarian efforts, was eight years old. And so, when she called Saint Finbar’s, she was disappointed but not surprised to hear that Newburger had moved on. Where, they didn’t know or weren’t saying. She thanked the staff member for her kindness and continued her Web search, seeking out associations that might have an address for the woman.

  One such organization was the New York chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. A local number was featured, but when she called, a clerk explained that she had gotten a no-hit when searching for any Phyllis Newburger in their database. Good God! thought Margaret. It had been over twenty years. Could the woman be dead?

  Margaret ventured on. Her search at Anywho. com produced a long list of Phyllis and P. Newburgers, with both local and long-distance phone numbers. She printed a copy of the listings and put it aside. She would cold-call only as a last resort.

  As daylight faded in her small study, the translucent surface of her desktop’s monitor grew brighter and soon became the only light in the room. Margaret pushed her roll-away chair back from the desk and rubbed her eyes. It was then, in the twilight, always in the twilight, that her past caught up with her.