The Screaming Room jd-2

by Thomas O`Callaghan

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”

  Waters nodded.

  “Someone must have kept records of the births. Do you know who that might have been?”

  “Raven’s Breath had a daughter. Taniqua. You can speak with her. She lives here, on the reservation. Look for a small house up the road with a thatched roof.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman who answered the door appeared to be in her late thirties, sporting a denim shirt over faded jeans. On her feet, she wore a pair of hand-sewn moccasins.

  “I’m John Driscoll,” he announced. “Are you Taniqua?”

  “Yes, I’m Taniqua.”

  Driscoll sensed her reserve. He had experienced it before, many times. But always as a policeman. How would someone from an adoption agency react? Dressed in khakis and an Izod? He’d have to wing it.

  “I understand your mother was Raven’s Breath and that she was a midwife.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  “I’m from the Mid-Atlantic Adoption Agency. I’m seeking information on a set of twins your mother may have delivered.”

  The woman flinched. Driscoll caught it.

  “Please, come inside.” Taniqua walked inside the small house, Driscoll trailing in behind her. The woman sat at a loom and resumed her weaving.

  “What is it you’re making?” he asked.

  “A shroud.”

  “Someone die?”

  “No. But someone will this week. Their burial cloak must be ready.” She gestured for Driscoll to take a seat. “What is it you’d like to know?”

  She was deeply guarded now. Her eyes searched Driscoll’s face.

  “I’d like to start by asking you some questions about your mother.”

  “My mother? My mother is dead.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m interested in some children…”

  “Does this involve a white man’s adoption?”

  “Something like that.”

  The woman continued her weaving.

  “We believe your mother was the midwife for a set of twins born sixteen years ago. A boy and a girl. Did she keep records of her deliveries?”

  “No,” she answered, but Driscoll read worry in her face. She used a set of shears to cut the end off a length of yarn.

  “This cloak is for a baby,” she sighed. “Our infant mortality rate is forty percent higher than the white man’s. The nearest pediatrician is thirty miles away. But even he would be of little help now.”

  Driscoll read the sadness in her face.

  After a moment, he continued. “The twins were Angus and Cassie Claxonn.”

  Taniqua flinched. Again, Driscoll caught it

  “March 1991. You were what? Twenty? Twenty-five? Surely, you’d remember.”

  “I don’t,” said the woman.

  Driscoll knew she was lying. He wondered why.

  “These were twins, Taniqua. You must remember twins being born.”

  “The only thing I remember about my twenties was dropping out of school and getting high on peyote.”

  A silence passed between the two. It was Taniqua, oddly enough, who broke it.

  “Maybe they were born at the hospital in Franklin,” she said.

  “Did your mother work there?”

  “Yes,” said Taniqua. “Your white twins must have been born there.”

  Although Driscoll was certain the woman was hiding something, he left her to her weaving.

  Chapter 33

  Driscoll headed over to Franklin Medical Center, where his reception wasn’t warm. In condescending fashion, the administrator made it clear that employment records were confidential. As he stepped out of her office, an attractive secretary silently mouthed: “Never worked here,” and handed him a flyer for Prilosec. On its back was scrawled “Sheryl-304-358-7038.”

  Climbing into the rented Dodge, he tapped the flyer on the steering wheel and grinned. He checked his watch. It was nearing five-thirty and he was hungry. What he needed was a solid meal before heading south to the motel holding his reservation for an overnight stay.

  He headed east, toward Oak Flat, where he discovered that Main Street was a pit stop for U.S. Route 33. It featured a Mobil gas station, the Duck Inn Whiskey Emporium, and Luellen’s Diner. He pulled up in front of Luellen’s. Inside, the metal walls and a string of steel stools lining a Formica-topped counter reminded Driscoll of Norman Rockwell’s “The Runaway,” where a freckled-face truant was being treated to an ice cream cone by a policeman. Driscoll straddled one of the stools and looked around. A buxom gal, with the name MaryLou embroidered on her apron, cast a wink at the gent she had been flirting with and sashayed over.

  “Hi there,” she said, sliding a glass of water, a paper napkin, and a set of eating utensils onto the counter. “What’ll it be?”

  “How’s the beef stew?” Driscoll asked, looking at a blackboard featuring the menu.

  “Chock-full of garden fresh veggies.”

  He gave her a nod.

  MaryLou poured a ladleful of the stew into a bowl and placed it before Driscoll. “You’ll be wantin’ crackers with that,” she said, placing a handful of Saltines next to his meal.

  Driscoll took out the area map he had been given by the Avis attendant, palmed it flat across the counter, and found Sugar Grove, where he’d spend the night. His actions were watched intently by two of the locals, who were seated in a nearby booth, sipping from bottles of Rolling Rock beer.

  “Can I expect any traffic on Route 21 this time of day?” Driscoll asked MaryLou.

  “You are definitely an out-of-towner,” she said. “Where ya headin’?”

  “Sugar Grove.”

  The sound of a whining dog interrupted them.

  “Orville, that damn mongrel of yours is loose again.” MaryLou cast a glare at one of the beer-guzzling duo. “He puts his paw through that screen door one more time, I’m gonna shoot his ass off.”

  Orville bolted for the door.

  His partner, who looked like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, eyed the contents of Orville’s beer bottle. After a quick look outside, he downed half of what remained.

  Orville returned from tying up his dog and eyed Driscoll and his map. He glanced at his buddy and grinned, displaying incomplete rows of nicotine-stained teeth.

  Sensing a scene, MaryLou glared at the drunk. “Go on. Get back to your booth before ya get yourself into trouble.”

  Orville cast a threatening glare at Driscoll before following her instructions.

  “Pay no mind to those two idiots,” MaryLou said, eyeing Driscoll’s designer khakis and Izod shirt. “What brings a snazzy dresser like you to Oak Flat?”

  “I’m looking for a set of twins. Teenagers. A boy and a girl.”

  “What’d they do?” she asked, sensing he was either a cop or a private investigator.

  “Plenty! We’re talkin’ one bad pair.”

  “It’s them drugs, ya know. It’s all the rage, now. Teenagers, huh? How old?”

  “Sixteen or so.”

  “Well, I dunno if it’d help any, but a number of years back, maybe ten, there was a seta twins down here that fit that bill.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Two blond kids. A boy and a girl, like you said. Spittin’ images. They lived on the Indian reservation. Cute little buggers, they were.”

  “You sure they lived on the reservation?”

  “Sure as there’re carrots in the stew.”

  Chapter 34

  “Why’d you lie?” Driscoll asked, his eyes boring into Taniqua’s.

  The woman’s face flooded with color. With a long exhalation, Taniqua surrendered to the inevitable.

  “I’ll tell you what you came to hear,” she sighed. “Please, sit.” Taniqua squatted on a prayer mat and faced Driscoll. “My mother was loved as a midwife. To her, every birth was special. To the tribe, she was its shaman. She talked to the spirits and they answered her. The mother of the twins you’re looking for was a white woman, a drifter, who had com
e knocking on my mother’s door, wanting an abortion. Said she was pregnant and that her brother had raped her. But the woman was near full-term, so my mother delivered the twins.”

  “Why’d you hold that back?”

  “My mother didn’t want to involve herself, or the tribe, in a white man’s investigation of a rape. She assisted in the births and made no record of them. I lied because I didn’t want to disgrace my mother.”

  Fair enough, Driscoll thought. “What became of the woman?”

  “She disappeared after the babies were born.”

  “And the twins?”

  “The birth of a set of twins to a Catawba tribe is considered an omen of good fortune, so my mother felt honored to raise them herself. But when they were going on seven, the woman returned for them. Said she and her brother were heading up north and had plans for the twins.”

  “What can you tell me about this woman and her brother?”

  “Not much. I only saw the woman.”

  “Get a name?”

  “No.”

  “What’d she look like?

  “A very white woman. Blond hair. About my height. It was a long time ago.”

  “Was that the last time anyone heard from the twins?”

  His question went unanswered. Not certain if he had been heard, Driscoll asked it again.

  “Was that the last time-”

  “It was,” said Taniqua, sharply.

  But something was astir in Taniqua’s eyes. Driscoll waited.

  “They’ve been sending me things.”

  “Things?” He felt a rush of adrenalin.

  The woman’s eyes locked onto Driscoll’s as if seeking escape.

  “Wait here.” She stood up and disappeared into another room. When she returned, Driscoll’s eyes widened at the sight of what she was holding in her hands. “I don’t know what they mean.” She handed her oddities to Driscoll.

  The Lieutenant thought he had seen every butchery of the human body imaginable. But what he was now holding in his hands filled him with an unfamiliar mix of repugnancy and awe. He had located the scalps. Each had been stretched to fit a five-inch wooden hoop. The hair had been combed and their undersides had been scraped of all flesh. What was tattooed in their centers was a puzzlement.

  Driscoll didn’t know what to make of it. The zagging lines were sky blue. “Native American?” he asked.

  “No,” said Taniqua.

  “Would it have been the custom to mark scalps like this years ago?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Why would they be sending them to you?”

  “I don’t know that, either. They came about a week apart in a padded envelope. ‘Angus and Cassie’ was the only thing written as a return address.”

  “Did you keep the envelopes?”

  “No.”

  “Remember anything about the postmark? The city, maybe?”

  She shook her head. “They’re in trouble, aren’t they?”

  Driscoll didn’t answer. “Are there any pictures of the twins?”

  “There were. But they were burned with my mother and buried along with her ashes.”

  “All of them?”

  “No,” she said, sheepishly. She stood and disappeared again. When she returned, she produced a tattered black-and-white photo and handed it to Driscoll. “I keep it under my pillow.”

  There, captured in Kodak clarity, were the full figures of the pair as five-year-olds, standing side by side, holding a makeshift poster. It read: HAMESA RE YI HATCU.

  Driscoll looked to Taniqua.

  “It means, ‘We Love You, Sis.’” She paused. “You’re not from an adoption agency, are you?”

  Driscoll smiled sympathetically, and the woman began to cry.

  Chapter 35

  Driscoll was anxious to decipher the meaning of the scalps’ tattoos. He regretted not packing a laptop because his accommodations at the Sugar Grove Inn included access to the Internet.

  Time to update Margaret. He punched in her number on his cell.

  “How’re things at Teepee Junction?” she asked.

  “Didn’t walk away with Tonto’s autograph but we’ve got a positive ID on our twin killers and a dated photo to go with it. Number four on Cedric’s list, Angus and Cassie Claxonn, have been mailing the scalps to an Indian woman on the reservation. I’m bringing them back with me. They hold a secret of their own.”

  “A secret?”

  “Each one’s been tattooed with a symbol of some kind.”

  “Native American?”

  “That’d be too easy. I’m hoping the Internet will help me interpret their meaning. Where are we in finding a parallel between the victims?”

  “There’s very little listed anywhere on Shewster’s daughter aside from her G-rated escapades with the highbrow socialites she ran with.”

  “Doubt there’d be a record of anything out of character had she been raised from the dead! Big money hides secrets.”

  “Tell that to the parents of Paris Hilton. We’ve got calls in to Interpol on the other vics from China, Japan, Germany, and Italy. They are all member countries. We’re waiting to hear back.”

  “Good. What I want you to do now is get the names to the media. See if anyone can help us locate these Claxonn twins. Then I want you to run a check of reported rapes in and about West Virginia that would have occurred in 1990. We’re looking especially for any involving incest.”

  Incest? Margaret’s heart raced. “On it,” she said.

  Call completed, Driscoll unzipped his American Tourister carry-on and began to pack. Turning on the bedside radio, he heard an evangelist’s voice: “Jesus saves! Repent you sinners! Praise the Lord, your God! The all-knowing Almighty who begs for your repentance. Turn your back, brothers and sisters on sinfulness and transgression, lest you become kindle for Satan and his disciples.”

  “Praise the Lord!” echoed Driscoll as he packed the last of his attire and headed for the door.

  Chapter 36

  Driscoll returned from his lawyer’s office, where he had finally closed the deal on his house in Toliver’s Point. Considering where he was in the investigation, he would have postponed it, but it had already been rescheduled twice. His lawyer warned him that any further delay could affect the buyer’s closing commitment. Settling into his swivel chair, he peeled back the lid from his coffee container and logged in on the department’s IBM desktop. His eye caught sight of his likeness on page one of yesterday’s Daily News. The headline, emblazoned above his face, read: STILL THE BEST MAN FOR THE JOB??? Driscoll didn’t know why he had kept the rag, suitable now for wrapping fish. Today’s paper featured the photo of the youngsters, with CLAXONN inscribed above it. His capabilities were no longer for debate. Politically or otherwise.

  “Goddamn you, Reirdon!” he grumbled, positioning the computer’s arrow in the search field of the PC’s monitor where he typed: SYMBOLS BLUE ZIGZAGS. The response was immediate. After a listing of four icon hawkers, including eBay, where you can get anything on the planet, twenty-four-seven, he learned from Doughtydesigns. com that blue zigzags are often used to illustrate one of the four elements: earth, air, water, and fire. In this case, water. Continuing his inquiry, he clicked on eRugGallery. com. They featured Serape blankets woven by the Navajo in the early 1800s, which included zigzags used as stripes. Blue was one of the preferred colors used in the weaving of the blankets. He made a mental note to check if the Catawba tribe was part of the Navaho nation. Scrolling further, a couple of fashion sites informed him that zigzag patterns were prevalent in the spring of 2005. But when his search led him to Wikipedia, the Internet’s free encyclopedia, he learned that the tattoo was a genogram, commonly used to construct a family tree; it was also used to depict the family’s health history and interpersonal relationships. Further search led him to a Web site for Northwestern University and instinct told him he had found what he’d been looking for. Academia unraveled the geno-gram’s meaning: sexual abuse. He grinned. He had est
ablished motive.

  As the computer made a whirring sound, Driscoll looked up to find Mr. Shewster standing in his doorway, holding a Dieffenbachia, adorned with a red ribbon banner.

  “What’s that for?” asked Driscoll. The banner on the small tree read: WORKING TOGETHER WE CAN BURY THE HATCHET. Driscoll found the fitting play on words amusing. “Great! You bring me a plant with poisonous sap?”

  “According to my man in research and development, you’re looking at the cure for multiple sclerosis. Give us another three years and we’ll have it refined and capsulated. It’ll be available in every Duane Reade.”

  “So, why give it to me?”

  “To cure any hard feelings between us.”

  “Squawk! Squawk!” Driscoll’s mechanical bird sounded.

  “See? Your fine feathered friend knows a quality plant when he sees one.”

  Driscoll hit the OFF button on Socrates’ claw.

  “Some headline in yesterday’s paper,” Driscoll said. “If I recall correctly, those were the exact words uttered in the Blue Room at Gracie Mansion.”

  “But today you’re the toast of the town! Why look back? Wayward is the way of politics. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.” Shewster fanned out the small tree’s plumage.

  What was he up to? “Mr. Shewster, before we go any further, there’s one thing we’ve got to resolve.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You look me dead in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with the fickleness of our illustrious Sully Reirdon.”

  “Lieutenant, you’re holding on to baggage that is best left unclaimed.”

  “Dead in the eye,” Driscoll repeated.

  The businessman returned the Lieutenant’s glare. “I had nothing to do with that headline.”

  Time froze. Shewster was the first to flinch.

  “I’m only interested in catching the psycho who killed my daughter, or twin psychos, as you contend. It’s been my only interest from the start. I needn’t bore a lawman with the statistics of how many homicides go unsolved. With all due respect, even serial homicides! Take the Axeman of New Orleans, the Capital City murders in Madison, Wisconsin, the Frankfort Slasher in North Philadelphia, the Monster of Florence. Hell, the goddamn Zodiac Killer reigned for thirty years! I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by and watch these twisted twins do the same. I’m likely to be dead in thirty years! Let’s face it. That early photo of Abigail’s killers isn’t the only likeness that’s going to hit page one. You know it and I know it. All I’m asking is that you let a grieving man help. With my contacts, I can put together a team of physiognomy experts and graphic computer artists who can project their current-day likeness better than any civil servant the NYPD has on its payroll.”