Several members of the audience followed his suggestion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will now lower the house lights so The Thing will be unable to see you. It is important, from here on out, that you remain absolutely silent. For your safety, he must believe that he is alone. And now the time has come for you to meet the demon. The demon from hell.”
Darkness ensued. A whisper of a melodious flute sounded as a yellow spotlight crept across center stage. As the light grew in intensity, The Thing became visible. The creature, appearing to be part lizard and part man, had batlike wings and a face like that of a gargoyle. It was perched on the branch of a tree, inside a large cage. Its left ankle was chained to the tree’s trunk. The crowd was silent; not even a breath could be heard.
“Not bad at all,” Margaret muttered, sliding a stick of Wrigley’s into her mouth.
The barker approached the cage, drawing a snarl from the creature. He tossed what appeared to be a leg of lamb into the cage.
A child, invisible in the darkness, whimpered, causing the creature to fix his stare in the direction of the sound. Leaping, the creature smashed hard against the reinforced bars of his cage. He bared his teeth, let loose a screech, and flayed the air with his claws. His eyes glowed with light.
“Oh, my God!” the child’s mother cried.
A clash of drums and a flash of light. A curtain came tumbling down, separating the beast from the stunned audience.
The house lights came on and the crowd, still spellbound, spilled down from their seats and milled toward the door they had entered. Margaret lingered behind and approached the barker.
“I wish to speak to the ghoul.”
“Is your life so meaningless that you would risk such an encounter?”
“It is a remarkable act, I’ll give you that. But an act nonetheless.” She flashed her shield.
“Come with me,” the barker said, begrudgingly, and escorted Margaret through a second maze of corridors. He knocked at a door, adorned by a paper star
“Open up. It’s me,” he said. “You have company.”
“Why does he keep his door locked?” Margaret asked.
“Beats the hell out of me.”
There was a shuffle of footfalls followed by the sound of the lock disengaging.
“You’re on your own,” said the barker.
“Whaddya want?” The Thing’s voice snarled through a crack in the door.
Margaret produced her shield and poked it through the opening. “What say you and I get better acquainted?”
Margaret heard the chain fall. The door opened wide. She stood staring into the eyes of a wafer-thin figure, clad in a plaid bathrobe; his face was covered with cold cream. She thought of the sketch and tried to envision it covered in shaving gel.
“Who sent ya?”
“Why don’t we step inside so we can talk?”
“Okay by me.”
She followed him into a dark room where a votive candle burned, casting ominous shadows on the walls. In the far corner, a twenty-five-watt bulb barely lit a vanity, complete with a large mirror. Margaret inhaled the aroma of marijuana.
“Weed. That explains the infrared eyes.”
“That’s not my poison. Alfonzo smokes the dope. Not me.”
“Alfonzo?”
“The barker,” he said, using a towel to wipe away the facial cleanser.
Not a match, but close enough, thought Margaret, as his face emerged. She placed a hand on her Walther PPK firearm.
It was as though he had read her mind.
“Ah! I know why you’re here. You think I’m the serial killer who knocked off those tourists. Which one of the trained monkeys turned me in?”
“You’re telling me you’re not our boy?”
“I spotted the likeness on the tube and thought I’d have some fun with the wee folk. C’mon, do I look like a killer?”
“In the costume or out?”
Margaret eyed him cautiously as he reached under the vanity and produced a copy of the Daily News with the sketch on its cover. “Boo!”
“Murder isn’t funny.”
“Sorry.”
Margaret studied him. He appeared to be a little older than their profile, and her instinct suggested his Thing routine was as far as he had ever gotten toward aggression, but she did have a job to complete. “You know you’d save us both a lot of time and bother if you’d be willing to give us a sample of your DNA.”
“Blood, spit, or urine?”
“How ’bout you just say ‘ah’ and let me swab the inside of your mouth?”
“You’re the boss.”
Margaret collected the DNA sample. “You got a name?”
“Lance.”
“Lance what?”
“Robert Lance.”
Margaret used a felt-tip marker to label the DNA bag, then dated it and dropped it into her purse.
“That’s it?” he said.
“What? You were expecting a nurse with a syringe?”
He shrugged.
“This specimen will do one of two things, Mr. Lance,” said Margaret, heading for the door. “It’ll clear you or guess what?”
“What?”
“You’ll get that syringe. But they’ll call it lethal injection.”
Chapter 52
Driscoll had finally edged his way out of a parking space where two motorists had him close to bookended, when the call came in from Thomlinson.
“You’re gonna love this one, Lieutenant. We just got a call from a sergeant at the Eighty-fourth Precinct. They had a visitor. One Samantha Taft, a salesclerk at a thirty-minute photo shop on Montague Street. Said she recognized Angus in the sketch. But there’s more. Much more! You ready?”
“Ready.”
“She’s got his picture!”
Driscoll exited the Chevy near the corner of Montague and Henry streets, just west of Brooklyn’s Borough Hall. Walking east on Montague, he found the shop. A bell chimed as he opened its door.
“May I help you?”
Driscoll’s gaze fell upon a young woman whose scarlet blouse matched the streak of red in her otherwise jet-black hair.
“Samantha Taft?”
“Wow! You guys are fast! Cop, right?”
“You the one who stopped by the police station about the sketch featured on TV?”
“And you get right to the point. Double wow!” She scooted out from behind a free-standing device that resembled an MRI machine. “Got the sketch with ya? I’d like to see the two faces close-up.”
“So would I.” Driscoll leaned on the shop’s counter, bringing himself eye level with the girl. “How is it you happened upon his particular picture? You must see thousands every day.”
“The guy’s face is plastered everywhere you look! Not just on television. You’d hafta be from Neptune not to have seen it. Anyway, we’ve got a sixty-day rule here. The owner of a processed film that hasn’t been picked up after two months gets a call. You’d be amazed at the number of people who simply forget about their pictures. I would have brought it with me to the precinct, but it’s not supposed to leave the store unless paid for.” She reached under the counter and produced a white envelope with orange stenciling and embossed numerals.
Driscoll eyed the envelope. In the space for the customer’s name and address someone, perhaps this young lady, had penciled in “Cash.”
“Pretty tough to make a call on this one,” he said.
“Yup! You can thank Harold for that.”
“Harold?”
“Part-timer. Works the weekends. Not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, if ya know what I mean. That’s what made me peek inside. Sometimes I’ll spot a regular’s face in the photographs. Then I’ll have someone to call. But it wasn’t some customer’s face I spotted. It was your guy’s.”
Driscoll opened the envelope and retrieved its contents.
“He’s numero twenty-two,” she said. “The last shot before the pansies at play.”
Driscoll r
aised a curious eyebrow at Taft’s remark, then fanned the array of photographs. The dimly lit panorama of the New York City skyline came to life. And, just as the sales clerk had said, he found what he was looking for in photo number twenty-two, which he placed on the counter before him. It was a clear shot of a hooded Caucasian male running away, his head, though, clearly turned back toward the camera. The backdrop of the photo featured Brooklyn’s skyline, which was of course what one would see if one were situated atop the Brooklyn Bridge, looking east. And, Driscoll knew all too well what the subject of the photograph was looking at. His handiwork. A fatally wounded man, taking a photograph that would speak for him from the grave.
Driscoll retrieved Shewster’s sketch from his pocket, flattened it on the countertop, and compared it to the photo. Not an exact match. But close nonetheless. It would appear Malcolm Shewster’s team was well trained. He turned his attention to the remaining photographs. The “pansies at play” shots featured a bevy of naked men having sex. In shocking detail.
“No other records for who might have brought this film in, huh?”
The salesclerk shook her head. But Driscoll already had an answer to the question. He’d first close the case. But after that, he’d have Margaret pay another visit to Mr. Drag Queen himself, Kyle Ramsey.
“I’ll need to take the picture.”
“Figured you would. But what the hell. It’s not like anybody’s gonna know it’s gone.”
Driscoll thanked Taft and left the store. It was apparent that Ramsey had stolen the dead man’s camera. But Ramsey being at the scene was probably the reason the killer hadn’t retrieved the camera himself. Judging from the photograph, the killer must have seen the victim aiming the camera at him, but the victim was no longer alone. Kyle Ramsey was now in the picture. The picture caught by the eye of a fleeing demon.
Chapter 53
Traffic was at a standstill on Chambers Street leading to the ramp for the Brooklyn Bridge, where a construction team had chosen rush hour to cordon off two of the bridge’s three eastbound lanes. The congestion caused a tie-up on all connecting arteries. While Driscoll waited impatiently behind the wheel, he took out a pad and jotted down Samantha Taft’s name and circled it in dollar signs. Malcolm Shewster may end up cutting her a check for a million in cash. Driscoll would make sure she got it. Unless Shewster had worked some loophole into the offering. His suspicion of the man was growing. It’d be just a matter of time before he discovered what role he played in all of this.
As if someone lifted a gate up ahead, traffic began to flow. The Chevy’s low-fuel light had been on for awhile. He prayed he’d reach home before running out of gas. Seeking distraction, he ran through the case in his mind. The DNA, collected by Margaret from the circus fiend, had proved to be a no-hit. That realization caused him to glance at the copy of the Daily News that occupied the cruiser’s passenger seat. The sketched face of one of the killers stared back at him. “End of chapter, my friend. I’ve got the real deal.” He patted his breast pocket that contained the photograph. The silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of his cell phone.
“Driscoll, here.”
It was Thomlinson again, with an update.
“Lieutenant, we just got a call from a Greyhound bus driver. Says the photo in the Post fits the bill for one of a pair of kids he’s been transporting from Carbondale into the city for the past few months.
“Only one of a pair?”
“Says his regular ride-along might be his sister.”
“Might?”
“The girl’s face is disfigured.”
And that’s why no one called them in as twins. “Cedric, remind me to buy you a box of cigars.”
It was close to six o’clock when Driscoll pulled his cruiser to the curb outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Tossing a police “Official Business” card onto the dash, he hurried out of the car and ducked inside. Following Thomlinson’s instructions, he headed through the crowd for the northwestern corner and found the Greyhound Bus Lines customer service booth.
“I’m looking for Ted Clarkson. One of your drivers,” Driscoll announced, flashing his shield to the rotund lady manning the booth.
“He in some sorta trouble?”
“No, ma’am. Just need to ask him some questions.”
“Ted just finished his route. You’re likely to find him in the busman’s lounge. That’d be on the second floor. Take the escalator over there. When you get to the top, make an about-face. You’ll be looking right at it.”
Driscoll found the lounge. It was occupied by three drivers.
“Ted Clarkson?” Driscoll called out.
One of the men pointed to a door behind Driscoll marked “Men’s Room.”
In a minute, Clarkson came out. He was dressed in bus operator blue and sported a well-trimmed mustache. Being overweight must be one of the union rules, Driscoll reasoned. The buttons on the man’s shirt looked as though they were about to pop. He appeared to be in his late forties, early fifties, but was probably younger, the extra poundage adding to his age. He had a gentle manner about him and a jovial face.
“Ted Clarkson?” Driscoll asked.
“That’d be me.”
“I’m Lieutenant Driscoll,” he said, holding out his shield and department ID. “You called about the photo?”
“You like doughnuts?”
An odd response, Driscoll thought. “Who doesn’t?”
“C’mon. We can talk while we eat.”
They found a Dunkin’ Donuts shop.
“I’m hooked on their crullers,” said Clarkson as the two men entered the store.
“Make it two crullers,” Driscoll said to the slim blonde behind the counter. Driscoll smiled at the irony of finding a thin salesclerk serving up goodies to the heavyset Clarkson.
They sat across from each other at a Formica-topped table. Clarkson wrapped his chubby hands around the Styrofoam cup of coffee while Driscoll placed the suspect’s photo on the table.
“Still look familiar?”
“Yup. That’s him. Feel a little sorry for the girl. Her face bein’ all scarred up and all.”
Clarkson wouldn’t be so empathetic had he gotten a look at their handiwork. “Tell me all you know about him and his tagalong.”
“I’m figuring they gotta live somewhere near Carbondale. That’s where they get on the bus. Every other week or so, for the past few months. They get on alone. They hand me their tickets and take their seats in the rear of the bus. It’s near the beginning of the run so the bus is pretty much empty. Here’s the puzzler. After they settle in, they take out this game board.”
“Game board?” Driscoll felt the rush of adrenaline.
“Yeah, a game board. Sorta like Candy Land. Only this one sings.”
“Sings? What does it sing?”
“‘New York, New York.’”
“Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York’?”
“That’d be the one.”
The Lieutenant’s mind raced. He envisioned the pair aboard the bus. If he reached out his hand, he felt he could touch them. Excitement filled him. He sensed closure. Not surprisingly, though, he also felt sadness. He thought of the twins and their wretched childhood. He wondered what he’d have done if someone had abducted his Nicole and subjected her to such cruelty.
“Tell me more,” he said.
“One day, I smelled cigarette smoke coming from the back of the bus. ‘Oh, jeeez,’ I said. ‘It’s gotta be the kids.’ I pulled over to the shoulder and went to see what they were up to. I find them smoking cigarettes, rolling dice, and moving these pieces around their board.”
“What did the board look like?”
“Like I said before. Like Candy Land. You remember. The one with all the colors, where you moved your pieces around a winding track. Only this one had a map on it.”
“A map of what?” Driscoll had the answer as soon as he heard himself ask the question. Of course, the city of New York!
“Wish I co
uld help ya there, Lieutenant. I never looked at it up close.” Clarkson took a bite of his cruller. “Anyway, I pointed to the ‘No Smoking’ sign. ‘A five-hundred-dollar fine,’ I said. You know what these crazies did? They used the tips of their fingers to snuff out the butts!”
Driscoll’s eyes narrowed. “Anything else about these kids you can tell me?”
“Not much else to tell.”
“They ever threaten anyone on the bus?”
“Nope.” Clarkson downed the last of his coffee.
Driscoll stood up. He felt like an overwound machine. In his head he was already on the road to Carbondale. “You’ve been a great help. If you remember anything else, give me a call.” He handed Clarkson his card, then headed for the store’s exit, but stopped when he heard the man call out.
“There is something else, Lieutenant. I just remembered.”
“And what is that?”
“Every night at the end of my shift I check the bus for lost items. I use my flashlight, ya know, ’cause the light on the bus isn’t that good. One night I found this little metal statue. It looked like something I’d seen before, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure what that was. Anyway, I found it near where the kids were sitting. It’s probably still in the glove compartment of the bus.”
“Let’s go get it.” Another rush of adrenaline.
They went to the depot, where Clarkson climbed aboard his bus and rummaged through the glove compartment.
“Here it is.” It was a miniature figurine of a church with two spires. “Whaddya make of it?”
Driscoll wrapped his hand around the object like he would a trophy awarded him for winning a marathon. He was closing in. The unfamiliar mix of excitement and sadness swirled within him. “In my business, we’ve found that most serial killers are collectors. It lets them relive the exhilaration of their sport. This item was either bought or swiped from the gift shop where they committed their last murder. That, my friend, is Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”
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