Silent Screams s-1

by C. E. Lawrence

  Lee's pulse raced as the man shoved the inhaler back into his pocket. He's asthmatic! Lee's palms began to sweat, and he tried not to stare at the man as he formulated a way to get closer to him without arousing his suspicion. He would approach and ask for a cigarette-no, that wouldn't do, when there were several journalists puffing away just a few yards from him. Something that wouldn't arouse suspicion, something. But as he was trying desperately to think of something, the man folded the notebook and put it into his coat pocket.

  He looked around, until his eyes met Lee's, and a look passed between them. Lee couldn't be sure, but he thought it was a look of recognition on the other's part. The man's eyes locked with his, and-was it his imagination? — he gave a slight nod, as if to say, Yes, it's me. The ghost of a smile flickered on the pallid face. He knows who I am, Lee realized. The man pulled his coat around his lean body and strode rapidly around the side of the church.

  Lee took off after him, but he was forced to go around a group of elderly mourners coming out of the church. Then, as he approached the gaggle of journalists, a short, balding man stepped forward.

  "Excuse me, but aren't you with the NYPD?"

  Taken off guard, Lee stared at him.

  "Well, I-"

  "Yeah, you're the profiler, right? The one who lost his sister?" the man said. "My buddy wrote the story about you a couple of years ago. I recognize you from your picture."

  Lee groaned. He had been the unwilling subject of a "human interest" story when he started working with the police department; someone at the city desk had gotten wind of his appointment, remembered his sister's disappearance, and decided it would make a good story. It did make a good story, but Lee did not enjoy the attention and publicity that followed.

  "Are you working on this case?" the man continued, and then, without waiting for an answer, "Do you have any comments?"

  The others, smelling blood, crowded around him, shouting out questions:

  "How's it going?"

  "Any leads?"

  "What have you figured out about the Slasher?"

  "Will he keep killing until you stop him?"

  "I'm sorry," Lee said, "but I can't comment on an ongoing investigation." Standard fare, and he didn't suppose they would swallow it.

  They didn't.

  He struggled to push through them, murmuring apologies, but they trailed after him, sticking to him like so many leeches in black raincoats. He hurried around to the back of the church, turning the corner of the building just in time to see an old, dark-colored car peel around the bend in the road. He couldn't read the license plate, and he didn't know cars well enough to place the make of this one. It wasn't a late model, and he thought it was American-but he couldn't even be sure about that. Black or dark blue, dented left rear fender-that was all he could see.

  The reporters crowded around him, barking out their questions.

  "Do you think he'll strike again?"

  "Are you any closer to solving it than you were?"

  "Who else is on the special task force?"

  "Are you going to bring in the FBI?"

  When they saw that Lee wasn't going to give them anything, they broke up, peeling away one by one, tucking their notebooks into raincoat pockets before heading off to expense account lunches at local restaurants.

  Well, if it is him, at least now I'm sure he owns a car, Lee thought. But he had been fairly certain of that already. Everything about this guy fit the profile-right down to the inhaler. Lee pulled his coat collar up to his ears and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The rain was coming down harder now, cold little needles stinging his bare skin. He walked briskly toward the train station as the heavens let loose a torrent intense enough to wash clean the transgressions of an entire generation of sinners.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Later, back home in his apartment, Lee looked out the window at the softly falling rain. He thought about his earlier conversation on the phone with Chuck, who had been less than thrilled with his report of his visit to the funeral.

  "Damn reporters-they're like goddamn locusts! I can't believe you couldn't even get a license plate number."

  Lee had no good reply. He didn't feel comfortable vilifying the press, but he had to admit that they had gotten in his way.

  "How do you suppose he got a press pass? Just forged one, I guess?"

  "Probably."

  Chuck was exasperated when Lee admitted that he didn't manage to read the name on his press pass.

  "It was probably a pseudonym anyway," Lee pointed out.

  He had seen the department sketch artist, just in case. Lee had made a vow to himself that he would not forget the lean, ascetic-looking face with the striking yellow eyes and high cheekbones, the Cupid's-bow curve of his mouth. He had looked like a lost little boy, until he smiled-and then he looked like a hungry wolf. The resulting sketch was pretty good, though it failed to convey the feeling Lee had of the twisted personality behind that smile. Butts had already shown the sketch to the victims' families, but none of them recognized him. That didn't surprise Lee-the killer wouldn't be anyone they knew. There was no one who resembled him in the VICAP files, either-again, not surprising. Although Lee still couldn't help feeling he had seen him before…but where? Try as he might, the memory remained shadowy in his mind.

  Lee watched as raindrops gathered in rows on the windowsill, silent silver sentinels standing briefly shoulder to shoulder before sliding to the ground. Why do we bother? he thought. Why fight the same wars over and over, make the same mistakes, slaughter and enslave our fellow human beings? What was the point, really, if we weren't going to evolve as a species? Why should each generation drag themselves through the same tired territory as the one before, if mankind as a whole was not getting wiser, kinder, more enlightened? The mind-numbing repetitiveness of human history was exhausting.

  He felt the old darkness descending, and stood up, forcing his mind away from this train of thought. He needed to monitor thoughts like these before they gained momentum. Depression was like an underground fault line in his emotional life, and he tried hard not fall into that long, slippery slide to the bottom. The wrong thought, a sudden flash of insight, morning sunlight coming in the window in a certain way-anything could set off an episode.

  He forced himself to concentrate on the case files awaiting him on his desk. Just as he sat down at his desk, his cell phone beeped. He picked it up and looked at the screen: NEW TEXT MESSAGE. He forced himself to breathe more slowly as he scrolled down to see the message: That was a close call. Better luck next time.

  He put the cell phone down. Better luck next time. Now he was certain that not only had the Slasher posed as a journalist at Annie's funeral, but he had also sent Lee the messages about his sister. But how could he know details that were never released to the press? It was troubling…very troubling.

  Lee started to dial Chuck, but as he did, his phone rang. He picked it up.

  "Hello?"

  "Heya, Boss. Whaddya know-I finally reached you!"

  "Hi, Eddie."

  "So what's up?"

  Lee hesitated. He wasn't sure how much he should tell Eddie. After all, he wasn't part of the official investigative team. But ever since those dark nights at St. Vincent's, Eddie had been a confidant, confessor, and therapist all rolled into one.

  "I think I saw him today."

  "Jeez. Really?"

  "Yeah. I'm pretty sure."

  "How d'you know?"

  "I don't really want to go into detail over the phone."

  "'Fraid someone might be listening in?"

  "No, not that." The truth was that Lee wanted to get back to work.

  "Hey, you eat yet?"

  "Uh, no."

  "Okay, listen-meet me at the Taj in ten minutes, huh? I'll tell you what Diesel and Rhino have turned up."

  The Taj Mahal was Eddie's favorite Indian restaurant on East Sixth Street, and it was exactly a block and a half from Lee's apartment.

  Lee gl
anced at the clock above his desk. Six-thirty. He would have to eat sooner or later.

  "Okay."

  "Right. Ten minutes. See you then."

  Lee left a message for Nelson on his home phone (Nelson didn't own a cell phone-he considered them a sign of the Apocalypse), and called Chuck on his cell. Chuck didn't answer, so Lee left a message for him too, threw on a coat, and left for the Taj Mahal.

  When Lee arrived, Eddie was already seated, tucking into a basket of pappadam-paper-thin, crispy Indian bread studded with peppercorns. Like most of the other restaurants on Sixth Street, the Taj Mahal was small-long and narrow. Its walls were festooned with a dizzying assortment of decorative lights: colored fairy lights, red-hot chili pepper lanterns, and strings of Christmas lights. All of the Sixth Street restaurant owners seemed to have the same notion of interior decoration. It was always Christmas on Sixth Street. You could see the street from blocks away, flashing, sparkling, glittering, glowing. Lee had tried to come up with a theory to explain the phenomena-some kind of relationship between excessive lighting and spicy food, perhaps. He often imagined the money flowing into the coffers of Con Edison as a result of all of this unbridled luminatory enthusiasm.

  Eddie was seated at his favorite table in the far corner, underneath a billowing canopy of purple cotton fabric. He waved to Lee as he entered.

  "How's it goin', Boss?" he said, popping a piece of golden, crispy pappadam into his mouth. Eddie was in a good mood. But then, Eddie was always in a good mood in public-or pretending to be.

  "Okay," Lee said, taking a seat across from him. "How are you doing?"

  "Oh, just great. You know me-I always land on my feet."

  Lee knew that wasn't true; a suicide attempt had put Eddie in the bed next to his at St. Vincent's. Eddie had slashed both wrists and lay on his bed in an SRO hotel, waiting to die. He hadn't bled out, though, when his neighbor at the Windermere Hotel found him. When Lee met him, his wrists were still heavily bandaged, and he was on daily doses of Haldol.

  Lee must have glanced down at Eddie's wrists involuntarily, because Eddie looked at him sharply.

  "Somethin' wrong, Boss?"

  "No, I was just thinking."

  "Yeah? About what?"

  "About how circumstances bring people together. I mean, if you hadn't been my roommate at St. Vincent's, we wouldn't both be sitting here."

  It was only after Lee played his words back in his head that he realized the implication of what he had just said: one or both of them might be dead.

  "Coupla nut cases, that's what we are. I'll have the vindaloo, extra spicy," Eddie said to the approaching waiter without missing a beat.

  The waiter wrote on his notepad and turned to Lee. "And you, sir?" He was a slim, handsome Indian man with very dark skin and a thatch of glistening black hair.

  "I can never resist a good chicken kurma," Lee said, closing the menu. "Thanks."

  "Very good, sir," the waiter replied. He picked up the menus and withdrew into the kitchen. Indian waiters were always so courteous they made Lee think of the days of the British Raj, when exaggerated manners and politeness covered a desire to murder the occupying white regime.

  After the waiter had gone, Eddie leaned into Lee, his voice quieter.

  "You, uh, been having them again?"

  "What?"

  "You know-urges." Eddie meant suicidal thoughts, but he never used those words, as if saying them would make it too real.

  "No, not lately-thank God," Lee answered. He looked at Eddie. "How about you?"

  "Naw…I'm fit as a fiddle!" Eddie responded a little too vigorously. "Strong as an ox, this boy."

  As if to prove it, he gave a sharp smack to his stomach with his open hand. His belly, while thick, did look hard. Lee didn't believe him, though, and sensed an even greater restlessness in Eddie today-a disquieting, reckless energy.

  "Are you taking your lithium?"

  "Sure I am!" Eddie shot back, a little too fast. Lee was concerned, but didn't want to press his luck. Something told him that if he lingered on Eddie's mental health, his friend would shut down completely. Eddie was a great listener, and they had shared many things during that bleak week in St. Vincent's. Eddie was comfortable playing the role of confidant, but getting him to talk about his own problems was another thing. He liked being in control-in fact, he had let his bipolar disorder deteriorate because he enjoyed the manic phases too much. During that week in St. Vincent's, Eddie had talked about the feeling of freedom, energy, and power, the sweet illusion of omnipotence. It was seductive, and it wasn't hard to see how someone like Eddie could get used to weathering the depressive phases of his disease just so he could get back to the heady whirlwind of the manic state.

  "Look, I think I got somethin' for you," Eddie said as he wolfed down the last of the pappadam.

  "So you said."

  "Oh, not that thing I called about the other day-that turned out to be nothin'. But this I think is really something."

  "What is it?"

  "A guy. A guy who may have seen somethin'."

  "Yeah? This guy-who is he?"

  Eddie looked around the restaurant as though checking for spies, but the only other customers at this hour were a young couple holding hands at the far side of the room. They whispered in the low, intimate tones of lovers, heads bent over the table, their hair shiny in the reflected glow of a thousand tiny lightbulbs.

  "This guy is homeless, okay? Hangs out mostly in Prospect Park. Wouldn't make a great witness in court, but-well, you talk to him. See what you think."

  "How did you find him?"

  Eddie leaned forward. "Remember Diesel and Rhino?"

  Lee laughed. "Remember them? You're kidding, right?"

  Eddie grinned, displaying his crooked, yellowing teeth. "Okay, I guess you don't forget them too easily."

  "No, you don't. They found him?"

  Eddie shoved an entire samosa into his mouth. He chewed once, then swallowed. Lee was reminded of a crocodile-a smiling, yellow-toothed crocodile. "Yeah. They been sort of stakin' out the church, you know? Watchin' it to see who comes, who goes. And this guy's been there a couple a nights in a row. Goes to the soup kitchen on weekends."

  "Okay," he said. "Let me know when and where." Eddie's homely face spread into another broad grin. "Okay, Boss-you got it."

  Chapter Thirty

  They found him sitting on a bench not far from the Prospect Park Boathouse. That part of the park was usually busy, but today few people gathered near the marshy pond at the back of the boathouse. The man was long and thin as the reeds lining the banks of the lake. His stringy gray hair was tied back with a red sock, and he wore the matching sock on his left hand, with holes cut in it so that his fingers poked out. His bony right hand was bare, and the fingers twitched spasmodically from time to time.

  His clothes were decent: a sturdy pair of brown corduroy trousers fastened with a leather belt, tied in a knot because the buckle was missing. Blue and green flannel shirt, also in good shape, over a long red undershirt, clumsily tucked into the pants, bits of it still poking out. A forest green down parka in good condition, wool socks, and leather Docksiders with thick soles completed his outfit. Either someone was taking care of him or he had hit a thrift store jackpot, Lee thought-either way, he was glad the man was warmly dressed. Being homeless wasn't any picnic even in the best weather, but it could be especially brutal in February.

  He watched Lee and Eddie approach with a wary frown.

  "Hiya," said Eddie. "Remember me?"

  "Sure I remember you. You were here with your two bodyguards." The man scrutinized Lee. "This guy doesn't look so impressive. What happened to the other two?"

  Eddie laughed. "This is my weekend bodyguard."

  The man's frown deepened. "No offense," he said to Lee, "but you don't look very scary."

  "I'm not."

  "My friend's name is Lee," Eddie said. "And I'm-"

  "No, don't tell me," the man interrupted. "Larry. Elmer. Pete. Elijah."<
br />
  "Eddie."

  "Right, right-Eddie. I remember now. My friends call me Willow," he said to Lee. Then, with a chuckle that was more like a hiccough, he added, "My enemies don't call me. You won't tell them you saw me, will you?" he asked, his eyes searching Lee's face. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, but radiated a sharp intelligence.

  His face was as long and thin as his body, with cheeks so sunken that they made his protruding buckteeth look even more prominent. His eyes were dark and deeply recessed in their sockets, and Lee didn't know if they were red-rimmed from booze, lack of sleep, disease, or just general ill health.

  "Hey, don't worry," Eddie said. "We won't tell anyone. Here-we brought you somethin'." He dug a carton of Marlboros out from under his jacket. Willow leapt up from the bench and snatched them up eagerly, his eyes gleaming.

  "Thanks! How d'you know my brand?" he asked as he tore away the cellophane wrapping and dug out a pack. He ripped it open and extracted a cigarette, examining it, peering at both ends. "Gotta check for microchips," he said, placing the cigarette in his mouth. He pulled a stainless-steel lighter from his pants pocket and lit the cigarette, sucking on it so deeply that Lee imagined his cheeks touching inside his mouth. He exhaled a plume of blue-gray smoke and smiled blissfully. The expression sat oddly on his lean features, making his face even more grotesque.

  "Oh, that's better," he said, taking another deep drag before settling back down on the bench. The hand holding the cigarette was still, resting on his bony knee, but the other one danced about nervously. He picked at the green chipped paint on the bench, and that seemed to calm him somewhat. His eyes roamed the park, as if trying to spot potential spies and saboteurs. The only people in sight, though, were a young mother rolling a baby in a stroller, and an old man walking a decrepit Boston terrier. Owner and dog shuffled along, both of them arthritic, the dog's bulbous eyes cloudy with age. The man was wrapped in a red wool scarf under his parka, and the dog wore a little red wool coat made from the same material.