“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 established 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.”
Driscoll studied Shewster’
s face. He saw a grieving parent looking for closure. The Lieutenant’s own mirror had returned that look many times. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Chapter 37
WELCOME TO THE NEW YORK AQUARIUM
After he used his Discover card to gain admittance, a strong smell of fish assaulted his sinuses. He popped a stick of Doublemint into his mouth and listened to the voice that boomed over the site’s loudspeaker: “Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, it’s four o’clock. Time to feed the dolphins! Come join us in Pavilion Four.”
The announcement caused a stir in the crowd. Families scurried toward the Big Top, where a school of dolphins were sheltered from the sun.
Joining the crowd, he climbed the steps of the bleachers, found a comfortable seat, and scanned the spectators. There were no sailor’s caps to be found. Had he said baseball cap? There were dozens of those. Nah. That wouldn’t be likely. It had to be a sailor’s cap. He adjusted his. Although he felt somewhat like a dork, it was a British one, like he’d been asked. The Royal Navy issue porkpie cap stood out. Perhaps he’d be spotted first.
“Quite a show they put on,” the woman beside him murmured, eyes fixed on the dolphins swimming in tandem. “Wow! Did you catch that, Brendan?”
Her four-year-old nodded. “Mommy, can I open my Cracker Jacks now?”
“Sure,” she said, stroking the side of the child’s face.
“Love that caramel corn, myself,” said the man, feeling awkward, being the only adult without child. “Battery went dead on my digital,” he lied. “Caught some good shots of the sharks, though.”
The woman smiled. “A photography buff?”
“Do some freelance for the local papers. Work the zoos, the parks.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Mommy, is this a peanut or a bug?”
While the mother examined the oddly shaped nugget, he scanned the bleachers. No sailor’s cap. He checked his watch. He was sure they were to hook up at 4:00. It was now 4:20.
Ten minutes later, feeding time was over. He watched the crowd spill from the stands.
“It was nice chatting,” said the woman, guiding her youngster down the steps.
“Same here,” he replied.
What should I do? In about ninety seconds I’m gonna look pretty dumb sitting here alone.
He decided to find a secluded area and call the number he had used to arrange the get-together. He found a path that led to a fieldstone tunnel. There was no one else in sight.
Chapter 38
“The suspects have either changed their MO again, or they’ve gotten sloppy,” said Margaret, who, along with Thomlinson, had been invited to a brainstorming session in the Lieutenant’s office. “The ME says the victim was struck twice on the left temple before being scalped, not the right parietal like all the others. And it doesn’t look like the perp stopped to pose the body. The vic was found curled inside a tunnel.”
“Could be a copycat,” said Thomlinson. “He’d know about the scalping from the papers.”
“What do we got on the victim?” Driscoll asked.
“One Francis Palmer from San Antonio, Texas. Like Miss Moneybags, not exactly a tourist. He was in town for an Internet convention. Headed up a company that designed Web sites for entrepreneurial self-starters. The guy’s got a prior, John. He was busted three years ago for child molestation.”
“Now there’s a connection. These twins have a beef with sexual abusers. That’s evident by the tattoos on the scalps. That makes the killings far from random. We may be dealing with vengeful executions. Anything yet from Interpol?”
“On it,” said Thomlinson, dashing out of the office.
“Why’d our guy at the aquarium get two hits?” Margaret pondered aloud.
“Crime Scene may have the answer to that one. It could be a simple one. The blood trail might suggest the first blow didn’t kill him. He lunges for his assailant and whack! He gets it again. Whatever the reason, I don’t think they’re getting sloppy. And I don’t buy into the copycat theory. I think they’ve turned their anger up a notch. The fact that the body wasn’t posed says to me the killer was rushed—interrupted by someone approaching.”
“Or he didn’t want to spend more time with the scumbag than he had to.”
Driscoll recognized revulsion in the Sergeant’s voice. He fought back the impulse to take her by the hand. Seeking diversion, he picked up the black-and-white photo of the twins. “What turned you two kids into a pair of revenge-seeking killers?” he asked, staring into the eyes of the Kodak-captured innocents.
“My money’d be on the father,” said Margaret, looking like she was about to spit.
Driscoll closed the door to his office. He knew Margaret intimately. Her past was no secret to him. He knew it’d just be a matter of time before this revelation of sexual abuse would stir unwelcome memories.
“Would it help if we talked about it?” he said, taking a seat on the edge of his desk.
Margaret slumped in her chair as if her body were a blowup doll that someone had pricked with a needle. “Is it this case?…I don’t know. I feel sorta stretched. About everything. So stretched, that I tried to reach my therapist from when I was a kid. She’s the only one I know. And wouldn’t you know it. The woman’s dead. I gotta be honest with you, John, working with you, now, after the death of your wife…”
She stopped talking and scrunched her face. “You know I have feelings for you. That’s a given. And I know you have feelings for me. I also know you need time to grieve. But it hasn’t been easy for me to sit on those feelings. Especially since her death. Jesus! Look at me! You’ve lost your wife. Your emotions must be doing somersaults, and I’m complaining about pining. Grow up, Margaret! But that’s the problem. When it comes to men, I’m like an eighth grader, for Chrissake! I needn’t go into detail. We both know why. Just when I think I got a handle on things, this sexual abuse bombshell explodes in my face. It puts me back in Mary Janes and a training bra with my old man peeping through the keyhole to my bedroom!”
Margaret began to cry. This time, Driscoll took her by the hand. “I can have you reassigned. No one need know why.”
“My emotional baggage is like lint. It’s in my pocket no matter where I go.”
“I have a therapist. I don’t see her much. But she was there for me after Colette’s accident. Her name is Elizabeth. You’d like her.”
Margaret used her hands to wipe tears from her cheeks. Her expression was one of embarrassment. “Look at me. Some gun-totin’ detective, huh?”
“A human gun-totin’ detective,” Driscoll said with a smile.
“I’m glad we had this time, John. I miss what we had.”
“What we have,” Driscoll said. “I’m just in for repair.”
Chapter 39
The following morning Driscoll was seated at his desk, perusing the Crime Scene report from the aquarium, when Margaret sauntered in. She appeared out of sorts. After sitting down, she robotically reported that her inquiry into any reported rapes, between siblings or otherwise, in and around Oak Flat, West Virginia, during 1990, had turned up nothing. In retrospect, Driscoll wished he had given the assignment to Thomlinson.
“You okay?”
“Will be.”
“My door is always open.”
“I know. Thank you. I’ll be fine. What I need now is distraction. What’s that you’re reading?”
Driscoll hesitated.
“It’s okay, John. The incest inquiry is behind me. It’ll help if I stay focused on what’s to come.”
He smiled at her. “You know…”
“You gonna tell me what you’re reading or do I have to grab the damn file?”
“It’s the forensics report on Francis Palmer’s blood evidence. Their reenactment of the assault suggests he was stationary when both blows were inflicted to his head. I’m thinking something pissed off our assassin.” Driscoll was about to help himself to a cup of squad room coffee when his desk phone rang.
“Drisc
oll, here.”
“You’ve got mail,” the caller said and hung up. Driscoll hadn’t a clue to the caller’s identity.
He powered on his IBM desktop and was immediately connected to the department’s Web site. He clicked on his mailbox, eyes on the screen. There, superimposed under a red and white bull’s-eye, was the face of a male adolescent with wavy blond hair, the color of hay, and piercing aquamarine eyes. To the right of the face was a small speaker icon that Driscoll clicked. The prerecorded voice of Malcolm Shewster sounded through the desktop’s speaker.
“John, whoever or whatever you’re pursuing is yesterday’s news. This is our boy! My team of specialists is to be commended. You now have what you wanted from the start. The sister will have the same face, give or take a few curls. Take a good look into those eyes, John. He’s out there and he’s daring you to nab him. And nab him you will. Set your eyes on the prize. And, John, you may as well get used to looking at that face because this afternoon its hits every newsstand and newswire in the nation with something the city has left out. A hefty bounty. And that’s only step one in a full-scale Shewster alliance. Over and out. For now.”
Driscoll’s eyes locked on Margaret’s. “Alliance? The man asked me if he could have his team project a current-day likeness of the twins. That’s all. What’s with the hefty bounty and an alliance? I never agreed to any alliance.”
“Usually, grieving parents are Lone Rangers.”
“I know. So far the only alliance he’s made is with our evidence and our investigation. This guy’s made his fortune on the backs of people, not hand in hand with them. He’s gotten himself very involved in this case. Just how far does that involvement go? The man’s up to something. I’m sure of it. Which means you and I are gonna keep a short leash on him.”
Chapter 40
The Screaming Room Page 11
