The Pie in the Sky Circus was a traveling extravaganza that toured the East Coast, delivering weekends of joy and pleasure. Under three multicolored tents, it featured a “barrelful of clowns,” a troupe of trapeze artists, and a host of animal acts.
It was a bright Friday afternoon when Margaret arrived on the fairgrounds outside of Lester J. Coddinton Elementary School in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. The caller to the Tip Line, a clown named JellyBeans, had told the police to look for a red and yellow camper, just to the right of the big top.
Margaret walked to the camper and knocked on its door.
No one answered.
Just as she was about to knock again, a voice sounded.
“Who ya lookin’ for?”
Margaret followed the voice to the back of the camper, where she found a wafer-thin midget seated on a stool.
“You JellyBeans?” she asked.
“Nope. Ya lookin’ for work. Are ya?” said the little man.
“No. I’m looking for a clown. Goes by the name of JellyBeans.”
“Jelly’s my friend. Whaddya want with him?”
“He’s expecting me,” said the Sergeant.
“He’s expecting you, is he?” The little man squinted as if examining the Trojan Horse.
“That’s right. We spoke on the phone.”
“What’s this all about?”
“It’s personal,” said Margaret, amused.
“I’m on to you Immigration people, ya know. Always buttin’ in and stirrin’ up trouble. You people make me sick.”
“You gonna tell me where JellyBeans is or do I have to bust you for interfering in the investigation of a crime?” Margaret flashed the tin. JellyBeans! Good God!
“You callin’ my friend a criminal? Come down off that high and mighty horse of yours, sister, and fight like a man!” The dwarf climbed down from his stool, not a simple task, and squatted, kung-fu style.
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” said Margaret, laughter now erupting. “Look. I’m not here to arrest anyone. I’m just here to ask your friend a few questions. Like I told you before, JellyBeans is expecting me.”
“Scared the pants off ya, didn’t I?” the dwarf gloated.
“That ya did.”
“Well if you must know, my bestest friend, Jelly, is sleepin’ it off right here in this camper. He drank buckets of swill last night and the show goes on in less than three hours.”
“Would it be asking too much to wake him for me? I’m asking this as a favor, mind you,” said Margaret, fighting the impulse to squat down to the little man’s level.
“Well…okay,” said the dwarf. “Give him a minute to freshen up.”
The dwarf disappeared inside the camper. Shortly after that, he stuck his head outside.
“Da-da-da-dah! His highness, Lord Jellsworth, will see you in his royal chamber! Step right this way.” He held open a rusted screen door.
Margaret entered the narrow camper.
“Follow me!” the dwarf ordered, leading Margaret into what could only be described as the master bedroom. In miniature.
There, stretched across a diminutive bed, lay a second dwarf.
“Please, world, stop spinning,” he pleaded.
“I’m gonna brew us some fresh coffee, Jel. It’ll fix ya right up,” the tiny man said. Then turning to Margaret, “How ’bout you, sweetums? Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Margaret. And, yes, I’d love some coffee.”
“Glad to meet ya,” the dwarf said, exiting. “They call me Hot Stuff.”
With a burst of energy, JellyBeans hoisted himself out of bed.
“Tough night?” asked Margaret.
“My birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday! You’re the one who called the police, right?”
“Sure did!”
“Feel well enough to tell me about this guy they call The Thing?” Margaret asked.
“He done it.”
“He done what?”
“The killings. That’s what he done. There’s no hiding place for him now. Not with his mug all over the news.”
Margaret took out the sketch and handed it to JellyBeans.
“This the guy?”
“The spittin’ image. Bragged about the murders, he did.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Where he always is this time of day, the rascal. In his cage! Look for the red tent.”
“And where would I find that?”
“At the top of the Midway.”
Margaret left just as Hot Stuff reappeared laden with a tray supporting three cups of coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The two would have to eat without her.
Outside, Margaret spotted the red tent and approached it. At its base, “The Thing” was inscribed on a wooden placard advertising the macabre oddity that was featured inside. Some curious thrill seekers had already gathered, waiting to be entertained by what was sure to be a ghastly experience.
The barker lectured the crowd. “The creature you’re about to see once roamed the deserts of Arabia. He is the first of his kind to be captured alive. Do not trust your eyes, gentle visitor. For the manlike being is not human. He only assumes human shape to induce in you a sense of security and safety. Stare bravely into his eyes. Pay attention to his every move. For, if he feels you waver, he will change into an abomination, and before you can say ‘Boo!’ he will feed off your very flesh. Be warned, this exhibit is not for those of you with coronary weaknesses. Pregnant women, and children who suffer from insomnia, should likewise avoid entering these fright-filled halls.” He pulled back a portion of the crimson curtain. “All other brave souls are now invited to enter. Once inside, follow the dimly lit arrows embedded in the stone floor. They will lead you to a wooden door that marks the entrance to his lair.”
They lined up to enter. When it came to Margaret’s turn, the barker asked, “Have you listened closely to the warning, madam? Do you believe in the supernatural?”
“I do.” She lied.
“Are you prone to nightmares?”
“No. Are you?”
“Ghouls have been known to invade dreams.”
“Can’t be any worse than my day job.”
“Enter, then, at your own risk,” he cautioned, gesturing theatrically toward the opening in the curtain.
Aligante did just that and followed the illuminated arrows, which led through a winding corridor. Howling and yelping sounds echoed around her. Some twenty feet in, she came upon the door, which opened automatically. She ducked inside and found herself in a small auditorium that had stadium seating. The crowd that had preceded her had already taken their seats. Margaret joined them. An eerie silence filled the theater, broken intermittently by the giggles of wide-eyed children.
A drum sounded, sending a chill through the audience. Lights came on, illuminating a small stage. In its center stood the barker holding a cattle prod.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your last warning,” he cautioned. “What you’re about to witness will frighten the most courageous of men. Remember, The Thing is not of our world, nor, sadly enough, since his capture, his own. This creature belongs to a species long cursed by all of humanity, a living anathema to God. And mind you, he has not eaten human flesh since his nightly foraging in the Arabian desert, where he feasted on unfortunate nomads. But he can wait hundreds of years for his next meal. I further caution you, ladies and gentlemen, if you wear a cross, you are warned not to wear it inside your clothing. Display it boldly as an emblem of your faith. Your faith, the very essence of safe haven for you. An abomination for him.”
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 melo
dious 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 raised 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 Broo
klyn’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.
The Screaming Room Page 14
