In seconds, they swept from one end of the house to the other. Besides the chirping of a canary and the skittering of a calico cat, the place was deserted.
“Secure!” the team leader shouted.
Driscoll entered. In what appeared to be the living room, he spotted a padlocked door.
“Break that down,” he ordered.
An officer, using a two-foot industrial cable-cutter, made short work of the padlock. When the door swung open, Driscoll stood staring at a set of steps that led downward. Three members of the SWAT team rushed past him and hurried down the steps. “Secure!” sounded within seconds. The Lieutenant descended into a small cellar. There was an opening behind the furnace that led into a windowless room where a faint smell of copper lingered. He recognized the scent. It was the characteristic odor of dried blood. Who or what was slaughtered in here? he wondered. In the center of the room was a table. On it sat a cardboard box with “New York, New York” scrawled in felt-tipped marker across its top.
Driscoll donned a pair of latex gloves and opened the box. It contained a game board. Its surface was a map of the city of New York. A snaking trail of one-inch squares meandering in and about the five boroughs. At the site of each landmark, the square appeared to be raised. He traced his finger along the path, beginning in the northwestern corner of Brooklyn, up and onto the Brooklyn Bridge. There, he depressed the square. Something metallic sounded, followed by Sinatra’s voice singing “New York, New York.”
“Who had made such a game?” he asked Thomlinson, who was now at his side. He turned his attention back to the game box and saw a velour pouch, stuffed in its own cardboard compartment. He emptied its contents into his hand. Miniature representations of city landmarks crowded his palm. He had found more trophies. As if the scalps weren’t enough. They included an inch-high tin replica of a carousel. Driscoll recognized it as matching the one on Coney Island’s Surf Avenue, a stone’s throw from the Wonder Wheel, where the body of the second victim had been discovered. There was also a silver charm bracelet, dangling an imitation sapphire. He was sure he’d be able to trace that one back to the gift shop at the museum. He fingered a two-inch brass-plated model of an aircraft carrier; surely from the Intrepid Sea, Air, and Space Museum. There was a small magnet characterizing Central Park, and a tiny orangutan; no doubt from the Bronx Zoo. Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, the bus operator’s find, was indeed missing. But, so, too, was any item relating to the murder on the Brooklyn Bridge. That he found odd. Still, he allowed the rush of adrenaline to warm him.
“Lieutenant, whaddya make of that?” Thomlinson was gesturing to an item, sitting on the floor, in the corner of the room.
The two lawmen approached. They stood staring at a small square package covered in newsprint that had been wrapped in such a fashion so as to showcase Angus’s sketch. Smoke rings, which had been penciled in, spewed from his mouth. Driscoll and Thomlinson exchanged glances. Glances that read caution. They may have happened upon something they wish they hadn’t.
“Everybody out!” hollered the Lieutenant.
Chapter 56
For Driscoll and the platoon of law enforcement personnel, it had been a tense fifty minutes, spent three hundred yards away from the perimeter of the house. Some quelled their anxieties by exchanging war stories while Driscoll pondered what his next move might be. The Lieutenant, knowing he was closing in, wanted to get closer.
His radio crackled, dispelling the stillness that hung in the country air: “All clear.”
Eager to find out what was inside the package, he and Thomlinson drove to the house. Two officers, clad in blast protective tactical body armor, were waiting there for them.
“It’s all yours, Lieutenant, and many returns of the day,” one of the officers said with a grin as he handed a box to Driscoll.
The Lieutenant was holding a wooden coffer. Teak, he believed. On its exterior was an expertly carved Native American whom Driscoll recognized immediately as Sinister, the same Manhattan tribe warrior featured on his and every New York police officer’s shield. “Cute,” he said, before lifting the lid.
Inside was a piece of clay pottery. It stood about three inches tall and an inch and a half wide. Its body, supported by three fixed feet, resembled a bowl with strawlike stems protruding from its sides in the four cardinal directions. A small envelope was attached. Driscoll opened the envelope and retrieved a white card. He read from it. “Sorry we’re not here to greet you. My face plastered across everything but the freaking Goodyear blimp told us you’d soon make a visit to Carbondale. Lieutenant Driscoll, you got to have a heart. Don’t you think we suffered enough? This here’s a Catawba peace pipe. We’re hoping to share it?”
Chapter 57
Margaret fidgeted with her fingers as she studied the woman seated across from her. Elizabeth Fahey, psychotherapist extraordinaire, was what Driscoll had called her. Margaret hoped his accolade was appropriate. She was as he had described: an attractive redhead with sparkling green eyes and a gentle demeanor.
“You said on the phone you wanted to discuss some childhood fears that have resurfaced,” Fahey said. “I think it best I get to know a little more about you. Would you feel comfortable with that?”
Margaret inhaled deeply. Then nodded. She was one tough cop but the thought of embarking on a journey of self-exploration scared her half to death.
Fahey crossed her legs, placed her hands on her lap, and smiled. It appeared to Margaret she was eager to listen. But was Margaret eager to talk?
“Where do I start?”
“Anywhere you’d like.”
“Okay. I’m a police officer. I work with John Driscoll. I suppose you’re aware of that since John referred me to you.” Margaret caught herself editing her words. Should I be calling him John? she wondered. Focus. Make this more about you. “I was raised in Brooklyn in a typical Italian family.” She stopped abruptly. “Well, maybe, not typical. But Italian. Catholic Italian. We attended Mass on Sunday. I wore a new outfit on Easter. And attended parochial school…”
Margaret looked down at the floor and shook her head. The gesture did not go unnoticed.
“Sounds like an idyllic childhood.”
Margaret knew better and was willing to bet Fahey did too.
“Look at me. I’m acting like those zealots who drape themselves in enough scapulas and Saint Anthony medals to choke a horse! Rambling about a childhood steeped in allegiance to the Catholic Church, Easter Sunday, and goddamn parochial school as if it would all protect me now. Hell, it didn’t then!” Moisture coated Margaret’s eyes.
“Define ‘maybe not typical.’”
Margaret smiled. “We’re there already! Wow! I’ve been hovering an inch above solid ground for over thirty years. You ask me for a snapshot of my life. And in less than a minute I stumble over the word ‘typical’ and wham! We zero in on why I’m here.”
“We have?”
“I was in therapy once before. In my teens. It seemed to take a lot longer back then to get to the crux of the problem.”
“I’m not sure we’re there yet. But we’re circling. What was so untypical about your family?”
Margaret felt like she had been asked to dive into a freshly dug grave. She’d been caught. On some level, she had hoped she could get away with hinting that her childhood was anything but ordinary and leave it at that. The mere notion of exploring it further shot splinters of fear through her marrow.
“Let’s see. My cousin Tony owned a pizza shop. Both grandmothers dressed only in black. And that was long before it was considered voguish. We ate pasta every Sunday. I had four brothers and three sisters. And if that wasn’t atypical enough, my father…”
Fahey was watching a woman desperately try to distance herself from her inner demons. It was not uncommon for a patient to use levity, in this case tinged with sarcasm, to avoid dancing with the devil.
“You were about to tell me about your father. What was he like?”
She had a delicate way
of probing. “I like you, Elizabeth. I was told you were kindhearted. I’m finding that to be true.”
Margaret had sidestepped the question. Fahey found self-preservation to be a curious mechanism. For many it was in-born. For others it was clutched after.
“That Lieutenant Driscoll! You’ve got to love the man. How do you and he get along?” the therapist asked.
There’s no stopping this one. Margaret felt like she was being led through a minefield, but was comforted in knowing she wasn’t making the trek alone. She also knew the course was skillfully plotted and designed to help, but an inner voice yelled caution.
“The Lieutenant is a gem. We get along famously,” she said.
“A minute ago you called him John. He’s your boss, right?”
Zapped again! Margaret searched Fahey’s eyes for escape. Outmaneuvered, she succumbed to the inevitable. “He’s part of the reason I’m here. I’m guessing this is way out of bounds, but has he discussed me with you?”
“Out of bounds? Hmm…what say we keep it in bounds by you discussing him with me. With emphasis on the part about him being part of the reason you’re here.”
Yup. She earned her title. Psychotherapist extraordinaire fit. “You know what’s funny. I’ve got this sudden urge for a cigarette and I haven’t smoked a day in my life.”
“Some crave nicotine. Others, scotch. But it’s a good sign. It means you’re seriously considering the exploration of your inner self. The mind goes to great lengths to protect the journeyer. It’s suggesting a sedative.”
“Not a bad idea. You wouldn’t happen to have a jumbo-sized Prozac on hand, would you?”
“I wish it were that easy.”
Margaret felt dizzy. Trepidation was on the rise.
“At your pace, Margaret.”
“I was hoping our hour was up.”
“My Timex has a slow second hand.”
Margaret exhaled sharply and stared at the therapist. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Anywhere you’d like.”
“Okay. Here goes,” she said, slapping the tops of her legs. “Since I’ve confided to you that my boss is one of the reasons I’m here, I’ll begin with him. John and I have this thing going on. I’m not sure what else to call it. When we worked our last case, we realized we had feelings for each other and eventually let it be known. He was married. To Colette, who I’m betting you know was in an irreversible coma and was being cared for at home. He loved his wife. Adored her. And this man’s moral fiber is forged in steel. The investigation called for us to work side by side for hours on end. One night, after a grueling day, we ended up at my apartment. It was supposed to be for a bite to eat. But I think we both knew we were flirting with trouble. After actually sharing a meal, one thing led to another and before we knew it, we were in each other’s arms sharing a kiss. And then another. We knew what came next. At two in the morning, just as we were about to give in to passion, his cell phone rang. For a homicide honcho a call in the middle of the night is not unusual. But the call was from his wife’s nurse. Colette had stopped breathing. Care to take a stab at what happened next?”
“He headed for the door?”
“Like the place was on fire.” Margaret sighed and grew silent.
“Still jones’n for that cigarette?” Fahey asked.
“The scotch too!” She gave Fahey a crooked smile. “As it turned out, his wife had resumed breathing by the time he’d gotten home, still comatose, but breathing. But that put the kibosh on things. The next day, he told me he was filled with guilt and asked if we could slow things down. I got the sense he was hoping for a complete stop. The days that followed…. Who am I kidding? The weeks that followed were awkward. We weren’t making any headway on the case, so that only added to the frustration. But the investigation gave us something to focus on, aside from our feelings.”
“What feelings did you experience throughout this ‘thing,’ as you call it? He was married, no?”
“If you’re wondering about my guilt, yes, I endured the shame of being the other woman, but what was really nagging me was something else. Something far more dreadful.”
Margaret prided herself on being able to detect and decipher body movements, an attribute in her profession. Fahey had leaned forward in her chair. An inch. No more. Was she spreading a net for the freefall Margaret was about to take? She certainly hoped so.
“My father repeatedly raped me when I was a child.”
Margaret expected the walls to reverberate. Instead, silence settled. But only for a moment.
“I’m very sorry,” Fahey said. “Would it be all right if we talked about it?”
“I believed it was my fault, Elizabeth. Isn’t that the damnedest thing? For years. My fault.” Tears welled. “He was my father! A man who could do no wrong. He was even a cop, for Chrissake!” Margaret stared down at the floor as memories swirled. “He’d come into my room. Three or four times a week. Some nights he would straddle me; cover my mouth with his hand.” Margaret looked up. Her cheeks were red, stained with tears. Her chin was trembling. She cast doelike eyes at Fahey. “Sometimes he would lay back and have me get him off. Said my hands were sent by God. Lambskin wonders, he called them. Other nights he was more adventurous. Adventurous. I was eleven years old and my father is teaching me how to su—” Margaret choked; her face falling into cupped hands. She sobbed uncontrollably, while gasping for air.
Fahey had witnessed many a meltdown. She was always moved with pity. But her feelings of empathy were stronger this time. Undoubtedly because of the relationship she had with a central character in this woman’s life: John Driscoll, a man whose life was likewise riddled by trauma, albeit of a different sort. She was proud to have helped Driscoll cope with his feelings of abandonment brought on by his mother’s suicide, the untimely death of his daughter, and the prolonged demise of his wife. She had also been privy to the Lieutenant’s struggle with his feelings for this woman and knew it was no stroke of happenstance that Driscoll had referred her. Strokes of happenstance were not accidental. They were, like everything other impulse, driven by the unconscious. Life may rock. But the id rules.
“Some cop I turned out to be, huh?” said Margaret, a handle on composure.
“A damn good one, I’d bet. Your abuse was the likely force behind your decision to become part of law enforcement. Someone to right the wrong was who you needed back then. And now, here you are. Like the song title suggests, everyone needs someone to watch over them. But more often than not, it takes time for that someone to materialize.”
“I believe you’re that someone to John.”
Fahey was touched by the remark. “In his mind, that may be the case. But if he were to look closely, he’d realize he is his own protector. My role as a therapist is to help people discover their omnipresent power and provide them with tools to tap into it to effect and maintain good health.”
“It must be a rewarding job.”
“At times. Therapy is a process. Each individual goes through it at his or her own pace. So…”
“So sometimes you wait forever.”
“Precise and succinct.”
Margaret’s expression soured. “I’ve got a feeling my pace is going to be like that of a snail.”
“That remains to be seen. But you’re off to a good start. We’ve established your relationship with your father for what it was. We may need to dredge up some stuff about that relationship you’ll wish we didn’t, but that’s part of the healing process, I’m afraid. For now, though, I’d like to touch on your relationship with men in general.”
Boy, she’s good at keeping the nerve exposed.
“Judging from the look on your face, it would help if we talked about it.”
Perceptive too. “Just how slow is that second hand on your watch?”
“Well, we’re not going to resolve all of your issues in one session, but I’d like to spend some time putting them out.”
“It’ll be more like pulling them
out.”
“That speaks volumes,” said Fahey with a smile.
“Thank you, Daddy!” Margaret growled, waving a fist in the air. “Does it always lead back to horrendous parenting?”
“In some cases back to the womb! It’s only recently that expectant mothers have been made aware of the risks involved in picking up a drink or smoking a cigarette. And let’s not overlook the mothers-to-be with emotional baggage of their own who seek relief from a variety of substances. Mother’s little helper may becomes baby’s little toxin.”
Jesus! Margaret thought, deciding quickly to save the exploration of the back-to-the-womb part for another time. “You asked me about my relationship with men. Hello-o! Venus to Mars, come in please. I’ll sum up my relationship in three words. Men petrify me!”
“That apply to John Driscoll as well?” Her boss, the perfect father figure.
“Especially to him! On the job, there’re mostly men. Despite the efforts of Betty Friedan and Anna Quindlen, the wall of blue is still predominantly male. Focusing strictly on matters of law enforcement, I get along well with those I’m assigned to work with. Pair me up with one? It’d better be inside a police cruiser. Otherwise, Panic City. When it comes to relating to a guy outside of Platonicville, I’m an emotional idiot. I feel as adept as an eighth grader. I’d rather be thrown from a plane!”
“I’ve known some eighth graders…”
“Well, they didn’t go to my school!”
Fahey was pleased. She had elicited some anger from Margaret. That was a good sign. Margaret would be visiting that emotion, often, in the months to come.
“I said men were part of the reason I’m here. I get a sense that we’ll be talking about them for quite a while. But the other reason I’m here is more urgent.”
“How so?”
“The case we’re working on involves a pair of twin adolescent killers.”
“Ah, the twins with the million-dollar bounty on their heads.”
The Screaming Room Page 16
