The Screaming Room Page 12

  It was Saturday, just before 8:00 P.M. on Fifth Avenue at East Fiftieth Street in New York City. Pedestrians were making their way inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral only to exit a few minutes later spattered by holy water. The avenue was getting ready for evening. Neon lights were slowly coming to life above store windows as taxicabs hauled sightseers to restaurants, movie theaters, and Broadway shows. A woman stood at Saint Patrick’s southwest corner, perplexed by the endless flow of vehicular traffic. She seemed distracted, anxious, turning her head furtively toward the cathedral’s entrance. She carried a finger-worn Polaroid of a man in a plaid shirt overlooking a cornfield. It had been protected by a frayed white napkin into which she now spit her gum. She tossed the napkin into a trash can, held the photo against her chest, climbed the steps of the cathedral, and slipped inside.

  Compared to the hubbub on the avenue, the church was sedate; a welcome sanctuary. She walked down the center aisle, searching left and right for the man she had typed “hello” to eight months ago in a MySpace chat room. They had become virtual lovers, disclosing a mutual predilection for oddity and postpubescent teens. It was now time to meet and gratify their sexual longings together.

  Her heartthrob was nowhere in sight. Where could he be? She checked her watch. It was nearing 8:10. They were supposed to meet at 8:02, the time they first met over the Internet. Could her Timex be running fast?

  In the second row her gaze fell upon a gentleman who smiled at her as though he had known her all her life.

  “My God, it’s you!”

  The man stood and moved toward her. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.”

  “I was standing outside trying to get up the courage to come in. I still can’t believe we’re going through with this. Oh, Alex, I do love you so.”

  “And I you,” he murmured. “But I have a confession to make.”

  Puzzled eyes looked back at him.

  “Tara, I think I’ve committed a sin. And of all days to commit it!”

  “What did you do?”

  “I defaced church property.”

  “Go on!”

  “No, really,” he said, taking her hand. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  He led her behind the main altar into a darkened circular aisle, faintly illuminated by the candles that were burning before the altar of the Blessed Virgin.

  “Look,” he whispered, pointing to his handiwork on the Virgin’s marble pedestal.

  Tara’s eyes widened as they took in the arabesque letters: A and T intertwined.

  “Alex and Tara, about to start their flight of fancy. Right here,” he whispered.

  “Mmm umm.”

  “Don’t worry. I used an erasable marker. One swipe with a sponge and we’re history.”

  They stood solemnly before the carved image of the Madonna. There was no one else in sight. It was nearing half-past eight, the meeting time he had arranged with the gentleman on the phone for their threesome.

  A stir in the darkness of the alcove interrupted their exuberance. Like a flutter of wings or the friction of cloth. Something moved, undefined, unidentified.

  They heard a cracking sound, like the shattering of stone. Alex was felled by blinding pain. Then blackness set in.

  Before Tara knew what had happened, she heard the sound again.

  Chapter 41

  Father Xavier Thomas, glistening in vestments of green and gold, stood majestically at the rear of the church, about to follow the procession of altar servers, lectors, and Eucharistic Ministers down the center aisle of the historic cathedral. The church bells were pealing. Their tolling marked 6:58 A.M. In two minutes, Mass would begin. The latecomers, skittering in the nave of the cathedral, were met by the soft smile of Father Thomas, a true New Yorker who was well accustomed to the chronic tardiness of his time-pressed parishioners.

  At the stroke of seven, the organist began the refrain to “Let Us Go Rejoicing,” number 308 in the missalettes. The procession proceeded down the center aisle and all attendees stood to welcome the presiding priest.

  “Where’d ya hide them?” Cassie asked.

  Angus, crammed in the crowded pew to her right, sang the hymn’s lyric and smiled teasingly at her.

  “You’re not gonna tell me?”

  He crooned louder, casting his accomplice a sidelong smirk.

  The cleric and his liturgical assistants reached the main altar, bowed before the Lord, and assumed their positions for the opening prayer.

  A late parishioner, wishing not to disturb the assembly nor Father Thomas, snuck into the cathedral through the East Fifty-first Street north transept entrance. Instead of joining the faithful already seated, she scurried past the baptistery and circled around toward the cluster of altars in the ambulatory, behind the celebrant, intent on attending Mass there. And then she screamed.

  “Bingo!” said Angus.

  “Wow! What a setta lungs! That dame belongs in the choir,” Cassie snickered.

  Father Thomas, standing hopelessly at his pulpit, watched as the congregation flocked to the alcove behind him.

  Propped like marionettes, in the third pew before the Blessed Virgin’s altar, with blood oozing from their ravaged heads, the pair sat inert. Their lifeless eyes stared vacantly at the stained-glass window of Saint Michael spearing the dragon. Around their necks hung a heart cut from cardboard. On it, fingered in blood, was the inscription: “Ah, ah, unh.”

  Chapter 42

  Cassie was the first to see it. She had been channel surfing, heading for Judge Judy, when it suddenly appeared. There, in Sony Trinitron color, was the face. Not an exact likeness, but close enough. They had laughed off the photo of her and Angus as kids, and their Claxonn name had stayed on the reservation. Their first names, Angus and Cassie, listed in the full article posed a slight threat, but as Angus said, “Who the hell in Carbondale, Pennsylvania, is gonna give a damn about a spree of killings in New York?” But what she saw on the TV screen now was a whole other story. How the hell did they do that?

  “Angus!” she screamed. “We’re dead meat! Get the hell in here!”

  “Wassamatta?” her brother said as he ambled out of the bathroom, naked and dripping wet.

  “Ssssh! You’ll wanna hear this.”

  “What the…” he muttered, his eyes staring now at the tube. The newscaster’s face was center screen. But there, in the upper right corner, was one that resembled his. “How’d they do that?”

  “Ssssh! Listen!”

  “…Is this the face of the killer who has been terrorizing New York City for the past twelve months? Someone seems to think so. An anonymous caller is offering a million-dollar reward to anyone who can tell him the whereabouts of this person or his look-alike sister. A special number, 800-854-4568, has been established to field all calls…”

  “Are they shittin’ me?” Angus said as his near likeness once again filled the screen. “How the hell did they get that picture?”

  “Angus, we gotta get outta here!” said Cassie.

  “How long they have that?”

  “I dunno. They say it’s in all the papers.”

  “A million dollars is gonna make for a lot more readers. Holy shit! We coulda been spotted in New York! At the freakin’ aquarium! Or. Holy, holy shit! At the goddamn church!”

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “Give me a minute to think, will ya? Just need a minute to think.” He raced from one end of the trailer to the other, rummaging from drawer to drawer, collecting what he was after: a pair of scissors, a disposable razor, and a can of Gillette Foamy. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to face his sister. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Chapter 43

  Driscoll opened the door to his office and eyed the flashing icon on the IBM desktop. He clicked on his mailbox, saw he had one new message, and opened it. His eyes widened at what he saw. Immediately, he called for Margaret and Thomlinson to join him.

  “I wanted another set of eyes to see this so I know I’m not dreaming. W
e got a message from Angus.” He looked to Margaret, his expression said “you gonna be okay with this?” She nodded. Driscoll swiveled the monitor around for all to see.

  “He’s calling himself OddDuck-Ephebophilia-Chaser@webster.com,” said Margaret. “What the hell does that stand for?”

  “A pervert with a graduate degree,” said Thomlinson. “A pedophile goes after the young. An ephebophile prefers adolescents.”

  Margaret winced.

  “What do you make of the odd duck reference?” Driscoll asked.

  “All adults who prey on adolescents are odd ducks.”

  “From where we sit,” said Driscoll. “But for him to label an abuser odd may have significance.”

  Driscoll read aloud. “Dear Lieutenant, I know you are looking for us. I’m writing to tell you our side of the story. You might call off the search. The scumbags we been killing belong in body bags. They are warped, disgusting pigs! They deserved to die in public toilets because they’re made of shit. How would you feel if you was just a kid and your old man sold you to bastards like them so they could get laid, or jerked off, or eaten out, or even worse. Get to fuck you up the ass! All because we look the way we do.”

  Driscoll stopped reading and repeated the last line loudly. “‘All because we look the way we do.’ That, my friends, is what’s driving these two. This adds a major twist. Their true motive is revenge for unspeakable mortification and vile repetitive debasement.”

  He continued his recitation. “Me and my sister been swallowing more cum and lickin more pussy than you could in a lifetime. We both had our bodies felt up since before Cassie had tits! I’m talking since we were ten. Ten years old!!! How would you feel? Well the old man is dead now. He ain’t dragging us odd-i-twins. That’s what he called us. Angus and Cassie, his prized odd-i-twins. His days of dragging us from amusement parks to baseball fields are over. Selling us like we were alien creatures. The alien creatures are the ones we been killing, if you ask me. They been making the old man rich, paying him for all the shit me and Cassie had to put up with. It ain’t fair. I don’t know if you got kids. But if you do, how would you like it if some motherless sick bastard stuck his finger in them or sucked them off year after fucking year? They’re freaky. Let me tell you. We had one prick that only wanted to get naked, lie down, and have me and Cassie have a pissing duel over him. We were eleven! Eleven freaking years old! We figured you got our picture from the reservation. Tell that bitch Taniqua and her mother we sent them the scalps so they’d know the blood of the freaks is on them too. They shoulda never let the old man take us. But, like I said. Dear Daddy is dead. Goody-goody We just didn’t stop the business. Now, instead of us taking it up the ass we get to kill the scumbags. I hope you do have kids. Then you’d understand.–Angus.”

  No one spoke for more than a minute. It was Margaret who broke the silence. “Good for them,” she said and walked out of the room.

  Quiet returned.

  “What’s that about?” Thomlinson eventually asked.

  “Issues,” said Driscoll, making a mental note to ask Margaret if she’d set something up with a therapist. He picked up the phone and hit speed dial. “Communications…. This is Driscoll…I received an e-mail. Time sent says about two hours ago. Any chance we can tell where it came from? The IP address? Let me look. It’s 68.219.43.34.” Driscoll gave Thomlinson a thumbs up. “Good. I’ll hold.”

  Driscoll listened attentively as the response from Communications filled his ear. After ending the call, he turned to Thomlinson. “The e-mail came from MegaBytes, a computer self-serve center, on East Eighth off of University. That’s ten minutes from here. Get on the horn to the Sixth Precinct. Tell them what we’ve got. I want that place sealed and surrounded. The twins might still be there. I want it done now! When you’re finished with the call, head over there, yourself.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’ll have someone reach out to this Webster.com outfit to see what they’ve got on Angus’s OddDuck handle.”

  As Thomlinson headed for the door, Driscoll thought of Margaret and the inner conflict this case had stirred. Interestingly, her emotional havoc spawned his. On the one hand, he needed her to stay focused. To avoid subjectivity and help him put an end to the killings. Yet part of him wanted to guard her from the disturbing turmoil the investigation was delivering. Uncertain what he’d say, he picked up the phone and called her.

  Chapter 44

  The call prompted resolution, but not because of anything Driscoll had done. As soon as Margaret heard his voice, she apologized for her unprofessional outburst and pledged her assistance. “I’ll try to keep my head on straight” was how she put it. Relieved, he asked her to check into Angus’s online account.

  Ten minutes later she was in his office to report that she had spoken to Paul Houston, head of communications at Webster.com. “They offer twenty hours of free Internet service per month. If you exceed the limit, they have you set up an account and arrange for PayPal or credit card payment. All you need is access to the Web to start. If you never go over the twenty hours, there’s no ID, billing address, or phone number recorded.”

  “Cyberspace anonymity.”

  “You got it.”

  “We’ll wait then to see if Cedric comes up with anything. We traced Angus’s e-mail to a retailer that provides on-site computer rental. He’s probably there now.” A smile creased Driscoll’s face. “Margaret, I’m proud of you. I know this case rouses a whole host of frightening memories. And I know resolving mental mayhem isn’t easy. You’re not alone with your wrestle with objectivity. If what is said in the e-mail is true, the twins have been through hell and that evokes my sympathy. Sadly, though, it doesn’t alter the fact that they’ve murdered people. We have the obligation to stop them. If you need a break, even temporarily, the offer to have you reassigned is an open one.”

  “I know. And I must admit, sometimes, late at night, when I’m alone, it’s tempting.”

  Driscoll fought against the impulse to hold her. For he knew if he did, he’d have a hard time letting go. “Have you called Elizabeth?”

  A vacant stare said she hadn’t.

  “Whether we act on the transfer or we don’t, you should call her.” Again, the desire to embrace her. “Promise me you will.”

  She nodded.

  Driscoll studied her face. It appeared she hadn’t slept in days. She returned his steady gaze. He smiled, for he had found a way to caress her. With his eyes. His, holding. Hers, not letting go.

  Until the ringing of a phone shattered the trance.

  “Driscoll, here.”

  “They’re long gone, Lieutenant.” It was Thomlinson. “The e-mail was generated from here, all right. I’m looking at the particular computer now. I had the uniforms lock the place down like you instructed and Forensics will dust the PC, but I don’t think it’s gonna give us any more than we already have. There’s a slim chance the twins are among this horde of customers. But I doubt it. I searched every face. They’d have to be chameleons. You oughta see this place. It’s like the registrar’s office at Columbia on steroids. Customers are going every which way but out with the uniforms at the doors. It’s like a Toyota sell-a-thon commercial shown in fast-forward. I feel like I’ve been time-warped. Anyway, I spoke to one Aleeshia Smathers, the store’s assistant manager. She’s a college cutie with purple hair and facial piercings. I showed her Shewster’s version of Angus. Negative for an ID.”

  “Any surveillance camera?”

  “None.”

  “They use some sort of sign-in sheet?”

  “Already had it copied. Running from last night through today. It’ll give us the time each customer signed in and the time they left. The co-ed suggests we may come up with zilch, though. She says a lot of customers pay cash and sign in as SpongeBob Square Pants.”

  “Okay, Cedric. Have the uniforms get IDs from everyone, including the help. We’ll run down each one. When that’s done, head back to the house. We’ll need to search
the obits and resurrect one hell of a dad.”

  Chapter 45

  The obituary search, though computer assisted, was morose, time-consuming, and going nowhere. The three lawmen were convinced Claxonn wasn’t the name dear old dad left this planet with. A call to Taniqua only complicated things. She didn’t know for sure what name the birth parents went by. Whether the father was actually brother to the mom was now in question. Taniqua believed that to be the case, but was uncertain if it was fact or something made up by her mother, who was a bit capricious.

  “They offed the dad. Probably cut him up into pieces and scattered them into the four corners of some cornfield,” Thomlinson said. “We’re never gonna find him or any record of him. This pair may be strung out but they’re not stupid. They’re not about to add patricide to the list.”

  “It would help if we had a name,” said Margaret. “Claxonn’s not setting off any bells.”

  “The name is in the cornfield,” said Thomlinson. “The chance of us pulling off a Lazarus is zero. We’re gonna have to make use of Shewster’s handiwork. There’s a million-dollar target on that face. Somebody’s gonna cash in. The only question is when.”

  Chapter 46

  Driscoll had placed a call to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, hoping somewhere, in their vast database, there might be a reference to the twins. He had left his number with Douglas Glasser. Not only had Glasser made good on his promise to have someone call him back, but that someone was now standing inside Driscoll’s office introducing herself as Susan Lenihan, a behavior analyst and licensed psychotherapist. Her friendly blue eyes returned the Lieutenant’s evanescent ogle, which had not gone unnoticed by Margaret.

  “Thank you for coming, Miss Lenihan—”