The Screaming Room Page 13

  “Please. It’s Susan.”

  “Okay, then. Thank you for coming, Susan. This is Sergeant Margaret Aligante and Detective Cedric Thomlinson.”

  “Please. Call me Margaret.”

  “Cedric.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” she said, extending her hand.

  The four took seats around the Lieutenant’s desk.

  “I was expecting a return call,” said Driscoll. “And here you are in person.”

  The woman smiled.

  A bit too flirtatiously to suit Margaret.

  “I’ve been following the story in the papers and on the tube with the rest of New York,” Susan explained. “When I read about the man killed at the aquarium, Francis Palmer, his name set off an alarm. At first, I didn’t know why, but I was sure I had heard the name before.”

  “He had been convicted of child molestation in Texas,” said Thomlinson.

  “That was the easy part. When I ran his name through our system, the conviction popped up. But our database focuses on child exploitation. So I dug a little deeper and realized why I remembered the name. Francis Palmer headed up his own company in Texas because seven years ago he was fired from a Web design and enhancement firm in Silicon Valley, California. The company monitored their employees’ work computers. He was let go because they found he had been making frequent visits to Web sites dealing in prostitution. Child prostitution. He was never formally charged because the firm wanted to avoid exposure. But their director of human resources alerted our California branch office in Tustin, and a record was established. Although no further action was taken, the information remained in our database.”

  “How is it his name set off whistles?” asked Driscoll.

  “That conscientious director of human resources called me for advice. Her boss had ordered her to delete all information related to Palmer. She knew if any investigative agency made inquiry, her company would deny ever having the guy on the payroll.”

  “Why’d she call you?” asked Margaret.

  “Because she’s my sister.” Susan Lenihan blushed.

  Chapter 47

  The door to Driscoll’s office opened, and Thomlinson stuck his head inside. “We’ve got news from Interpol.”

  “Let’s have it,” said Driscoll, as Thomlinson planted himself in front of the Lieutenant’s desk.

  “Interpol had their nets set for Guenther Rubeleit and Yen Chan, but had nada on Helga Swenson,” said Thomlinson. “They based their suspicions on reports from overseas ECPAT centers.” The detective was referring to a worldwide network of agencies established to End Child Prostitution, Child Pornography, and Trafficking of Children for Sexual Purposes. “The only thing in line with our evidence is an entry on file for Rubeleit. He liked to trawl the Web for amputees.”

  “Some assortment of deviants,” said Driscoll. “That look on your face says there’s more.”

  “It might make you think twice about ordering sushi.” Thomlinson grinned. “It’s about customs in Tokyo, where Tatsuya Inagaki hailed from. Seems Japan has an ECPAT agency too. It’s in Tokyo and is called ECPAT Stop Japan. But the country’s got its own code of ethics regarding the age of consent for sexual activities and how it applies to the law. This is straight from Interpol. It’s Japan’s Article One-seven-seven Penal Code applicable to the charge of rape. I quote. A person who, through violence or intimidation, has sexual intercourse with a female person of not less than thirteen years of age commits the crime of rape and shall be punished with imprisonment at forced labor for a limited term of not less than two years. The same shall apply to a person who has sexual intercourse, we’re talking consensual now, with a female person under thirteen years of age. The article doesn’t say what happens if the recipient of wanted or unwanted sex is male. You’re gonna love this. They’ve got a dating service going on over there. It’s called Enjo kosai. Girls of high school age, who don’t wanna depend on babysitting money, can get paid to escort older men on dates. That doesn’t necessarily mean sex is on the menu…but?” Thomlinson raised an eyebrow. “And so the boys aren’t left home on a Saturday night, there’s gyaku-enjo.”

  “And where does our victim Mr. Inagaki play in all of this?”

  “On him they got zip.”

  “So, let’s see, two of the four foreign victims have a substantiated yen for teenagers. Excuse the pun. And on domestic soil we have Mr. San Antonio, Texas, himself, Francis Palmer.”

  The two lawman exchanged glances.

  “Wanna flip a coin?” asked Driscoll.

  “For?”

  “To see which one of us gets to ask Shewster about Goldilocks.”

  Chapter 48

  Driscoll, having lost the coin toss, had a quandary. A comprehensive investigation leaves no doors unopened. But there was no evidence to indicate Abigail Shewster had been into sex with sixteen-year-olds, bizarre or otherwise. He didn’t feel comfortable broaching the possibility with her father. He’d likely deny it, and Driscoll believed a man of Shewster’s influence could have buried such a degradation on Mars. There was also the possibility that his daughter was a player but had managed to keep her father, and everyone else, in the dark. He’d only pursue it if evidence surfaced to support such a scandal.

  Telephones had been ringing. The department’s Tip Line, linked to Shewster’s 800 number, thanks to the ever-accommodating Mayor, had every Tom, Dick, and Harry spewing knowledge of who Angus was, and they were eager to cash in on the big bucks. In Ann Harbor, Michigan, he was the Domino’s Pizza delivery boy. In Titusville, Florida, a lifeguard. In Nashville, an usher at the Grand Ole Opry. And in Albuquerque, the tour guide on a Hopi reservation. He was everyone’s next-door neighbor. The irony was he might be one of them.

  Driscoll summoned Thomlinson and Margaret to his office.

  “The possibility is that the twins could be anywhere in the country,” he said. “Coming in, making their hits, and hightailing it back home. Out of the forty-two calls that came in since the face made its debut, we’ve got three possibles in our neck of the woods. A night watchman’s call from a halfway house over on Staten Island is one of them. He says one of the kids there had a meltdown when he saw the sketch on the tube. Number two is a clown from the Pie in the Sky Circus. Says the image is a good likeness to some guy they feature as The Thing, a circus hairy scary, of sorts. Without his costume and makeup, he’s a dead ringer for our guy, says the caller. The third one has curiosity written all over it. A priest at Saint Barnabas Church in Brooklyn apparently broke the seal of confession by calling to say a member of his congregation confessed to the crimes.”

  “That’s a new one,” said Thomlinson. “Since when does a Catholic priest turn his back on a vow to help the police?”

  “Good question. It’s one I’ll be sure to ask him.”

  Chapter 49

  Saint Barnabas Church was a red stone building with three Gothic steeples towering over the southwestern entrance to Prospect Park, on a street lined with quaint boutiques and trattorias. The parish had gone through a gentrification that was underwritten by Keyspan, the local utility company. What once were tenements teeming with welfare recipients now housed dual-income professionals who traded mutual funds.

  Cutting the Chevy’s engine, Driscoll stepped out onto the sidewalk and proceeded toward the rectory, where the bell was answered by a matronly woman in a floral dress.

  “May I help you?” she asked, in an Irish brogue.

  “I’m Lieutenant Driscoll. I’m here to see Father Terhune.”

  “Father Terhune is it? Well, the good father is in his study preparing a sermon. It wouldn’t be wise to disturb him.”

  “But we spoke on the phone. He’ll want to see me.”

  “And I’m tellin’ ya he left instructions not to be disturbed.”

  “Telling him I’m here would be the Christian thing to do, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose next you’re gonna tell me you’re an envoy from his Holiness, the Pope.”r />
  “Even the Pope would be in favor of you interrupting Father Terhune,” said Driscoll, with a smile.

  “You’re a sly one, you are.” She motioned for him to come inside and pointed to a chair in the corner of a richly furnished room. “Have a seat, why don’t ya? I’ll see what I can do.”

  Soon, Driscoll heard the sound of wheels in motion laboring down the corridor.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Driscoll. I’m Pat Terhune,” the priest said, rolling his wheelchair into the room. “I see you got past my sentry.”

  “You’re safe with her around.”

  “Right you are about that.”

  Father Terhune was clad entirely in black, save for an open clerical collar. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses framed kindly blue eyes set in a boyish face.

  “Let me say it’s an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. Your reputation for commendable police work makes you a hero to me and to all of my parishioners.”

  “Thank you,” said Driscoll, handing Terhune the illustration. “Is this the youth you called about?”

  “As sure as the day is long,” said the priest.

  “Would you know his name, Father?”

  “Everett Luxworth.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Quite.”

  Driscoll sat back in his chair. “Forgive me for raising the question, Father, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask it. Doesn’t the confidentiality of the confessional prohibit you from speaking out?”

  A soft smile formed on the priest’s face. “He asked me to call you.”

  “Luxworth?”

  “The lad had been coming to see me, regularly, over the past few months. He considers me his therapist.”

  Their conversation was interrupted as the sentinel reappeared with coffee.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “A touch of cream. No sugar,” Driscoll said, annoyed at the loss of momentum.

  “As I was saying, Lieutenant, Everett saw himself as my patient. We clerics handle our fair share of spiritual counseling, you know. In any case, he came to confession twice a week. He was troubled. He raised issues of self-respect and was seeking a way to get a handle on his anger. It was only when the image hit the newspaper and I confronted him with his likeness that he broke down and confessed to the killings. It was then he asked me to call the authorities. I told him I’m not here to sit in judgment. The church is not a law enforcement agency, I said. But he begged me to stop him. And told me if I didn’t, he would kill again and that I alone had the power to save a soul that he was prepared to send to hell. It would be on my conscience if I didn’t stop him, and the only way to stop him was to call the police. When he left the confessional, I felt it would be his last confession and that he would never return.”

  “And so you placed the call.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where this Luxworth lives, Father?” Driscoll asked.

  After staring at the Lieutenant for what seemed like minutes, he answered the question.

  “Two-two-five Sussex.”

  “Thank you,” Driscoll said, standing and preparing to leave. “Father, one last question. Does Luxworth have a sister?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Lieutenant. He never mentioned one.”

  Chapter 50

  Driscoll wasn’t banking on Father Terhune’s information. He had met many a confessor on the job. And for some reason this one didn’t feel right. Perhaps it was the absence of a sister acting in tandem. Driscoll wasn’t sure why his instincts said no. But he’d have to track down the lead.

  “Cedric, run an Everett Luxworth through the system and give me a call if you get a hit.” Driscoll folded his cell phone and headed for the suspect’s residence.

  225 Sussex was a two-story frame structure in need of maintenance. A cluster of mismatched mailboxes, hanging haphazardly near the front door, suggested it might be a single-room occupancy home. Its peeling paint and eroding gutters suggested that here, gentrification had missed its mark.

  Driscoll approached the house, which was marked by a steel security gate more suited for the rear of a boiler room than a multiple family dwelling. Of the six weatherworn mailboxes, only three had names on them. None read “Luxworth.” Only two of six doorbells were labeled. Evans and Peterson. The word super appeared below Peterson, so that’s the one he rang.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Mr. Peterson?” Driscoll hollered. “May I have a word with you?”

  Driscoll heard the shuffling of feet and the sound of another door opening inside the residence. In his mind he envisioned a balding man, clad in a soiled T-shirt, trudging along on falling arches. Peterson turned out to be a strikingly handsome man in his late thirties. He wore his well-groomed hair parted on the side. His eyes were Mel Gibson blue and he sported a mustache, trimmed in Clark Gable fashion. Clad in a shimmering white robe, he looked more like a movie star on a break than a superintendent of a run-down rooming house in Brooklyn.

  “May I help you?”

  “You Peterson?”

  “That’s me.” The man spoke in a theatrical, effeminate voice.

  “Everett Luxworth. He live here?”

  “Yes. With me. But you just missed him. He went down to the florist not five minutes ago.” The man smiled, showing off a dazzling set of pearly whites. “Love your suit.”

  Driscoll figured Luxworth to be this man’s live-in partner.

  “What is it you want with Everett?”

  “My name’s Driscoll. Lieutenant John Driscoll. I’m with the New York City Police Department.”

  “Would you like to wait inside?” Peterson asked, anxiety and curiosity piqued.

  “That’d be fine.”

  The interior of the apartment was a far cry from the house’s drab exterior. The living room, its walls papered in lilac and fern, was elegantly furnished with a satin ottoman, facing matching love seats, as its centerpiece.

  “Would you like some rose hip tea? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

  “Why not?”

  Peterson disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a Japanese lacquered tray supporting an earthenware pot and two clay mugs. He poured tea into Driscoll’s cup and the two men took their seats, Driscoll on one love seat, Peterson on the other.

  “Is Everett in some sort of trouble?” Peterson asked.

  “I need to speak with him. Some routine questions.”

  “He is in some kind of trouble, isn’t he?”

  The door opened and Luxworth stepped into the room holding a bouquet of fresh-cut carnations. He resembled the sketch. Not an exact match. But the resemblance was there, nonetheless. Driscoll had a sinking feeling. He doubted the man was Angus.

  “I didn’t know we were expecting company,” Luxworth said absently as he fussed with a Waterford vase. “There!” he said, happy with his floral display.

  “Everett. Is there something you haven’t told me?” Peterson asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This gentleman is Lieutenant Driscoll. He’s from the police department and he’s here to see you.”

  “Me?” Luxworth said, alarm in his voice.

  “Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” the Lieutenant suggested.

  “We’ll do nothing of the sort. Antoine stays right here!”

  “Your call,” said Driscoll.

  “Everett, have you been playing with matches again?”

  “Matches? No. But I’ve been known to carry a torch or two.” Luxworth cast a sidelong glance at Peterson.

  What was that all about? Was this guy an arsonist? Driscoll let the matter go unanswered, for now. “I’m here with some questions regarding the murder of several tourists in New York,” said Driscoll, eyes fixed on the suspect.

  “I knew I saw your face before. You’re that Lieutenant Driscoll! From the newscasts. Oh my,” said Peterson.

  “That no-good son of a bitch of a priest,” Luxworth muttered, his eyes brimming with anger.

&nbs
p; “This isn’t a game, Luxworth. Several people have been killed. Father Terhune says you’re to blame.”

  “I didn’t think he’d really tell on me! I wasn’t serious when I told him to call the police.”

  “Told him what?” asked Peterson.

  Luxworth collapsed on the ottoman.

  “Your roommate confessed to a series of brutal crimes,” said Driscoll.

  “Everett, I thought we were beyond all that.”

  “I’m so sorry, Antoine. I’m so sorry,” Luxworth sobbed.

  “Sorry for what?” said Driscoll.

  “Lieutenant, Everett suffers from depression. He has an inferiority complex as big as Texas! It makes him do anything—and I mean anything—to get attention. Even convincing a parish priest that he’s the serial killer hunted by the police for killing those poor people. But my Everett wouldn’t swat a mosquito. Everett, what am I to do with you?” Peterson cradled Luxworth in his arms.

  Driscoll’s cell phone sounded.

  With his eyes fixed on the weeping Luxworth, Driscoll listened intently to what Cedric Thomlinson had to report. A minute later, the Lieutenant ended the call and turned to face Luxworth.

  “Everett, just how was it you managed to kill all those people over the past twelve months if you were confined to the psychiatric ward of the Coxsackie mental health facility for setting trash cans ablaze? They didn’t let you out until four months ago!”

  “Thank you, God. Thank you,” said Peterson. “And this time you’re to take all your medication. The Lexapro, the Wellbutrin, and the Zyprexa! Is that clear, Everett?”

  “Okay,” whimpered Luxworth.

  The Lieutenant chose not to dwell on the combination of medication. From conversations with his sister’s pharmacist, he had become familiar with the drugs and what they were used for. He said a silent prayer for Luxworth as he headed for the door.

  Chapter 51

  “Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen! Right this way! See the sword-eating Claudius and the tiger-faced lady! Right this way, ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages!” The circus barker stood behind his rainbow-colored podium at the entrance to the Midway, a corridor of wonders that led toward the circus’s big top. “Our Midway is now open, ladies and gentlemen! And later tonight, our big top will open for the main event! A wonder of wonders! Not to be missed!”