The Screaming Room Read online

  Chapter 21

  Cassie and Angus were seated across from one another in the makeshift breakfast nook; Angus rearranged the letters in his Alpha-Bits, while his sister read about their murderous exploits heralded in the Post.

  “You think they’re on to somethin’, calling us savages? Savages, Indians, Indians, Savages,” said Cassie.

  A sly smile crept across her brother’s face. “Could be,” he said, an eyebrow raised.

  Cassie rifled through the pages of the paper, stopping when she came to the editorials. “I’m thinkin’ of maybe writin’ to the editor. Tellin’ him and his goddamn writers our side of the story. Savages? Screw him!”

  “It does piss you off, doesn’t it?” Angus leaned in, amused by his sister’s reaction.

  “What?”

  “Them callin’ us savages.”

  “They should only know,” said Cassie.

  “If they did, they’d be thanking us for riddin’ the world of scum. Take a look on Page Six.”

  “What am I lookin’ for?” Her eyes scoured the page.

  “The blonde cutie with the pouty lips.”

  Cassie zeroed in on a two-by-four snapshot of Debra LaFave. “Who’s she?”

  “Babe City!” Angus grabbed the paper from his sister’s hands. “Too bad it’s in black and white. She’s got blue eyes ya could swim in.”

  Men!

  Angus cleared his throat and read from the article as though he were auditioning for a play.

  “Debra Beasley Lafave, a former readin’ teacher at a Florida middle school, once charged with several counts of havin’ sex with a fourteen-year-old…” Angus shot his sister a grin. “And you thought female offenders were a rarity.”

  “I never said they were rare. Just unusual.”

  “Why couldn’t our pigeons look like that?” Angus’s eyes bored into those of the femme fatale.

  “It’s a good thing they don’t. The tomahawk wouldn’t be the only bulge in your pocket.” Cassie swatted him on the side of the head and tore the paper from his hands. “Stay focused!”

  “All work and no play…”

  “To hell with play! Who’s next?”

  “A Pakistani called. Very bad connection.” Angus put his thumb to his ear, finger to his mouth, and mimicked the caller. “‘Hello, Mr. Gus. My name is Abdur Rahim. I’m from Islamabad. I like your Web site. I’m in New York and have U.S. dollars.’” Angus held up a Post-it note displaying the caller’s number. The disposable cell phone rang. “Mmm…another lamb,” he said, answering it. After a series of “uh-huhs,” Angus jotted down a number, depressed the END button, and grinned at his sister. “That was Abigail from the good ole’ US of A. In town on business from California and said she could use some entertainment. Sounded more like she needed a fix. Maybe we oughta switch things round a little. Give the men in blue some domestic fieldwork. Whaddya think?”

  Cassie looked like she was mulling it over.

  “Wanna hear the Pakistani again?”

  “Screw the Pakistani. They’re always in a rush.”

  Chapter 22

  Blue skies prevailed over the city as Driscoll stood at the end of the dock in Toliver’s Point. The wooden landing, some three hundred feet long, jutted out into Jamaica Bay. It was commonly referred to by the locals as Sullivan’s Pier, named after the tavern that sat at its entrance. It had been five days since the attack on the last tourist and Driscoll was growing restless. He’d often come back to the Point to escape his demons, and today he found diversion by watching the playful antics of a handful of teens.

  The mixed gang, two boys and three girls, clad in bathing suits, were horsing around in the water. Driscoll watched as the tallest boy squatted down near the dock’s edge and clasped his hands together to form what appeared to be the launching pad. The three girls, their faces ripe with laughter, were lined up behind him. The girl they were calling Sally, stuffed into a skimpy one-piece, sashayed forward and placed her foot and trust into the hands of the squatting teen who swiftly catapulted the corpulent plum off the dock and into the air. She soon crashed into the water with a loud splash.

  Larry, as everyone was calling him, now got into the game, posing as the announcer.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the judges give that sad excuse for a dive a three-point-nine.”

  His makeshift microphone was a can of Diet Pepsi. Driscoll thought Larry sounded very much like W. C. Fields.

  “Sally, your boobs hit the water before you did,” Larry hollered. “Next time keep ’em in your top.”

  The embarrassed teen’s face turned beet red. She grabbed hold of her twisted bathing suit and disappeared under the water.

  “Way to go!” cheered the catapulter, giving Larry a high five. “Okay, Peggy. Your turn.”

  “No funny stuff, Billy,” the freckle-faced teen warned, slipping her foot into the teen’s grip and closing her eyes.

  “Up we go!” Billy roared, launching Peggy into the air.

  The girl tumbled head over heels before neatly slicing the surface of the water.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the goose has touched down,” Larry whined, still in W. C. Fields mode.

  Driscoll reached into his linen jacket for a pack of all-organic additive-free American Spirit cigarettes. He lit one up and inhaled deeply. A Lucky Strike it wasn’t. It was a relief, though, to have his throat stroked by a feather rather than singed by a torch. He took another drag and glanced across the bay at the Manhattan skyline in the distance.

  Such a contrast, he thought. Here, high-spirited teenagers were at play, while only five miles away a murderous spree was holding the city in a vise of fear.

  He snuffed out the cigarette’s butt on the dock’s railing and watched dusk slowly blanket the metropolis. The neon sign of Sullivan’s tavern came to life in fluorescent blue, beckoning him. It was time for a drink. Maybe two.

  He walked toward the portal and ducked inside. The familiar scent of draught beer and oak flooring welcomed him.

  “Hey, John. Good to see ya,” a bright-eyed waitress said, scurrying toward the dining room, balancing a large tray of oysters on the half shell high above her head.

  “Likewise, Kathy,” Driscoll replied, heading for the bar.

  The walls of the barroom were made up of glass sliding doors. They offered a panoramic view of the bay and of the city that hugged its opposing shoreline. The bar itself was U-shaped and crowded. Casually dressed couples, awaiting tables in the dining room, sipped from their glasses of Chardonnay and absorbed the ambiance, while the bar’s regulars nursed Bass ale from frosty mugs, their eyes glued to the TV screen, where Mike Mussina of the New York Yankees was pitching a no-hitter against the division-leading Boston Red Sox.

  Driscoll spotted an opening at the top of the U, next to the service bar, and made his way toward it, sidestepping another waitress on the run.

  “Your girls should be on Rollerblades,” Driscoll said to Kevin Conlon, the tavern’s proprietor, at the bar.

  “Now there’s a novel idea. Meals on wheels!” Kevin smiled broadly at the suggestion. “What’ll it be? Your usual?”

  “That oughta do it.”

  Kevin gestured to Chris, the bartender.

  “A Harp for the Lieutenant.”

  Kevin Conlon, with his grizzly white beard and gravelly voice, seemed more suited for a Gabby Hayes Western than as a restaurant owner here in suburban New York. A well-bred Irishman and true wine aficionado, he prided himself on offering gourmet meals and gracious service at an affordable price.

  “The bad guys still one step ahead of the posse?” Conlon asked, offering Driscoll a Macanudo.

  “And then some,” Driscoll frowned, stuffing the cigar in his shirt pocket.

  “Any truth to the rumor?”

  “Which one?”

  “That the police have made a breakthrough in the case.”

  “Ah, that Matt Lauer report. He should stick to the Thanksgiving Day parade.”

  The bartender returne
d with a frosty mug of Irish brew and placed it on the bar in front of the Lieutenant. “Why can’t Monica Lewinsky make it as a surgeon?” he asked with a sardonic grin.

  “I’ll bite,” said Driscoll.

  “Because she sucked as an intern,” came the reply.

  A whisper of a smile creased Driscoll’s face.

  “You’ll have to excuse our staff’s highbrow sense of humor,” said Conlon. “It comes from cutting too many classes at Bartending 101.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of Driscoll’s cell phone purring inside his breast pocket. The Lieutenant answered it.

  Criminalist Ernie Haverstraw’s voice echoed in his ear. “The DNA is back on the traces of skin and blood we found under the last victim’s fingernails.”

  “And?”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “That I am. At Sullivan’s.”

  “You finished your drink?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’d better order another. Make it a double.”

  “Why? You don’t like me sober?”

  “Okay. Have it your way. The DNA is a perfect match to the male’s blood on the torn fingernail we found entangled in the brake assembly of the bike.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Our male serial killer. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Like I said, Lieutenant, it’s a perfect match to the male’s blood. Only thing is, this DNA is female.”

  Chapter 23

  “Whaddya mean the DNA is female?” Driscoll asked as he stormed into Haverstraw’s lab.

  “Tests don’t lie, Lieutenant.” The criminalist pointed to a collection of illuminated data on the monitor of a desktop computer.

  “Break it down for me, will ya? Using layman’s terms.”

  “The geneticists ran the usual chromosomal scanning, utilizing the Polymerase chain reaction-short tandem repeat methodology,” said Haverstraw.

  Driscoll shot him a glare. “Layman’s terms,” he repeated.

  Haverstraw shrugged and continued.

  “They got an exact match to the DNA sample on file in the database.”

  “You mean the blood on the fingernail of our male suspect.”

  “That’d be the one.”

  “But you’re telling me this specimen is female. That would be impossible.”

  “Oh, it’s possible. Let’s have a cup of coffee and I’ll explain.”

  Haverstraw sauntered over to an aluminum table that supported a Bunn double-burner coffee server, some Styrofoam cups, and a half-eaten Entenmann’s Danish ring.

  “Still take yours black, Lieutenant?”

  Driscoll nodded.

  “Want some cake?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  The two men took a seat opposite each other at a wooden workbench next to a full-sized rolling blackboard. A chalk-scrawled formula for who-knows-what was strewn across the hardwood-encased slate. Haverstraw took a sip of his coffee and stared fixedly at Driscoll.

  “Lieutenant, there is no mistake in the DNA. The killers you’re looking for are a set of twins.”

  “Twins?”

  “Identical twins.”

  “Male and female twins?”

  “There are three types of twins,” said Haverstraw. “Identical, fraternal, and conjoined. I’m not the street sleuth, but I think we can rule out conjoined. Fraternal twins wouldn’t match genetically. And these two match.”

  “An exact match?”

  “We snip off the tail from the letter e in ‘exact.’ Voilà! We got a match.”

  Driscoll envisioned a circumcision. Had no clue as to why. His expression said: What?

  Haverstraw wondered why he felt obligated to explain his sense of humor to everyone. “For where it’ll lead you, they match.”

  “I thought all boy-girl twins were fraternal,” said Driscoll.

  “They usually are. Identical twins come from the same egg. Follow me on this one. The twinning begins when it separates after fertilization. It’s possible for one twin to have the full complement of forty-six chromosomes, including the XY sex chromosomes of a male, while the other twin has only forty-five chromosomes. Either the Y or one of the X chromosomes is missing. If it’s the Y that’s missing, the twin is left with a single X chromosome. Bingo! Dad gets his little girl. But not without a cost. Although the partner twin, having the X and the Y chromosome, becomes a healthy baby boy, the female is born with Turner syndrome. It’s a rarity of nature.”

  “How rare?”

  “Very! With a capital V. Take the United States for example. You’re likely to have one such birth every twelve to fifteen years.”

  “In the entire country? That is rare. What else should I know about this syndrome?”

  “There are some medical indicators. They only apply to the female. She’s likely to be short in stature, an average height being four-foot-seven. She may have webbing of the neck. Additional folds of skin cascading onto her shoulders. Her eyelids may droop. Her ears may be oddly shaped and sit lower than normal on the side of her head. Sometimes a low hairline is present at the base of the skull. The arms may turn out at the elbow. She may have an unusual number of moles. Might also be infertile. She could develop high blood pressure and diabetes and be at extra risk of ear infections and cataracts. Heart, kidney, or thyroid problems can also develop. She may be flat-chested, her nipples widely spaced. If she has breasts, they’re likely to appear undeveloped. Her chest might also appear shieldlike. Obesity is another possibility. Or, Lieutenant, she may have no apparent physical abnormalities at all. Unless she’s diagnosed by a doctor, she might not even be aware of her condition.”

  “Great! She might have a target on her, and she might not.” Driscoll groaned.

  Haverstraw shook his head sympathetically. “Well, at least you know what her accomplice will look like.”

  “I don’t even know what she looks like!”

  “Consider this. You may know more about her than she does.”

  “What I need to know is who she is, not what she is.”

  Haverstraw gulped down the remains of his coffee.

  “Do you think there’d be records of such rare twins?” asked Driscoll.

  “Depends,” said Haverstraw.

  “On?”

  “On whether they were ever tested. Oh. And there’s one more thing. Although Dr. Henry Turner first described the condition in 1938, it wasn’t until karyotyping was discovered in 1959 that the medical practitioners had a way to detect it.”

  “Karyotyping?”

  “A chromosome analysis. A blood test.”

  Driscoll stood and smiled at the criminalist. “Ernie, you’ve been a big help. I now have a place to start.” On leaving, the Lieutenant’s eyes drifted to the desktop’s LCD screen. Its scientific hieroglyphics stared back. He pointed to them and cast a quizzical look at Haverstraw.

  “Like two peas in a pod,” said the criminalist, leaning back in his chair.

  Chapter 24

  Cedric Thomlinson was always thrilled when an investigation required him to visit CyberCentral, the tiny wood-paneled technical support room on the fourth floor of Twenty-six Federal Plaza. Was it the humming sound emanating from the room’s sophisticated computer equipment that hypnotized him, quelling his impulses, inviting the most pleasant euphoria? Was he, perhaps, overwhelmed by technological advances that allowed the pooling of infinitesimal and very personal information on the average citizen culled from every government agency, foreign and domestic? Or was he simply a willing victim to a flight of fancy at the mere glimpse of Leticia Hollander, the vivacious, soft-spoken Caribbean woman who was the center’s enticing technician?

  “Cedric, what brings you into my den of data?” Leticia cooed, eyes fixed on a computer monitor.

  “Duty calls and I am a slave to my job.”

  “Slavery was abolished. No?”

  “Not at the New York City Police Department. We’re just not shackled anymore.”

  Leticia allowed her ey
es to drift upward to the meet the detective’s gaze.

  “So, what’ll it be today?”

  “I’m looking for twins, where the pair is listed as identical yet of opposite sex.”

  “You mean fraternal.”

  “That’d be too easy. We’ll stick with identical twins of opposite sex.”

  “Never knew they existed. But you’re the boss. There’d likely be medical records. I don’t suppose you’ve got a judge’s order to authorize such a search.”

  “I’d need fifty. We’ll be checking from Maine to California.”

  They both knew the U.S. Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act of 1996, commonly referred to as HIPPA, and a long list of state regulations forbid unauthorized access to an individual’s medical record. They knew of no exceptions.

  “Any leeway under the Patriot Act?” Leticia asked.

  “We’re not after terrorists. At least, I hope we’re not.” Thomlinson gave Leticia a sympathetic smile.

  “Damn! I know that look. You want me to do another news article search.”

  “’Fraid so. Can’t jeopardize the investigation with an unlawful inquiry.” Thomlinson hoped that someone, the twin’s parents, a local support group, a camp counselor, a teacher, or the twins themselves, before embarking on a life of crime, might have brought their uniqueness to the attention of the press. Rarity attracts the curious. The curious buy newspapers. The publisher of Guinness Book of World Records, who has raked in millions on such exclusivity for decades, proves that. Privacy guidelines being what they were, it was his only hope.

  “Damn!” Leticia hated searching newspaper archives. There was no fixed database. It meant hunt and peck through a string of Web sites featuring hieroglyphic-like listings from thousands of papers across the country. From the Oshkosh Gazette to the New York Times, the stories spanned the early 1900s through the present day. What made the task tedious was that the keywords entered came back hidden, though highlighted, in gibberish.

  To dramatize the point, Leticia tapped her fingers across the keyboard, producing this: