C. Lawrence: Silent Screams

"No. When I was a kid, the bar of Ivory soap would be in my mouth so fast I wouldn't know what hit me. So what?"

"So maybe you were testing me. I don't have to tell you that often in therapy, as in our relationships, we're 'testing the waters,' trying to evoke a different response from the one we grew up with."

"Right. You don't have to tell me. Classic transference, yadda yadda. So what?"

"So nothing. Either it's useful to you or it isn't. It's not important whether I'm right or not-what matters is whether or not it helps you."

Lee looked down at his hands. Nothing can help me, he thought. A silence widened between them, a chasm built of his unwillingness to wade into the murky depths of his mind, to grapple with the monsters lurking there.

"He carves them up," he said abruptly, hoping to shock her, to punish her with his words. He hated her calm, her confident poise, and he wanted to shake her out of it.

"Who does?" she asked.

"The killer. He slashes words into their bodies."

"What kind of words?"

"The Lord's Prayer, for God's sake!"

A thought sprouted in his head, a tiny seed that blossomed as he spoke.

"He's searching too." He spoke slowly, the idea still forming.

"Who is?"

"The killer. For him, it's an eternal search for a better outcome. Only it never happens: The moment passes. Then the rage takes over, and the only thing left for him is to kill. But each time he goes in hoping it won't come to that."

"How do you know this?"

"I don't know-I just have a feeling about it."

"An instinct."

"Right-an instinct. There's something about him, his MO, his signature-he's killing as a last resort."

"So you feel you understand him."

"Yes, I do."

"And his rage? Do you understand that?"

Lee looked out the window. The pigeon was back again, strutting and pecking, his bright orange eye impersonal as Nature herself.

"Oh, yes," he said, biting out each word. "I understand his rage."

Samuel was drawn back to the campus again, hoping to catch another glance of the misty mermaids behind their translucent lace curtains. It was a Friday night, though, and the mermaids were gone-out having fun, no doubt. Girls like that are sluts, Samuel! Sluts! They will corrupt you!

He shook off the harsh echo of his mother's voice in his head and walked toward the dormitory. A couple of lights shone on the second floor, and he could see bookish students seated at desks, heads bent over their studies. As he approached, he saw light in the windows of one room on the first floor. The first-floor room was different-the lighting was dim, with a warm orange glow to it.

It was the glimmer of intimacy.

He crept to the window and crouched down behind some bushes, listening. There were sounds coming from inside the room, unclean sounds that made his heart pound faster, as a sickly excitement filled his veins. His stomach felt like a vast cavern carved out of his flesh. His palms leaked sweat, and all the blood seemed to drain from his head, leaving it light and empty. He closed his eyes tightly and concentrated on breathing so he wouldn't pass out.

"Oh, Roger, oh, oh…Roger."

The girl's voice was slurred and heavy with passion, and sliced into his consciousness as he crouched there in the darkness, knees digging into the damp ground, a patch of wetness creeping up his pants leg. He brushed a strand of hair from his eyes and clasped his knees, making himself invisible in the darkness. Ever since he was a child, the darkness had been his friend, hiding him from the intrusive glares of his mother and the inquisitive insolence of his classmates. In the darkness he was safe, at one with the velvety blackness surrounding him.

He had never been afraid of the dark, never cried when the lights were switched off in his bedroom at night. He longed to retreat into the silence and stillness of the night, while others slept around him, listening to the subtle murmurings of the creatures who also felt at home in the dark. He would lie in his bed and pick out the various sounds: the metallic clicking of the crickets, the soft hoot of an owl, all the rustlings of the nocturnal creatures of the woods.

He especially liked walking from the bright sunlight of a Sunday morning into the tall, vaulted interior of the church-he loved the cool stillness of the stone columns. He knew that his mother was gratified by his interest in church, but she had no idea how much he loved the dimness of the chapel, especially on dull grainy days, when the weak light could barely make it through the tall stained-glass windows, and the congregation sat shrouded in a holy gloom. It was moments like that when he felt closest to God, when he could almost imagine His forgiveness for his own dark desires…

"Oh, oh, God…R-r-r-o-ger!"

The girl's voice tightened and exploded in a wail of pleasure. He put his hands over his ears as he felt his face redden, warmth spreading up from his neck. Hot tears of shame slid down his cheeks, falling from his chin and gathering in the hollow of his collarbone. He felt violated by his proximity to her unholy passion, and knew then what he had to do. He leaned over on the damp ground and cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth as the wetness seeped deeper into his skin, his veins, his bones. He moaned softly. There was only one thing to do now, and the awesome responsibility of it humbled him.

The hand of God. He looked at his own hands, so white and delicate that they might almost be the hands of a woman. He knew how could it be done-he'd seen it. Now he was ready to do it himself.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done…

He rose from his lonely lookout and retreated into the welcoming darkness. It was time to do God's will.

"You know, it's funny," Lee remarked to Butts, "but I have more sympathy for these tortured, driven guys than for your run-of-the-mill murderer-you know, the ones who kill for 'logical' reasons."

They were sitting on the uptown A train as it rattled its way to the Bronx, on their way to interview Christine Riley, Marie Kelleher's roommate at Fordham.

"What exactly do you mean by 'logical'?" Butts asked.

"Oh, you know…jealousy, greed, revenge, money, prestige-or killing to get rid of an inconvenient spouse or family member. The usual stuff."

"You feel more sympathy for these psychos? How come?"

"There's something cold blooded about killing…for money, for example. But sexual homicides-well, they may be planned, but there's usually a compulsion involved. Especially for the repeat offenders."

"Yeah? So what?" Butts asked as the train pulled into the station and jerked to a stop.

"Once they start it's virtually impossible for them to stop."

"Why do they start in the first place?"

"Usually some stressor occurs in their life, and bingo-they go over the edge."

"So what do you think the stressor was in this guy's life?" Butts asked as they trudged up the subway stairs.

They were greeted at the top of the stairs by a leaden gray sky. A low cloud cover had settled like a slab of granite over the city. February was not the best month to be in New York, and the Bronx was hardly the most glamorous of the five boroughs. As they walked up the Grand Concourse, a chill wind nipped at their backs, scattering dried leaves and loose bits of paper around their feet. Even the buildings looked cold-four- and five-story structures of grim gray granite, with the occasional decorative flourish or wrought-iron railing a welcome relief from the massive, stolid rock walls. The Grand Concourse was one of the widest avenues in the city, with a thick median strip down the center. In the spring it was probably festive, with all the trees in bloom and beds of crocuses lining the strip, but now it was just grim. Still, there was a grandeur and dignity in its winter desolation that made Lee sort of glad he was there.