C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

A solitary crow perched atop a low branch of a black oak, observing the scene with its head cocked to one side, its bright eyes sharp as pine needles. The tree's trunk was darkened by the recent rain, the rough black bark still visibly damp, tiny droplets of water tucked into the deep crevices. The crow gave a low, hoarse caw and took off from its branch, ascending rapidly into the dun-colored sky in a flurry of flapping wings.

Lee watched it rise and disappear over a copse of trees as a light mist fell on the already soggy ground. The small clump of journalists looked miserable, huddled under their huge black umbrellas, cameras tucked under their raincoats. He studied them. Most were young, probably greenhorns still on probation with their cranky, overstressed bosses. None of them had the look of established stars or even up-and-comers-this was hardly a plum assignment, covering the funeral of the unfortunate victim. The real stars would get to cover the discovery of the body, police press briefings, that kind of thing.

Lee watched the mourners leaving the church, searching for any unusual aspect of appearance or behavior that stuck out-anything that didn't quite fit. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but hoped he would recognize it when he saw it.

He scanned the crowd of mourners. Their faces were suitably solemn, some swollen and red-eyed from grief, most of them pale and pasty in the feeble sun. A tall, sandy-haired man with handsome Irish features emerged from the church, supporting a slight, black-haired woman on his arm. She wore a long black veil, but the devastation on her face was clear even through the gauzy material. Obviously they were Annie's parents. The daughter took after her mother, with her wavy black hair-the so-called Black Irish, whose curly dark hair was a remnant of their Italian conquerors of centuries past. Annie's mother had the same delicate white skin as her daughter, though, bespeaking her Northern European ancestry.

Her father had the kind of Irish good looks Lee saw all over New York City: square, broad forehead, deep-set blue eyes, his prominent jaw jutting out beneath a thin, determined mouth. His ruddy, wind-burned skin was the complexion of someone who spent his time out herding sheep on the moors instead of working at an accounting firm. He had the big, blunt hands of a shepherd, not an accountant.

The rest of the crowd was varied-friends and family, as well as neighbors and schoolmates. A dozen or so young people of college age gathered in a little group to one side. As the O'Donnells made their way down the church steps, the crowd parted for them, people stepping respectfully aside as the couple moved slowly toward the waiting cavalcade of automobiles. When Mrs. O'Donnell saw the hearse, she stumbled and lost her footing, collapsing forward. Half a dozen hands came up to steady her, and she continued on her slow pilgrimage. Her husband tightened his grip on her arm, his face a tight mask of grief and anger.

The family climbed into the limousines the funeral home had provided, as everyone else dispersed toward their own cars, leaving the journalists alone on the wet sidewalk in front of the church. Lee studied the mourners, but he couldn't see anything unusual about them. They all looked grief stricken, and everyone seemed to be there with at least one other person. Lee was quite certain that the killer, if he came, would be alone. There were a few young men who fit the age and physical profile, but they were with girlfriends or families, or were part of the group of Queens College students. Lee looked over the students, but it was highly unlikely that the Slasher was a college student, let alone one of Annie's classmates.

The television journalists stood around delivering their spiels into the cameras. Others were scribbling earnestly in notebooks, while a few more lit up cigarettes, hunched under raincoats pulled over their heads, shielding their matches from the rain. Lee turned to go-and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure standing apart from the rest of the press corps.

A thin young man in a dark blue raincoat stood leaning against a Douglas fir. Even under the bulky coat Lee could see that he had narrow shoulders, and his protruding wrists suggested a scrawny, underfed physique. He had long, thin neck and a prominent Adam's apple, but his head was bent over a notebook, so Lee couldn't see his face. There was something unsettling about him, the hunch of his shoulders perhaps, that reminded Lee of a vulture perched on a tree limb.

The man lifted his face to look at the column of departing cars, and Lee saw the delicate, almost feminine features-on a girl they would have been considered pretty. His face had a haunted quality, with sunken hollows beneath his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, as though it had been a while since he'd had a good night's sleep. He looked about nineteen, but was probably twenty-five or so, Lee guessed. His most striking feature were his golden eyes, yellow as lamplight-wolf's eyes. Watchful and wary, they gleamed like gemstones in his pale face. Lee couldn't make out the name on the press pass hanging from the lapel of the blue raincoat, and he didn't want to stare. So far the young man hadn't noticed him. As he was watching, the man pulled something white from his pocket and put it to his mouth. At first Lee had the impression it was a pack of cigarettes, but then he realized the object was an inhaler. His stomach tightened as the stranger gave the plunger a single, well-practiced push, inhaled deeply, held his breath, then exhaled.

Lee's pulse raced as the man shoved the inhaler back into his pocket. He's asthmatic! Lee's palms began to sweat, and he tried not to stare at the man as he formulated a way to get closer to him without arousing his suspicion. He would approach and ask for a cigarette-no, that wouldn't do, when there were several journalists puffing away just a few yards from him. Something that wouldn't arouse suspicion, something. But as he was trying desperately to think of something, the man folded the notebook and put it into his coat pocket.

He looked around, until his eyes met Lee's, and a look passed between them. Lee couldn't be sure, but he thought it was a look of recognition on the other's part. The man's eyes locked with his, and-was it his imagination? — he gave a slight nod, as if to say, Yes, it's me. The ghost of a smile flickered on the pallid face. He knows who I am, Lee realized. The man pulled his coat around his lean body and strode rapidly around the side of the church.

Lee took off after him, but he was forced to go around a group of elderly mourners coming out of the church. Then, as he approached the gaggle of journalists, a short, balding man stepped forward.

"Excuse me, but aren't you with the NYPD?"

Taken off guard, Lee stared at him.

"Well, I-"

"Yeah, you're the profiler, right? The one who lost his sister?" the man said. "My buddy wrote the story about you a couple of years ago. I recognize you from your picture."

Lee groaned. He had been the unwilling subject of a "human interest" story when he started working with the police department; someone at the city desk had gotten wind of his appointment, remembered his sister's disappearance, and decided it would make a good story. It did make a good story, but Lee did not enjoy the attention and publicity that followed.

"Are you working on this case?" the man continued, and then, without waiting for an answer, "Do you have any comments?"

The others, smelling blood, crowded around him, shouting out questions:

"How's it going?"

"Any leads?"

"What have you figured out about the Slasher?"

"Will he keep killing until you stop him?"

"I'm sorry," Lee said, "but I can't comment on an ongoing investigation." Standard fare, and he didn't suppose they would swallow it.