C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

They didn't.

He struggled to push through them, murmuring apologies, but they trailed after him, sticking to him like so many leeches in black raincoats. He hurried around to the back of the church, turning the corner of the building just in time to see an old, dark-colored car peel around the bend in the road. He couldn't read the license plate, and he didn't know cars well enough to place the make of this one. It wasn't a late model, and he thought it was American-but he couldn't even be sure about that. Black or dark blue, dented left rear fender-that was all he could see.

The reporters crowded around him, barking out their questions.

"Do you think he'll strike again?"

"Are you any closer to solving it than you were?"

"Who else is on the special task force?"

"Are you going to bring in the FBI?"

When they saw that Lee wasn't going to give them anything, they broke up, peeling away one by one, tucking their notebooks into raincoat pockets before heading off to expense account lunches at local restaurants.

Well, if it is him, at least now I'm sure he owns a car, Lee thought. But he had been fairly certain of that already. Everything about this guy fit the profile-right down to the inhaler. Lee pulled his coat collar up to his ears and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The rain was coming down harder now, cold little needles stinging his bare skin. He walked briskly toward the train station as the heavens let loose a torrent intense enough to wash clean the transgressions of an entire generation of sinners.

Later, back home in his apartment, Lee looked out the window at the softly falling rain. He thought about his earlier conversation on the phone with Chuck, who had been less than thrilled with his report of his visit to the funeral.

"Damn reporters-they're like goddamn locusts! I can't believe you couldn't even get a license plate number."

Lee had no good reply. He didn't feel comfortable vilifying the press, but he had to admit that they had gotten in his way.

"How do you suppose he got a press pass? Just forged one, I guess?"

"Probably."

Chuck was exasperated when Lee admitted that he didn't manage to read the name on his press pass.

"It was probably a pseudonym anyway," Lee pointed out.

He had seen the department sketch artist, just in case. Lee had made a vow to himself that he would not forget the lean, ascetic-looking face with the striking yellow eyes and high cheekbones, the Cupid's-bow curve of his mouth. He had looked like a lost little boy, until he smiled-and then he looked like a hungry wolf. The resulting sketch was pretty good, though it failed to convey the feeling Lee had of the twisted personality behind that smile. Butts had already shown the sketch to the victims' families, but none of them recognized him. That didn't surprise Lee-the killer wouldn't be anyone they knew. There was no one who resembled him in the VICAP files, either-again, not surprising. Although Lee still couldn't help feeling he had seen him before…but where? Try as he might, the memory remained shadowy in his mind.

Lee watched as raindrops gathered in rows on the windowsill, silent silver sentinels standing briefly shoulder to shoulder before sliding to the ground. Why do we bother? he thought. Why fight the same wars over and over, make the same mistakes, slaughter and enslave our fellow human beings? What was the point, really, if we weren't going to evolve as a species? Why should each generation drag themselves through the same tired territory as the one before, if mankind as a whole was not getting wiser, kinder, more enlightened? The mind-numbing repetitiveness of human history was exhausting.

He felt the old darkness descending, and stood up, forcing his mind away from this train of thought. He needed to monitor thoughts like these before they gained momentum. Depression was like an underground fault line in his emotional life, and he tried hard not fall into that long, slippery slide to the bottom. The wrong thought, a sudden flash of insight, morning sunlight coming in the window in a certain way-anything could set off an episode.

He forced himself to concentrate on the case files awaiting him on his desk. Just as he sat down at his desk, his cell phone beeped. He picked it up and looked at the screen: NEW TEXT MESSAGE. He forced himself to breathe more slowly as he scrolled down to see the message: That was a close call. Better luck next time.

He put the cell phone down. Better luck next time. Now he was certain that not only had the Slasher posed as a journalist at Annie's funeral, but he had also sent Lee the messages about his sister. But how could he know details that were never released to the press? It was troubling…very troubling.

Lee started to dial Chuck, but as he did, his phone rang. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Heya, Boss. Whaddya know-I finally reached you!"

"Hi, Eddie."

"So what's up?"

Lee hesitated. He wasn't sure how much he should tell Eddie. After all, he wasn't part of the official investigative team. But ever since those dark nights at St. Vincent's, Eddie had been a confidant, confessor, and therapist all rolled into one.

"I think I saw him today."

"Jeez. Really?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure."

"How d'you know?"

"I don't really want to go into detail over the phone."

"'Fraid someone might be listening in?"

"No, not that." The truth was that Lee wanted to get back to work.

"Hey, you eat yet?"

"Uh, no."

"Okay, listen-meet me at the Taj in ten minutes, huh? I'll tell you what Diesel and Rhino have turned up."

The Taj Mahal was Eddie's favorite Indian restaurant on East Sixth Street, and it was exactly a block and a half from Lee's apartment.

Lee glanced at the clock above his desk. Six-thirty. He would have to eat sooner or later.

"Okay."

"Right. Ten minutes. See you then."

Lee left a message for Nelson on his home phone (Nelson didn't own a cell phone-he considered them a sign of the Apocalypse), and called Chuck on his cell. Chuck didn't answer, so Lee left a message for him too, threw on a coat, and left for the Taj Mahal.

When Lee arrived, Eddie was already seated, tucking into a basket of pappadam-paper-thin, crispy Indian bread studded with peppercorns. Like most of the other restaurants on Sixth Street, the Taj Mahal was small-long and narrow. Its walls were festooned with a dizzying assortment of decorative lights: colored fairy lights, red-hot chili pepper lanterns, and strings of Christmas lights. All of the Sixth Street restaurant owners seemed to have the same notion of interior decoration. It was always Christmas on Sixth Street. You could see the street from blocks away, flashing, sparkling, glittering, glowing. Lee had tried to come up with a theory to explain the phenomena-some kind of relationship between excessive lighting and spicy food, perhaps. He often imagined the money flowing into the coffers of Con Edison as a result of all of this unbridled luminatory enthusiasm.

Eddie was seated at his favorite table in the far corner, underneath a billowing canopy of purple cotton fabric. He waved to Lee as he entered.

"How's it goin', Boss?" he said, popping a piece of golden, crispy pappadam into his mouth. Eddie was in a good mood. But then, Eddie was always in a good mood in public-or pretending to be.

"Okay," Lee said, taking a seat across from him. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, just great. You know me-I always land on my feet."

Lee knew that wasn't true; a suicide attempt had put Eddie in the bed next to his at St. Vincent's. Eddie had slashed both wrists and lay on his bed in an SRO hotel, waiting to die. He hadn't bled out, though, when his neighbor at the Windermere Hotel found him. When Lee met him, his wrists were still heavily bandaged, and he was on daily doses of Haldol.