C. Lawrence: Silent Screams

"Yes, I do."

Morton shook his head. "I dunno, Lee. Seems like a stretch to me."

Lee ran a hand through his curly black hair, something he did when he was upset. His friend's hair was longer, too, Chuck thought-even shaggy, by his own standards. He wore his own sandy blond hair short-like the bristles of a hairbrush, his wife said. He had left her soft warm body with particular reluctance this morning. When he rose from bed, the house still so dark and quiet, Susan had flung an arm out after him and moaned a little, and he had wanted nothing more than to climb back under the covers next to her and plant kisses everywhere his lips could reach.

The crime photos Lee was studying were from an unsolved murder out in Queens a few weeks ago-Jane Doe Number Five, they called her. She was well groomed and wasn't dressed like a hooker, and it was odd that no one had called yet to report her missing.

Outside his office, Morton could hear the morning shift of cops arriving, as the building that housed the Bronx Major Case Unit stirred with the beginning of a new workday. The aroma of fresh coffee seeped through the closed office door, making Morton's mouth swim with saliva. He looked wistfully at the empty coffee mug on his desk, swallowed, and rubbed his stinging eyes, dry from lack of sleep.

"I just know they're related, Chuck," Lee was saying, his dark eyes intense in the stark fluorescent lighting. "The posing of the bodies-"

"But there was no mutilation on Jane Doe," Chuck protested.

"No, because he didn't feel comfortable enough-she was probably his first kill."

"Okay, okay," Morton answered. "I believe you. Trouble is, I don't know who else will."

Lee stood up and paced the small office. "The same perp that killed this girl in Queens also killed Marie Kelleher. I know he did!" He thrust a photo in front of Chuck's face. The glossy print showed a well-dressed young woman lying on her back, her arms flung out from her body, so that if you stood her up she would be in the same position as a crucifixion victim. But there was no cross anywhere in sight-the body lay in a ditch on the edge of Greenlawn Cemetery in Queens.

"Look at that!" Lee said, his voice tight with emotion. "Look at the positioning of the body! It's exactly the same as Marie Kelleher, except this time he managed to get a little closer to his fantasy."

"And what's that?"

"Leaving the body in a church. There was nothing random about that. And the carving-that's part of the fantasy too."

Chuck leaned back in his chair. "I don't know, Lee. It seems a little thin."

"I'll tell you something else. He won't stop until he's caught."

"So you say we're dealing with a serial offender here?"

"That's right."

Something in his voice made Morton believe him.

"Please, Chuck," Lee said. "Please. I need to study the file on the Queens killing."

Morton and rose from his chair. He felt stiff and old and tired. Seeing his friend like this didn't help.

"Okay, okay," he said. "I had to call in some favors just to get a copy of these photos. Let me run it past the guys upstairs, okay? I don't have to tell you that detectives can get very territorial about their cases."

"All right."

"So," Chuck said after a pause that threatened to swallow them both, "how's the Frau ohne Schatten?"

The old Lee Campbell would have smiled at this. But now his friend just raised an eyebrow, his face devoid of mirth. "Oh, some things never change, you know. Brisk as ever."

Lee had come up with the nickname for his mother after seeing the Strauss opera in college. Chuck, who had some German ancestry on his mother's side, found it amusing, having experienced Fiona Campbell's relentless cheerfulness firsthand. They used to joke about how she was really the original Frau ohne Schatten-woman without a shadow. But now the shadows had fallen heavily over his friend.

Campbell turned to leave, but he swayed and caught himself by grabbing the door frame.

"You okay?" Chuck asked, reaching a hand out to him.

Lee waved him off. "Fine. Just a little tired, that's all."

Morton didn't believe him, but he kept silent. He recalled Lee's Presbyterian stoicism only too well from their days on the rugby field, and still remembered the day Lee refused to leave a tournament game after breaking his nose on a tackle. Blood spurting from his nose, he insisted on finishing the game; he muttered something about "setting an example." Chuck called it masochism, but he would never say that to his friend.

"Can I speak with the pathologist doing Marie's autopsy?" Lee asked.

"I don't see why not. I'll be in touch," he added.

"Right," said Campbell. He paused at the door to Chuck's office, as if he were about to say something else, but then turned, opened the door, and was gone.

Morton leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his stiff bristle of blond hair. Then he stood, picked up his mug, and headed out of his office toward the coffee station. The mug-a gift from his daughter-proclaimed him as "World's Greatest Dad," but today he didn't feel like the world's greatest anything.

When he got to the coffee station, he saw that a few beat cops were gathered in the corner, heads lowered, talking quietly, and he heard one of them snicker. Then another one said, "Yeah-real mental, I guess." They all laughed-until one of the conspirators saw Chuck and nudged the others with his elbow, at which point they abruptly stopped laughing. Rage gathered in Chuck's chest, constricting his throat and making his forehead burn. He was noted for his even temper most of the time, but when he lost it, he truly lost it.

"What the hell are you looking at, Peters?" he bellowed.

Everyone in the station house stopped what they were doing and looked at him. He advanced on the group of subordinates, who shrank from him, averting their eyes as he approached.

"Let me tell you something," he said, his voice lowered to a steely calm. "If you don't get back to work right this minute, some heads are going to roll around here. Do you understand me?" he said, addressing himself to a young sergeant, Jeff Peters.

"Yes, sir," Peters replied, his blunt face sulky. He was short and black-haired and built like a prizewinning Angus.

Chuck felt his face redden. "I didn't hear you, Peters!"

"Yes, sir."

"And you, O'Connell-do you have anything to say to me?"

"No, sir." Danny O'Connell was a tall, skinny redhead who followed any lead that Peters set. Chuck knew this, and knew that the rest of them were just playing along. One of the rules of group dynamics-which functioned in station houses exactly as it did in high school locker rooms-was to make fun of others to deflect the possibility that others might make fun of you. Peters was the ringleader, as usual, and Chuck knew he had a mean streak. He came from an unstable home, had a drunken failure for a father, and was angry at the world. Chuck put his face close to Peters's face, so close that he could smell his wintergreen aftershave.

"Or maybe you wanted to transfer out of Homicide? Because that could be arranged."

"No, sir."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you'd better keep your nose clean. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

Chuck took a look around the station to see that he had things under control. He was satisfied with the results. Everyone was looking at him with respect tinged with fear, and that was the way he wanted it. There would be opportunities for joking later, for loosening the reins a bit, but what he needed now was respect. He glanced at Peters one last time and stalked back into his office, being sure to slam the door behind him.

Once inside, he closed the venetian blinds and sank into his chair. Being in command was part theatrics, part intimidation, and part setting an example. He didn't enjoy the theatrics or the intimidation, but he dreaded even more losing control of his men. Once that happened, he knew, you might as well turn in your badge.