C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

The same attitude of resignation was stamped upon the faces and slumped shoulders of the residents, who shuffled along the ill-kempt sidewalks, heads down, eyes focused on the cracked slabs of concrete, probably to keep from tripping and breaking their necks.

"This is it," Butts said, pointing to a little white house crammed between its equally undistinguished neighbors. Like many of the other properties, it was surrounded by an ugly chain-ink fence. Number 121 was a little neater than some of the others. The walk was swept, and a small concrete pond was adorned with a white plaster Virgin Mary, perched next to a statue of a fawn drinking from the pond.

The front gate on the chain-link fence creaked when they opened it, and their footsteps clicked loudly on the concrete path leading up to the house. When they reached the front door, Lee lifted his hand to knock, but saw that the door was cracked open. He pushed on it, and it swung forward on well-oiled hinges but then stopped, as though something was blocking it. There were no lights on inside the house, and no sign of life within its whitewashed stucco walls.

"Mrs. Hughes?" he called out through the opening.

No response.

He called louder.

"Mrs. Hughes? Are you there?" He rapped the door sharply with his knuckles. He was burning to burst into the house, but they had no search warrant, and the last thing they needed was to have the whole case thrown out of court.

"I don't think anyone's in there," Butts said, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. He, too, looked impatient and anxious.

"The door is open," Lee said, "do you think we should-"

But at that moment he realized what was blocking the door. As his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he could make out a pair of woman's shoes-still attached to their owner. She lay partially out of sight, in the small front foyer, but even in the darkened room, Lee could see her feet, her legs, and-was that blood?

He turned to Butts. "We're going in. Cover me."

"I don't think we should-" Butts began, but that was all he managed to get out.

Lee didn't wait for Butts to pull his gun. He pushed against the door with his shoulder, and it gave.

What he saw made him catch his breath.

The dead woman in front of him was nude, just like the rest of the Slasher's victims. But there was no neat positioning of the body with the arms spread out evenly from her shoulders. Instead, she lay splayed out on the floor, her hands flung above her head, a jagged scar where her throat had been cut. A dark rivulet of dried blood snaked crookedly from her throat across the white linoleum floor.

"Jesus," Butts said softly, behind him, looking around the room. Blood spatter was everywhere-on the floor, the walls, the furniture, even the ceiling.

The victim was slight of build-like her son, Lee thought-and, unlike the other victims, she was middle-aged, but slim and trim, what was once called "well-preserved."

On her chest had been carved the words, Deliver us From Evil.

He was looking at a textbook example of overkill. In addition to slashing her throat and carving on her chest, the killer had ripped her clothes from her body, and they lay in tatters around her. Her limbs were splayed out in every direction. It's possible she had fallen like that, but Lee thought it more likely that the killer was making a point by leaving her this way. He had staged every other crime scene, and would probably have staged this one-unless he was falling apart completely now, which was also possible.

He knelt and felt for a pulse, but knew there was no point. Her dead eyes stared reprovingly at the ceiling. The expression on her face was of shock and disbelief, as if she could not fathom what could cause this depth of violence from her own flesh and blood.

Lee straightened up to face Butts, who was staring down at Mrs. Hughes.

"He finally killed the person he meant to kill all along," Lee said.

"So we finally got our guy," Butts remarked.

"Except that we don't have him yet," Lee reminded him. He touched her dead hands. Rigor mortis had already begun to set in, indicating the time of death was probably some hours earlier.

"Do you think it means anything that he skipped over part of the prayer?" Butts asked, looking down at the body. "I mean, should we be lookin' for more vics to turn up?"

"Judging by this, he's spinning out of control, becoming more disorganized. I think he's on the run."

Bundy had gone on the run at this point, fleeing all the way down to Florida, where his killing became unhinged-he attacked five young women on his final, orgiastic night of slaughter.

"I'll call it in," Butts said, getting out his cell phone.

"Okay," said Lee. "I'm going to look around." There was a slight chance Samuel was still here-very slight, Lee thought, given the circumstances. The killing of his mother represented the culmination of his violence, the final-and most authentic-act of retribution in what had until now been symbolic slayings. This would make him more vulnerable, but also far, far more dangerous.

Lee stepped from the foyer into a small but tidy living room adorned with religious icons. He caught a flash of white disappearing around the corner-a cat, probably. He looked around the room. Statues of Joseph and the Virgin Mary graced either side of the mantelpiece, and one wall had a kitschy portrait of Jesus looking heavenward with tragic, soulful eyes. But the most striking icon was the heavy gold cross above the fireplace. A suffering carved Christ was nailed to it with what looked like real nails, and he was dripping blood from every pore. The carving was so realistic that it made Lee's flesh crawl. The furnishings evoked a Victorian parlor-dark furniture covered with fringed antimacassars and lace doilies.

"Okay," Butts said, lumbering into the room, "they're on the way. Hey-look at that, will ya?" he said.

Lee followed his gaze. There, sitting on a small round table, next to an old-fashioned dial telephone, was a white plastic inhaler, the kind used by asthmatics. Next to it was a slip of note paper. Lee picked it up and read the hastily scrawled handwriting. Amtrak› Philly 3:35 pm Penn Station

He glanced at his watch. The train had left from Penn Station an hour ago.

"Philly?" Lee said. "Why would he go to Philly?"

"Here," said Butts. "Take a look at this." He thrust another crumpled receipt in front of Lee, this one for the Adam's Mark Hotel, just outside downtown Philadelphia.

Lee stared at the receipt. Suddenly his ears were ringing, and there was a roaring sound in his head. He realized why Samuel Hughes was going to Philadelphia.

Next time I'll strike closer to home.

He's after Kathy. Panic rose in his throat, choking him. He grabbed Butts by the arm, dragging him to the door.

He wasn't sure what he said or did, but somehow he managed to get Butts out of there. They rushed down the street, the stubby detective trundling a few years behind him as he sprinted toward the subway. There were no yellow cabs cruising this neighborhood, and he reasoned that an express train would be faster anyway.

"What's goin' on?" Butts asked, panting as he tried to catch up with Lee. "You trying to give me pneumonia or something?"

"I've got to get to Philadelphia!" Lee called back over his shoulder.

"How are you gonna find him in a place like that?" Butts yelled as they charged down the steps to the train, dashing through the turnstiles just in time to catch an express headed for Manhattan.

"Okay," Lee said as they threw themselves down onto the plastic seats, panting heavily, "listen carefully. I'm going straight to Penn Station. I want you to contact Chuck Morton and tell him that I've gone after Samuel Hughes, and that he's our man."

"Oh, man," Butts said, struggling to breath through a sudden coughing fit. "Have you gone loco on me? How do you figure to find this guy in goddamn Philadelphia?"