C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

Lee told him what he feared-that Hughes was going after Kathy now-and that that was the reason for his trip to Philadelphia.

"Oh, jeez," Butts said. "Let me come with you!"

"No, I need you to talk to Chuck first, and explain everything. Then maybe he can get in touch with the cops in Philly and get me some backup. It's tricky, though. We don't really have anything concrete on this guy, so they might not want to stick their necks out. And he might not want to risk asking them, either. They may all think I'm crazy."

"Okay, okay," said Butts. "Where are you gonna be?"

Lee gave him the addresses of Kathy's father's house, and the Vidocq Society.

"If you can, call both those places and leave a message for her or her father to stay put until I arrive. There's no guarantee he'll show up either of those places, though," Lee said, looking at his own cell phone. The battery only had one bar left on it. He turned it off-he wouldn't be able to charge it again before reaching Philadelphia.

"So what do you think he's gonna do?"

"I don't really know."

And that was what frightened him most of all.

The Adam's Mark was the kind of hotel built for conventions and large groups of people. Easily accessible from I-95, it stood twenty-five stories high, a hulking monolith on the outskirts of downtown Philadelphia. After catching a cab from the train station to the hotel, Lee walked into the lobby and told the young desk clerk he was there to see Samuel Hughes. To his surprise, Samuel was registered under his own name.

The lobby was full of fantasy and science-fiction fans-large, oddly dressed people with pasty skin and pale, intelligent faces. Some wore medieval tunics and tights. Others wandered about dressed in jeans and T-shirts with dragon emblems on them. One nerdy-looking man with greasy black hair wore a vest covered with buttons with sayings like MY MOTHER IS A KLINGON, and MY OTHER CAR IS A MILLENNIUM FALCON.

The desk clerk refused to give Lee the room number until he presented his ID, showing his identity as a civilian consultant to the NYPD. It looked exactly like the ID a cop might carry, except that the background was red instead of blue. Fortunately for him, she was too young to know that this position gave him no legal authority-and, in any case, the NYPD had no real jurisdiction in Pennsylvania. She dispatched a porter with a master key to follow Lee to the room.

When their repeated knocks on the door received no answer, the bellboy unlocked the room to let Lee inside. Lee thanked him and sent him away with a ten-dollar tip. He didn't know what he would find inside, but he didn't want anyone else around when he found out. He pushed the door open, stepped inside onto the plush carpeting, and closed the door behind him.

The first thing that hit him when he entered the room was the smell of death-and fear. The air was heavy with the scent of panicked sweat. It was dark inside, and his first impression was that he was alone in the room.

But then he saw, silhouetted in the yellow light of the street lamps coming in through the window, the body hanging from the wooden rafters.

It swung back and forth, moving in the air currents created when Lee entered the room. He switched on the overhead light, and looked at the face. It was indeed the same thin, ascetic young man he had seen at the funeral in Westchester. An overturned footstool lay on its side underneath his feet. By all appearances, he had hanged himself from the strong oak beams that straddled the ceiling of the room.

Technically, Lee knew, he should call the hotel security staff and alert them, but instinct told him that something wasn't right. He didn't know what it was yet, but something. He moved around the room, careful not to touch anything-to keep the crime scene pure, but also to avoid leaving evidence that might lead to him needing to explain later why he was there.

Crime scene-the phrase popped into his head, even though at first glance it appeared to be a suicide.

Lee approached Samuel's body. Unlike the girls he had left in the churches, who looked so lifelike even in death, Samuel looked dead. There was no color in his face-it was the sickly color that comes when all the blood has been drained away from the skin, leaving a grayish white pallor. The eyes were wide open, and Lee felt an accusation in the stare of those dead eyes, as though Samuel somehow blamed him-for what?

The suicide note was short and to the point: I have done many bad things, and I am sorry for everyone that I hurt. It is best this way-I can't hurt anyone else. I love you, Mother. -Samuel

The first thing that struck Lee as odd was that it was typed. Who types out a suicide note? Did he write it before he left for the convention? If so, why go to Philadelphia to kill himself? And why did he type the note? Presumably, he could have used the computers in the hotel, but why go to the trouble of typing the note? Why not just write it by hand on hotel stationery? And why did he tell his mother he loved her when he had brutally killed her hours earlier?

The questions swirled around Lee's mind as he worked his way through the room, taking note of everything he saw. A suitcase of clothes lay open on the bed. He looked through the clothes, all neatly packed-underwear, socks, shirts, enough for three days. Another puzzle. Why take clothes for three days if you planned to kill yourself the night you arrived?

A musty, sweet odor hung in the air. It smelled familiar, but he couldn't place it.

He went over to the body to examine it more closely. Samuel was fully dressed, in black slacks and a pressed white shirt, with conservative oxfords and argyle socks. Why hang yourself wearing shoes? He tried to think of seeing any photos when he was enrolled at John Jay of people wearing shoes when they hanged themselves, but couldn't think of any.

He examined the footstool that lay beneath the body. When he stood it up, it was not tall enough to reach Samuel's feet. Lee felt a surge of adrenaline through his veins. Samuel could have looped the rope through the rafters without the help of the stool, but if he had hanged himself standing on the stool, it would have to be at least tall enough to reach his feet.

There was no doubt in Lee's mind now that this was a staged crime scene. Someone had killed Samuel and then tried hard to make it look like a suicide-but not hard enough. The details didn't add up. Either the murderer lacked knowledge of forensics, or he was in a hurry.

Lee went over to the suitcase full of clothing. Perhaps it held a clue, something to help identify the murderer. He searched the clothes, but found nothing helpful. Seeing the hotel phone on the bedside table, he punched the Speaker Phone button, and, on an impulse, hit the Redial button.

The musical pattern of the numbers was so familiar to him that he didn't even have to wait for the voice mail to pick up. In an instant, everything became horrifyingly clear to him. In a flash, he saw every misread clue, every wrong turn in the road, every false lead. He knew now what the musty, sweet scent in the air was.

His hand trembling, he put the receiver back in its cradle.

Depression began to tug at him, seeping into his stomach like poison, threatening to spread upward, turning his limbs to stone as surely as if he had seen Medusa herself.

"No!" he muttered through clenched teeth, fighting it off with all his might. "Not this time you don't!"

He took a last look around the room. There was nothing more he could do for poor Samuel. He would leave the crime scene untouched for the local police to ponder.

He had to go, now-before it was too late.

Dr. Azarian's house was not hard to find. A handsome Edwardian brick structure in an affluent neighborhood, it stood at the end of a short stone walkway. The front gate was open, and Lee went through it and up to the front door. The house was dark, though, and the blinds were drawn. He stood on the front stoop and peered inside. There was no sign of life-no sound, no movement. He walked around the house and looked in all of the windows. He found no sign of forced entry, no indication that anyone was inside. He glanced at his watch. It was only five o'clock, and the Vidocq Society meeting would not start for several hours yet. Kathy and her father could be anywhere.