Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

He crouched down and ventured inside the cave, his eardrums reverberating with the throbbing of his heart. Ten feet in, he heard a buzzing sound. Following it, he found a frenzy of flies disturbed by his flashlight.

Beyond the flies, the beam of light exposed a rib cage. It appeared to be human. And still fastened to the end of one elongated fleshy bone Raios found what he was looking for: the matching Gucci shoe.

The voice of the TV spokesman for Hair Weave International startled Driscoll out of his sleep. What happened to Robert Taylor and Lana Turner? he wondered, taking in his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was Lana Turner turning down the overtures of Mr. Taylor in a black-and-white film on American Movie Classics.

“Call me now and I’ll throw in a year’s supply of conditioner at no extra cost!” the adman barked.

“No! I don’t need a hair weave. And you can keep your damn conditioner!” Driscoll growled, pulling himself out of the recliner. “Where the hell’s that remote?”

The TV spokesman was dialing the number that appeared at the bottom of the screen. Driscoll heard the sound of a phone ringing.

“Yeah, right!”

He leaned forward and depressed the TV’s power button and watched Mr. Hair Weave fade to black. Silence prevailed. Momentarily.

Again, he heard the sound of a ringing phone.

Mary?

Following the sound into the kitchen, he spotted his cell phone next to the plate that had held his ham-and-cheese sandwich and answered it.

“Sorry if I woke you.” It was Margaret. She sounded anxious. “The ME just called. We may have ourselves another one.”

“Where’d they strike this time?”

“The Bronx Zoo.”

“The ten o’clock news did a piece about the guy who jumped into the baboons’ compound and got ripped to shreds. You’re not talking about him, are you?”

“If it wasn’t for him, we may have never found the other body.”

“What other body?”

“A precinct detective found the half-eaten body of a young woman in their den. Pearsol’s finding it hard to come up with an exact cause of death, with the condition of the remains and all, but she does have sharp force trauma to the right parietal. How she ended up as a Happy Meal for the baboons is anybody’s guess.”

“Got an ID on her?”

“I’ll say. Try Abigail Shewster. The Abigail Shewster.”

“Holy shit!”

“We sent out for dental records just to confirm, but her California driver’s license was found at the scene. It makes sense. She arrived in town last Thursday for this week’s grand opening of the Zoo’s Old World Primate Pavilion. The one the Shewster Pharmaceutical Corporation had so liberally funded.”

“California. That makes her a domestic tourist.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a perp changed the rules.”

“Hold on. I got another call coming in. And I think I know who it is.”

The Mayor’s call was to inform Driscoll that Malcolm Shewster would be at Gracie Mansion at six o’clock sharp. It was safe to say that the pharmaceutical mogul would not be in a cheerful mood. Driscoll, too, had been “invited” to attend. That gave him a little more than five hours to get a run-down on the investigation and come up with an answer as to why the New York City Police Department failed to protect the daughter of one of the richest and most influential men in the state of California.

The Lieutenant knew the mayoral residence well. He had been a guest of many of its former illustrious tenants. David Dinkins boasted a powerful backhand and often preferred to discuss important police matters on the tennis court. Ed Koch was a gourmet, and Driscoll remembered some memorable entrees. Abe Beame was a gracious host, boastful of the grandeur of the estate. But, with the mansion’s present inhabitant, it was strictly business. And business his way.

A member of the Mayor’s security detail ushered Driscoll into a Georgian-styled reception area, where a second officer escorted him into the Blue Room. Sitting in a plush divan, a wiry-haired man with eyes the color of Caribbean waters was arguing vehemently with the Mayor.

“John,” the Mayor said without rising, “Mr. Shewster.”

Shewster, clad in a charcoal gray three-piece Armani suit, resembled George C. Scott in some of his memorable roles. Driscoll eyed the handsome silver-haired man with his head tilted forward, his stern mouth above a tightly fitted tie, with eyes simmering, and a look of contempt filling an angry face. He acknowledged Driscoll with a nod.

“The city is responsible for the grief of a father who has lost his daughter because of our ineptitude,” the Mayor pronounced.

“Mr. Shewster, I know what it’s like to lose a daughter,” Driscoll said, offering his hand. “My heart goes out to you. We did everything…”

“We didn’t do enough!” Reirdon barked.

Shewster, deaf to their exchange, stared at the Mayor. “This killer is laughing at you. The both of you. It’s his show, isn’t it, Mr. Mayor?”

Reirdon saw the accentuation as a jab.

“Like hell it is!” he growled. “This city is my town.”

“My daughter’s body was ripped apart by zoo animals. Save your proclamations for your next campaign.”

Driscoll studied Shewster’s face. It was filled with pain.

“Tell me why a twenty-two-year-old woman who comes to your city for a ribbon-cutting ceremony ends up as dinner for caged beasts.”

The Mayor’s eyes caught Driscoll’s. There was no answer in their exchange.

“A year ago, research and development at Shewster Pharmaceuticals, my company, introduced a miracle drug. After two weeks on it, your arteries are swept clean. Its chemical compound had been designed to Roto-Rooter those arteries like Drano through clogged pipes. Imagine that! An end to heart surgery.”

Neither the Mayor nor Driscoll knew where he was going.

Shewster reached in his vest pocket, produced a Cohiba Crystal Corona, and lit it.

“Word reached me that someone in our department had leaked the formula for this compound to Merck. Now, mind you, our miraculous drug was going through its preliminary testing. We were not yet ready to go before the FDA with our breakthrough. We didn’t want to cure the heart this year only to kill the kidney the next. But that doesn’t matter,” he grumbled, watching a spiral of cigar smoke loft skyward. “What does matter was that our secret had been funneled to the other side by someone on my payroll. As CEO, what was I to do?” Shewster’s eyes narrowed. “I fired the entire department! Four hundred and sixty-three pink slips. Problem solved. Leak sealed.”

“You can’t be suggesting I fire my entire police force?” said Reirdon.

“Drastic developments require drastic measures.”

“Mr. Shewster, I’m an elected official. I’m not the CEO of some West Coast medical company. I can’t fire the entire police force!”

“Then what is it an elected official can do?”

“Not that we live in two different worlds. But corporate maneuvering has no hold on city affairs.”

“Well, while your city-paid sentinels are standing watch, your killer is knocking off ducks in a pond. And to top it off, nobody sees a goddamn thing until the carcass floats to the top.”

Driscoll was too familiar with the feelings of loss that preyed on Shewster. And of how bitterness spawned rage.

“Why is the body count still climbing?”

“It’s just not that simple,” Reirdon replied.

“Let me tell you what is simple. I’m prepared to offer a large sum of money to the man who delivers the psychopath that killed my daughter, an only daughter, found ravaged inside a goddamn cave, three thousand miles from home, in some zoo.”