Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

Tears welled up in Shewster’s eyes.

Hmm. Human after all, thought Driscoll.

The grieving father produced a small vial of pills and popped two into his mouth.

“This drug grossed fifty-two million dollars in first-quarter sales this year alone. I never thought that one day I’d be popping them myself. Here. Be my guest.” Shewster tossed the vial to Reirdon.

“A good Merlot does it for me,” the Mayor replied, catching the plastic bottle in midair and handing it to Driscoll.

“Phenaladin 500 mg. Warning: May cause drowsiness. Avoid consumption of alcohol,” Driscoll read. “They wouldn’t like that at Sullivan’s. I’d better stick to my Harp.”

“These are the best hostility eradicators and anxiety relievers money can buy,” Shewster boasted. “Okay, enough informality. Let’s talk about your inquiry. Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

“Mr. Shewster, our investigations are confidential,” said Driscoll.

“Lieutenant, I’m not ‘Mr. Joe Public.’ My corporation hasn’t donated millions of dollars toward police associations for nothing; not to mention the large contributions to your mayor’s campaign. You’ll tell me what I want to know.”

“It’s okay, John. Tell him,” the Mayor said.

Driscoll began to fill the man in on the details of the case.

“We were initially going on the theory that only one killer was involved. Now we know there are two. We think acting in tandem. Each of them slipped up once, leaving behind a telltale trace. We found the bloodied fingernail of one of the killers at a crime scene atop the Brooklyn Bridge. Remnants of human skin, detected under the fingernails of a later victim, confirmed a second killer. Then, DNA analysis unveiled something extraordinary. Our killers are twins. Male and female identical twins.”

“No such thing!” said Shewster.

“We thought so, too. But our tests are conclusive. The female suffers from a medical condition known as Turner syndrome. It makes the pair genetically identical in all aspects but gender. It also makes them a rarity.”

“Tell me more.”

“Our first search encompassed the United States, where four such pairs were discovered within a time frame that would make them possible suspects. In order to diagnose Turner syndrome, a blood test called a karyotype must be done. But in all likelihood, no one would have done that at birth. It would have been done later in life. And it has to have happened after 1959, the first year they discovered the method to test for the syndrome. Based on their age, all four fall within that time frame too. We’ve already ruled out three sets of twins as suspects. Our investigation continues on the fourth while we continue our probe outside the United States.”

“What’s the hold up on the fourth pair?”

“There’s reason to believe the pair had been raised on an Indian reservation outside of a small town in West Virginia.”

“Where they picked up their penchant for scalping, no doubt.”

“Our investigation is now focused on that reservation.”

“The apprehension of these killers is Job One with this administration,” said Reirdon. “Rest assured that every resource available to the New York City Police Department will be deployed.”

“Save your speech for the tabloids. You still haven’t explained how my daughter’s body ended up with the apes.”

An exasperated Reirdon glared at the man. “On with the details, John.”

“These twins like to showcase their crime scenes. Forensic evidence indicates your daughter was killed just outside the baboons’ compound and that her body was propped up on its protective fencing. We suspect that during the night her body slipped and fell from the fence.”

Sadness returned to Shewster’s face. The man’s hand gesture entreated Driscoll to go on and so he did.

“We’ve detected a pattern. These twins have apparently chosen New York City tourist attractions as their killing fields. We discovered the first victim at the Museum of Natural History, a second on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island. Another on the Brooklyn Bridge, a fourth aboard the USS Intrepid, and most recently, sadly for you, at the zoo. All the victims thus far have been either foreign tourists or, in your daughter’s case, an out-of-towner. Each victim is felled by a forceful blow to the right side of the head. And, of course, the scalping. We’re not sure how that ties in, but serial killers have been known to take trophies from their victims. This killer-”

“You mean killers,” Shewster barked.

“We don’t know they’re working in tandem.”

“Are these sick bastards playing some sort of game? Some sort of competition as to who can kill more people? And, if so, what would the prize be?”

“We don’t know their motive,” Driscoll said, flatly.

“Is it money they’re after? Maybe the bounty I’m considering will turn them against each other.”

“There’s been no evidence of robbery. In many cases, crimes of this nature don’t follow any standard of normalcy. They may be simply getting off on the act of killing.”

An electronic purr interrupted the conversation.

“Driscoll, here.”

The look on the Lieutenant’s face confirmed what the Mayor feared most.

“Another one?” Reirdon asked.

Driscoll nodded.

“Where?”

“Central Park.” He stood. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to get over there right away.”

The Mayor agreed.

As Driscoll disappeared out the door, Shewster exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke and raised an eyebrow at Sully Reirdon.

Hours before news of the latest murder broke, Angus, clad in Old Navy overalls and a blue polo shirt, slid into a fiberglass seat across from his sister. The all-night diner was near empty. It would be some time before the early morning rush of breakfast-hungry New Yorkers would descend upon the eatery. The only other night owl was a bulbous female patron seated diagonally across from the booth where the teens were hunkered down. She had stopped stuffing herself with corned beef on rye long enough to stare openly at Cassie’s scarred face.

“And what the hell are you lookin’ at?” Cassie asked.

The patron cast her eyes downward and returned to her meal. Cassie turned her attention back to her brother.

“Score?” she asked, eyes wide and expectant.

“Of course,” her brother said with a grin, before disappearing behind an oversized laminated menu. “Hot fudge sundae for me! You?”

“Stack of blueberry pancakes on the way. Tell me! Tell me!”

Angus’s face floated up balloonlike from behind the list of delicacies. “It all began with a stroll…”

An anonymous 911 caller had brought the police to Strawberry Fields, a two-and-a-half-acre tear-shaped landscape inside Central Park. The well-manicured expanse had been dedicated to the memory of the slain music icon John Lennon, who lived and died a stone’s throw away at the Dakota on West Seventy-second. The site boasted a bronze plaque listing 121 countries that endorsed the area as a Garden of Peace. Driscoll pondered the incongruity as he stared into the face of the city’s latest victim, propped, marionette-like, against a bald cypress that marked the sanctuary’s northern perimeter. Dead eyes, open and sullen, returned his gaze.

“She’s been dead eight to ten hours.” It was the voice of Medical Examiner Larry Pearsol, who had sidled up next to Driscoll. “No defensive wounds or evidence of sexual assault. ID has her as Antonia Fucilla, from Tuscany. What she’s doing inside a New York City park, alone, after dark is what I want to know.”

“She wasn’t alone,” said Driscoll, tracing a gloved finger along the linear head wound made by the killer’s weapon. His frustration was escalating. He turned and barked orders at the flock of Crime Scene detectives. “I want every inch of ground swept within a hundred-foot radius. Cigarette butts, gum wrappers, food containers, the goddamn soil if it looks out of place. Anything! You find a snipped fingernail, I want it bagged.”