Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

The Lieutenant thought he had seen every butchery of the human body imaginable. But what he was now holding in his hands filled him with an unfamiliar mix of repugnancy and awe. He had located the scalps. Each had been stretched to fit a five-inch wooden hoop. The hair had been combed and their undersides had been scraped of all flesh. What was tattooed in their centers was a puzzlement.

Driscoll didn’t know what to make of it. The zagging lines were sky blue. “Native American?” he asked.

“No,” said Taniqua.

“Would it have been the custom to mark scalps like this years ago?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Why would they be sending them to you?”

“I don’t know that, either. They came about a week apart in a padded envelope. ‘Angus and Cassie’ was the only thing written as a return address.”

“Did you keep the envelopes?”

“No.”

“Remember anything about the postmark? The city, maybe?”

She shook her head. “They’re in trouble, aren’t they?”

Driscoll didn’t answer. “Are there any pictures of the twins?”

“There were. But they were burned with my mother and buried along with her ashes.”

“All of them?”

“No,” she said, sheepishly. She stood and disappeared again. When she returned, she produced a tattered black-and-white photo and handed it to Driscoll. “I keep it under my pillow.”

There, captured in Kodak clarity, were the full figures of the pair as five-year-olds, standing side by side, holding a makeshift poster. It read: HAMESA RE YI HATCU.

Driscoll looked to Taniqua.

“It means, ‘We Love You, Sis.’” She paused. “You’re not from an adoption agency, are you?”

Driscoll smiled sympathetically, and the woman began to cry.

Driscoll was anxious to decipher the meaning of the scalps’ tattoos. He regretted not packing a laptop because his accommodations at the Sugar Grove Inn included access to the Internet.

Time to update Margaret. He punched in her number on his cell.

“How’re things at Teepee Junction?” she asked.

“Didn’t walk away with Tonto’s autograph but we’ve got a positive ID on our twin killers and a dated photo to go with it. Number four on Cedric’s list, Angus and Cassie Claxonn, have been mailing the scalps to an Indian woman on the reservation. I’m bringing them back with me. They hold a secret of their own.”

“A secret?”

“Each one’s been tattooed with a symbol of some kind.”

“Native American?”

“That’d be too easy. I’m hoping the Internet will help me interpret their meaning. Where are we in finding a parallel between the victims?”

“There’s very little listed anywhere on Shewster’s daughter aside from her G-rated escapades with the highbrow socialites she ran with.”

“Doubt there’d be a record of anything out of character had she been raised from the dead! Big money hides secrets.”

“Tell that to the parents of Paris Hilton. We’ve got calls in to Interpol on the other vics from China, Japan, Germany, and Italy. They are all member countries. We’re waiting to hear back.”

“Good. What I want you to do now is get the names to the media. See if anyone can help us locate these Claxonn twins. Then I want you to run a check of reported rapes in and about West Virginia that would have occurred in 1990. We’re looking especially for any involving incest.”

Incest? Margaret’s heart raced. “On it,” she said.

Call completed, Driscoll unzipped his American Tourister carry-on and began to pack. Turning on the bedside radio, he heard an evangelist’s voice: “Jesus saves! Repent you sinners! Praise the Lord, your God! The all-knowing Almighty who begs for your repentance. Turn your back, brothers and sisters on sinfulness and transgression, lest you become kindle for Satan and his disciples.”

“Praise the Lord!” echoed Driscoll as he packed the last of his attire and headed for the door.

Driscoll returned from his lawyer’s office, where he had finally closed the deal on his house in Toliver’s Point. Considering where he was in the investigation, he would have postponed it, but it had already been rescheduled twice. His lawyer warned him that any further delay could affect the buyer’s closing commitment. Settling into his swivel chair, he peeled back the lid from his coffee container and logged in on the department’s IBM desktop. His eye caught sight of his likeness on page one of yesterday’s Daily News. The headline, emblazoned above his face, read: STILL THE BEST MAN FOR THE JOB??? Driscoll didn’t know why he had kept the rag, suitable now for wrapping fish. Today’s paper featured the photo of the youngsters, with CLAXONN inscribed above it. His capabilities were no longer for debate. Politically or otherwise.

“Goddamn you, Reirdon!” he grumbled, positioning the computer’s arrow in the search field of the PC’s monitor where he typed: SYMBOLS BLUE ZIGZAGS. The response was immediate. After a listing of four icon hawkers, including eBay, where you can get anything on the planet, twenty-four-seven, he learned from Doughtydesigns. com that blue zigzags are often used to illustrate one of the four elements: earth, air, water, and fire. In this case, water. Continuing his inquiry, he clicked on eRugGallery. com. They featured Serape blankets woven by the Navajo in the early 1800s, which included zigzags used as stripes. Blue was one of the preferred colors used in the weaving of the blankets. He made a mental note to check if the Catawba tribe was part of the Navaho nation. Scrolling further, a couple of fashion sites informed him that zigzag patterns were prevalent in the spring of 2005. But when his search led him to Wikipedia, the Internet’s free encyclopedia, he learned that the tattoo was a genogram, commonly used to construct a family tree; it was also used to depict the family’s health history and interpersonal relationships. Further search led him to a Web site for Northwestern University and instinct told him he had found what he’d been looking for. Academia unraveled the geno-gram’s meaning: sexual abuse. He grinned. He had established motive.

As the computer made a whirring sound, Driscoll looked up to find Mr. Shewster standing in his doorway, holding a Dieffenbachia, adorned with a red ribbon banner.

“What’s that for?” asked Driscoll. The banner on the small tree read: WORKING TOGETHER WE CAN BURY THE HATCHET. Driscoll found the fitting play on words amusing. “Great! You bring me a plant with poisonous sap?”

“According to my man in research and development, you’re looking at the cure for multiple sclerosis. Give us another three years and we’ll have it refined and capsulated. It’ll be available in every Duane Reade.”

“So, why give it to me?”

“To cure any hard feelings between us.”

“Squawk! Squawk!” Driscoll’s mechanical bird sounded.

“See? Your fine feathered friend knows a quality plant when he sees one.”

Driscoll hit the OFF button on Socrates’ claw.

“Some headline in yesterday’s paper,” Driscoll said. “If I recall correctly, those were the exact words uttered in the Blue Room at Gracie Mansion.”

“But today you’re the toast of the town! Why look back? Wayward is the way of politics. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.” Shewster fanned out the small tree’s plumage.

What was he up to? “Mr. Shewster, before we go any further, there’s one thing we’ve got to resolve.”

“And what’s that?”

“You look me dead in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with the fickleness of our illustrious Sully Reirdon.”

“Lieutenant, you’re holding on to baggage that is best left unclaimed.”