Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“Dead in the eye,” Driscoll repeated.

The businessman returned the Lieutenant’s glare. “I had nothing to do with that headline.”

Time froze. Shewster was the first to flinch.

“I’m only interested in catching the psycho who killed my daughter, or twin psychos, as you contend. It’s been my only interest from the start. I needn’t bore a lawman with the statistics of how many homicides go unsolved. With all due respect, even serial homicides! Take the Axeman of New Orleans, the Capital City murders in Madison, Wisconsin, the Frankfort Slasher in North Philadelphia, the Monster of Florence. Hell, the goddamn Zodiac Killer reigned for thirty years! I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by and watch these twisted twins do the same. I’m likely to be dead in thirty years! Let’s face it. That early photo of Abigail’s killers isn’t the only likeness that’s going to hit page one. You know it and I know it. All I’m asking is that you let a grieving man help. With my contacts, I can put together a team of physiognomy experts and graphic computer artists who can project their current-day likeness better than any civil servant the NYPD has on its payroll.”

Driscoll studied Shewster’s face. He saw a grieving parent looking for closure. The Lieutenant’s own mirror had returned that look many times. “Couldn’t hurt.”

WELCOME TO THE NEW YORK AQUARIUM

After he used his Discover card to gain admittance, a strong smell of fish assaulted his sinuses. He popped a stick of Doublemint into his mouth and listened to the voice that boomed over the site’s loudspeaker: “Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, it’s four o’clock. Time to feed the dolphins! Come join us in Pavilion Four.”

The announcement caused a stir in the crowd. Families scurried toward the Big Top, where a school of dolphins were sheltered from the sun.

Joining the crowd, he climbed the steps of the bleachers, found a comfortable seat, and scanned the spectators. There were no sailor’s caps to be found. Had he said baseball cap? There were dozens of those. Nah. That wouldn’t be likely. It had to be a sailor’s cap. He adjusted his. Although he felt somewhat like a dork, it was a British one, like he’d been asked. The Royal Navy issue porkpie cap stood out. Perhaps he’d be spotted first.

“Quite a show they put on,” the woman beside him murmured, eyes fixed on the dolphins swimming in tandem. “Wow! Did you catch that, Brendan?”

Her four-year-old nodded. “Mommy, can I open my Cracker Jacks now?”

“Sure,” she said, stroking the side of the child’s face.

“Love that caramel corn, myself,” said the man, feeling awkward, being the only adult without child. “Battery went dead on my digital,” he lied. “Caught some good shots of the sharks, though.”

The woman smiled. “A photography buff?”

“Do some freelance for the local papers. Work the zoos, the parks.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Mommy, is this a peanut or a bug?”

While the mother examined the oddly shaped nugget, he scanned the bleachers. No sailor’s cap. He checked his watch. He was sure they were to hook up at 4:00. It was now 4:20.

Ten minutes later, feeding time was over. He watched the crowd spill from the stands.

“It was nice chatting,” said the woman, guiding her youngster down the steps.

“Same here,” he replied.

What should I do? In about ninety seconds I’m gonna look pretty dumb sitting here alone.

He decided to find a secluded area and call the number he had used to arrange the get-together. He found a path that led to a fieldstone tunnel. There was no one else in sight.

“The suspects have either changed their MO again, or they’ve gotten sloppy,” said Margaret, who, along with Thomlinson, had been invited to a brainstorming session in the Lieutenant’s office. “The ME says the victim was struck twice on the left temple before being scalped, not the right parietal like all the others. And it doesn’t look like the perp stopped to pose the body. The vic was found curled inside a tunnel.”

“Could be a copycat,” said Thomlinson. “He’d know about the scalping from the papers.”

“What do we got on the victim?” Driscoll asked.

“One Francis Palmer from San Antonio, Texas. Like Miss Moneybags, not exactly a tourist. He was in town for an Internet convention. Headed up a company that designed Web sites for entrepreneurial self-starters. The guy’s got a prior, John. He was busted three years ago for child molestation.”

“Now there’s a connection. These twins have a beef with sexual abusers. That’s evident by the tattoos on the scalps. That makes the killings far from random. We may be dealing with vengeful executions. Anything yet from Interpol?”

“On it,” said Thomlinson, dashing out of the office.

“Why’d our guy at the aquarium get two hits?” Margaret pondered aloud.

“Crime Scene may have the answer to that one. It could be a simple one. The blood trail might suggest the first blow didn’t kill him. He lunges for his assailant and whack! He gets it again. Whatever the reason, I don’t think they’re getting sloppy. And I don’t buy into the copycat theory. I think they’ve turned their anger up a notch. The fact that the body wasn’t posed says to me the killer was rushed-interrupted by someone approaching.”

“Or he didn’t want to spend more time with the scumbag than he had to.”

Driscoll recognized revulsion in the Sergeant’s voice. He fought back the impulse to take her by the hand. Seeking diversion, he picked up the black-and-white photo of the twins. “What turned you two kids into a pair of revenge-seeking killers?” he asked, staring into the eyes of the Kodak-captured innocents.

“My money’d be on the father,” said Margaret, looking like she was about to spit.

Driscoll closed the door to his office. He knew Margaret intimately. Her past was no secret to him. He knew it’d just be a matter of time before this revelation of sexual abuse would stir unwelcome memories.

“Would it help if we talked about it?” he said, taking a seat on the edge of his desk.

Margaret slumped in her chair as if her body were a blowup doll that someone had pricked with a needle. “Is it this case?…I don’t know. I feel sorta stretched. About everything. So stretched, that I tried to reach my therapist from when I was a kid. She’s the only one I know. And wouldn’t you know it. The woman’s dead. I gotta be honest with you, John, working with you, now, after the death of your wife…”

She stopped talking and scrunched her face. “You know I have feelings for you. That’s a given. And I know you have feelings for me. I also know you need time to grieve. But it hasn’t been easy for me to sit on those feelings. Especially since her death. Jesus! Look at me! You’ve lost your wife. Your emotions must be doing somersaults, and I’m complaining about pining. Grow up, Margaret! But that’s the problem. When it comes to men, I’m like an eighth grader, for Chrissake! I needn’t go into detail. We both know why. Just when I think I got a handle on things, this sexual abuse bombshell explodes in my face. It puts me back in Mary Janes and a training bra with my old man peeping through the keyhole to my bedroom!”

Margaret began to cry. This time, Driscoll took her by the hand. “I can have you reassigned. No one need know why.”

“My emotional baggage is like lint. It’s in my pocket no matter where I go.”

“I have a therapist. I don’t see her much. But she was there for me after Colette’s accident. Her name is Elizabeth. You’d like her.”

Margaret used her hands to wipe tears from her cheeks. Her expression was one of embarrassment. “Look at me. Some gun-totin’ detective, huh?”