Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

A late parishioner, wishing not to disturb the assembly nor Father Thomas, snuck into the cathedral through the East Fifty-first Street north transept entrance. Instead of joining the faithful already seated, she scurried past the baptistery and circled around toward the cluster of altars in the ambulatory, behind the celebrant, intent on attending Mass there. And then she screamed.

“Bingo!” said Angus.

“Wow! What a setta lungs! That dame belongs in the choir,” Cassie snickered.

Father Thomas, standing hopelessly at his pulpit, watched as the congregation flocked to the alcove behind him.

Propped like marionettes, in the third pew before the Blessed Virgin’s altar, with blood oozing from their ravaged heads, the pair sat inert. Their lifeless eyes stared vacantly at the stained-glass window of Saint Michael spearing the dragon. Around their necks hung a heart cut from cardboard. On it, fingered in blood, was the inscription: “Ah, ah, unh.”

Cassie was the first to see it. She had been channel surfing, heading for Judge Judy, when it suddenly appeared. There, in Sony Trinitron color, was the face. Not an exact likeness, but close enough. They had laughed off the photo of her and Angus as kids, and their Claxonn name had stayed on the reservation. Their first names, Angus and Cassie, listed in the full article posed a slight threat, but as Angus said, “Who the hell in Carbondale, Pennsylvania, is gonna give a damn about a spree of killings in New York?” But what she saw on the TV screen now was a whole other story. How the hell did they do that?

“Angus!” she screamed. “We’re dead meat! Get the hell in here!”

“Wassamatta?” her brother said as he ambled out of the bathroom, naked and dripping wet.

“Ssssh! You’ll wanna hear this.”

“What the…” he muttered, his eyes staring now at the tube. The newscaster’s face was center screen. But there, in the upper right corner, was one that resembled his. “How’d they do that?”

“Ssssh! Listen!”

“…Is this the face of the killer who has been terrorizing New York City for the past twelve months? Someone seems to think so. An anonymous caller is offering a million-dollar reward to anyone who can tell him the whereabouts of this person or his look-alike sister. A special number, 800-854-4568, has been established to field all calls…”

“Are they shittin’ me?” Angus said as his near likeness once again filled the screen. “How the hell did they get that picture?”

“Angus, we gotta get outta here!” said Cassie.

“How long they have that?”

“I dunno. They say it’s in all the papers.”

“A million dollars is gonna make for a lot more readers. Holy shit! We coulda been spotted in New York! At the freakin’ aquarium! Or. Holy, holy shit! At the goddamn church!”

“What are we gonna do?”

“Give me a minute to think, will ya? Just need a minute to think.” He raced from one end of the trailer to the other, rummaging from drawer to drawer, collecting what he was after: a pair of scissors, a disposable razor, and a can of Gillette Foamy. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to face his sister. “I’ve got an idea.”

Driscoll opened the door to his office and eyed the flashing icon on the IBM desktop. He clicked on his mailbox, saw he had one new message, and opened it. His eyes widened at what he saw. Immediately, he called for Margaret and Thomlinson to join him.

“I wanted another set of eyes to see this so I know I’m not dreaming. We got a message from Angus.” He looked to Margaret, his expression said “you gonna be okay with this?” She nodded. Driscoll swiveled the monitor around for all to see.

“He’s calling himself OddDuck-Ephebophilia-Chaser@webster. com,” said Margaret. “What the hell does that stand for?”

“A pervert with a graduate degree,” said Thomlinson. “A pedophile goes after the young. An ephebophile prefers adolescents.”

Margaret winced.

“What do you make of the odd duck reference?” Driscoll asked.

“All adults who prey on adolescents are odd ducks.”

“From where we sit,” said Driscoll. “But for him to label an abuser odd may have significance.”

Driscoll read aloud. “Dear Lieutenant, I know you are looking for us. I’m writing to tell you our side of the story. You might call off the search. The scumbags we been killing belong in body bags. They are warped, disgusting pigs! They deserved to die in public toilets because they’re made of shit. How would you feel if you was just a kid and your old man sold you to bastards like them so they could get laid, or jerked off, or eaten out, or even worse. Get to fuck you up the ass! All because we look the way we do.”

Driscoll stopped reading and repeated the last line loudly. “‘All because we look the way we do.’ That, my friends, is what’s driving these two. This adds a major twist. Their true motive is revenge for unspeakable mortification and vile repetitive debasement.”

He continued his recitation. “Me and my sister been swallowing more cum and lickin more pussy than you could in a lifetime. We both had our bodies felt up since before Cassie had tits! I’m talking since we were ten. Ten years old!!! How would you feel? Well the old man is dead now. He ain’t dragging us odd-i-twins. That’s what he called us. Angus and Cassie, his prized odd-i-twins. His days of dragging us from amusement parks to baseball fields are over. Selling us like we were alien creatures. The alien creatures are the ones we been killing, if you ask me. They been making the old man rich, paying him for all the shit me and Cassie had to put up with. It ain’t fair. I don’t know if you got kids. But if you do, how would you like it if some motherless sick bastard stuck his finger in them or sucked them off year after fucking year? They’re freaky. Let me tell you. We had one prick that only wanted to get naked, lie down, and have me and Cassie have a pissing duel over him. We were eleven! Eleven freaking years old! We figured you got our picture from the reservation. Tell that bitch Taniqua and her mother we sent them the scalps so they’d know the blood of the freaks is on them too. They shoulda never let the old man take us. But, like I said. Dear Daddy is dead. Goody-goody We just didn’t stop the business. Now, instead of us taking it up the ass we get to kill the scumbags. I hope you do have kids. Then you’d understand.-Angus.”

No one spoke for more than a minute. It was Margaret who broke the silence. “Good for them,” she said and walked out of the room.

Quiet returned.

“What’s that about?” Thomlinson eventually asked.

“Issues,” said Driscoll, making a mental note to ask Margaret if she’d set something up with a therapist. He picked up the phone and hit speed dial. “Communications… This is Driscoll…I received an e-mail. Time sent says about two hours ago. Any chance we can tell where it came from? The IP address? Let me look. It’s 68.219.43.34.” Driscoll gave Thomlinson a thumbs up. “Good. I’ll hold.”

Driscoll listened attentively as the response from Communications filled his ear. After ending the call, he turned to Thomlinson. “The e-mail came from MegaBytes, a computer self-serve center, on East Eighth off of University. That’s ten minutes from here. Get on the horn to the Sixth Precinct. Tell them what we’ve got. I want that place sealed and surrounded. The twins might still be there. I want it done now! When you’re finished with the call, head over there, yourself.”

“Yessir.”

“I’ll have someone reach out to this Webster. com outfit to see what they’ve got on Angus’s OddDuck handle.”