Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“Why’d she call you?” asked Margaret.

“Because she’s my sister.” Susan Lenihan blushed.

The door to Driscoll’s office opened, and Thomlinson stuck his head inside. “We’ve got news from Interpol.”

“Let’s have it,” said Driscoll, as Thomlinson planted himself in front of the Lieutenant’s desk.

“Interpol had their nets set for Guenther Rubeleit and Yen Chan, but had nada on Helga Swenson,” said Thomlinson. “They based their suspicions on reports from overseas ECPAT centers.” The detective was referring to a worldwide network of agencies established to End Child Prostitution, Child Pornography, and Trafficking of Children for Sexual Purposes. “The only thing in line with our evidence is an entry on file for Rubeleit. He liked to trawl the Web for amputees.”

“Some assortment of deviants,” said Driscoll. “That look on your face says there’s more.”

“It might make you think twice about ordering sushi.” Thomlinson grinned. “It’s about customs in Tokyo, where Tatsuya Inagaki hailed from. Seems Japan has an ECPAT agency too. It’s in Tokyo and is called ECPAT Stop Japan. But the country’s got its own code of ethics regarding the age of consent for sexual activities and how it applies to the law. This is straight from Interpol. It’s Japan’s Article One-seven-seven Penal Code applicable to the charge of rape. I quote. A person who, through violence or intimidation, has sexual intercourse with a female person of not less than thirteen years of age commits the crime of rape and shall be punished with imprisonment at forced labor for a limited term of not less than two years. The same shall apply to a person who has sexual intercourse, we’re talking consensual now, with a female person under thirteen years of age. The article doesn’t say what happens if the recipient of wanted or unwanted sex is male. You’re gonna love this. They’ve got a dating service going on over there. It’s called Enjo kosai. Girls of high school age, who don’t wanna depend on babysitting money, can get paid to escort older men on dates. That doesn’t necessarily mean sex is on the menu…but?” Thomlinson raised an eyebrow. “And so the boys aren’t left home on a Saturday night, there’s gyaku-enjo.”

“And where does our victim Mr. Inagaki play in all of this?”

“On him they got zip.”

“So, let’s see, two of the four foreign victims have a substantiated yen for teenagers. Excuse the pun. And on domestic soil we have Mr. San Antonio, Texas, himself, Francis Palmer.”

The two lawman exchanged glances.

“Wanna flip a coin?” asked Driscoll.

“For?”

“To see which one of us gets to ask Shewster about Goldilocks.”

Driscoll, having lost the coin toss, had a quandary. A comprehensive investigation leaves no doors unopened. But there was no evidence to indicate Abigail Shewster had been into sex with sixteen-year-olds, bizarre or otherwise. He didn’t feel comfortable broaching the possibility with her father. He’d likely deny it, and Driscoll believed a man of Shewster’s influence could have buried such a degradation on Mars. There was also the possibility that his daughter was a player but had managed to keep her father, and everyone else, in the dark. He’d only pursue it if evidence surfaced to support such a scandal.

Telephones had been ringing. The department’s Tip Line, linked to Shewster’s 800 number, thanks to the ever-accommodating Mayor, had every Tom, Dick, and Harry spewing knowledge of who Angus was, and they were eager to cash in on the big bucks. In Ann Harbor, Michigan, he was the Domino’s Pizza delivery boy. In Titusville, Florida, a lifeguard. In Nashville, an usher at the Grand Ole Opry. And in Albuquerque, the tour guide on a Hopi reservation. He was everyone’s next-door neighbor. The irony was he might be one of them.

Driscoll summoned Thomlinson and Margaret to his office.

“The possibility is that the twins could be anywhere in the country,” he said. “Coming in, making their hits, and hightailing it back home. Out of the forty-two calls that came in since the face made its debut, we’ve got three possibles in our neck of the woods. A night watchman’s call from a halfway house over on Staten Island is one of them. He says one of the kids there had a meltdown when he saw the sketch on the tube. Number two is a clown from the Pie in the Sky Circus. Says the image is a good likeness to some guy they feature as The Thing, a circus hairy scary, of sorts. Without his costume and makeup, he’s a dead ringer for our guy, says the caller. The third one has curiosity written all over it. A priest at Saint Barnabas Church in Brooklyn apparently broke the seal of confession by calling to say a member of his congregation confessed to the crimes.”

“That’s a new one,” said Thomlinson. “Since when does a Catholic priest turn his back on a vow to help the police?”

“Good question. It’s one I’ll be sure to ask him.”

Saint Barnabas Church was a red stone building with three Gothic steeples towering over the southwestern entrance to Prospect Park, on a street lined with quaint boutiques and trattorias. The parish had gone through a gentrification that was underwritten by Keyspan, the local utility company. What once were tenements teeming with welfare recipients now housed dual-income professionals who traded mutual funds.

Cutting the Chevy’s engine, Driscoll stepped out onto the sidewalk and proceeded toward the rectory, where the bell was answered by a matronly woman in a floral dress.

“May I help you?” she asked, in an Irish brogue.

“I’m Lieutenant Driscoll. I’m here to see Father Terhune.”

“Father Terhune is it? Well, the good father is in his study preparing a sermon. It wouldn’t be wise to disturb him.”

“But we spoke on the phone. He’ll want to see me.”

“And I’m tellin’ ya he left instructions not to be disturbed.”

“Telling him I’m here would be the Christian thing to do, don’t you think?”

“I suppose next you’re gonna tell me you’re an envoy from his Holiness, the Pope.”

“Even the Pope would be in favor of you interrupting Father Terhune,” said Driscoll, with a smile.

“You’re a sly one, you are.” She motioned for him to come inside and pointed to a chair in the corner of a richly furnished room. “Have a seat, why don’t ya? I’ll see what I can do.”

Soon, Driscoll heard the sound of wheels in motion laboring down the corridor.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Driscoll. I’m Pat Terhune,” the priest said, rolling his wheelchair into the room. “I see you got past my sentry.”

“You’re safe with her around.”

“Right you are about that.”

Father Terhune was clad entirely in black, save for an open clerical collar. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses framed kindly blue eyes set in a boyish face.

“Let me say it’s an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. Your reputation for commendable police work makes you a hero to me and to all of my parishioners.”

“Thank you,” said Driscoll, handing Terhune the illustration. “Is this the youth you called about?”

“As sure as the day is long,” said the priest.

“Would you know his name, Father?”

“Everett Luxworth.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Quite.”

Driscoll sat back in his chair. “Forgive me for raising the question, Father, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask it. Doesn’t the confidentiality of the confessional prohibit you from speaking out?”

A soft smile formed on the priest’s face. “He asked me to call you.”

“Luxworth?”