Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“The lad had been coming to see me, regularly, over the past few months. He considers me his therapist.”

Their conversation was interrupted as the sentinel reappeared with coffee.

“Cream and sugar?”

“A touch of cream. No sugar,” Driscoll said, annoyed at the loss of momentum.

“As I was saying, Lieutenant, Everett saw himself as my patient. We clerics handle our fair share of spiritual counseling, you know. In any case, he came to confession twice a week. He was troubled. He raised issues of self-respect and was seeking a way to get a handle on his anger. It was only when the image hit the newspaper and I confronted him with his likeness that he broke down and confessed to the killings. It was then he asked me to call the authorities. I told him I’m not here to sit in judgment. The church is not a law enforcement agency, I said. But he begged me to stop him. And told me if I didn’t, he would kill again and that I alone had the power to save a soul that he was prepared to send to hell. It would be on my conscience if I didn’t stop him, and the only way to stop him was to call the police. When he left the confessional, I felt it would be his last confession and that he would never return.”

“And so you placed the call.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where this Luxworth lives, Father?” Driscoll asked.

After staring at the Lieutenant for what seemed like minutes, he answered the question.

“Two-two-five Sussex.”

“Thank you,” Driscoll said, standing and preparing to leave. “Father, one last question. Does Luxworth have a sister?”

“I wouldn’t know, Lieutenant. He never mentioned one.”

Driscoll wasn’t banking on Father Terhune’s information. He had met many a confessor on the job. And for some reason this one didn’t feel right. Perhaps it was the absence of a sister acting in tandem. Driscoll wasn’t sure why his instincts said no. But he’d have to track down the lead.

“Cedric, run an Everett Luxworth through the system and give me a call if you get a hit.” Driscoll folded his cell phone and headed for the suspect’s residence.

225 Sussex was a two-story frame structure in need of maintenance. A cluster of mismatched mailboxes, hanging haphazardly near the front door, suggested it might be a single-room occupancy home. Its peeling paint and eroding gutters suggested that here, gentrification had missed its mark.

Driscoll approached the house, which was marked by a steel security gate more suited for the rear of a boiler room than a multiple family dwelling. Of the six weatherworn mailboxes, only three had names on them. None read “Luxworth.” Only two of six doorbells were labeled. Evans and Peterson. The word super appeared below Peterson, so that’s the one he rang.

“Who’s there?”

“Mr. Peterson?” Driscoll hollered. “May I have a word with you?”

Driscoll heard the shuffling of feet and the sound of another door opening inside the residence. In his mind he envisioned a balding man, clad in a soiled T-shirt, trudging along on falling arches. Peterson turned out to be a strikingly handsome man in his late thirties. He wore his well-groomed hair parted on the side. His eyes were Mel Gibson blue and he sported a mustache, trimmed in Clark Gable fashion. Clad in a shimmering white robe, he looked more like a movie star on a break than a superintendent of a run-down rooming house in Brooklyn.

“May I help you?”

“You Peterson?”

“That’s me.” The man spoke in a theatrical, effeminate voice.

“Everett Luxworth. He live here?”

“Yes. With me. But you just missed him. He went down to the florist not five minutes ago.” The man smiled, showing off a dazzling set of pearly whites. “Love your suit.”

Driscoll figured Luxworth to be this man’s live-in partner.

“What is it you want with Everett?”

“My name’s Driscoll. Lieutenant John Driscoll. I’m with the New York City Police Department.”

“Would you like to wait inside?” Peterson asked, anxiety and curiosity piqued.

“That’d be fine.”

The interior of the apartment was a far cry from the house’s drab exterior. The living room, its walls papered in lilac and fern, was elegantly furnished with a satin ottoman, facing matching love seats, as its centerpiece.

“Would you like some rose hip tea? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

“Why not?”

Peterson disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a Japanese lacquered tray supporting an earthenware pot and two clay mugs. He poured tea into Driscoll’s cup and the two men took their seats, Driscoll on one love seat, Peterson on the other.

“Is Everett in some sort of trouble?” Peterson asked.

“I need to speak with him. Some routine questions.”

“He is in some kind of trouble, isn’t he?”

The door opened and Luxworth stepped into the room holding a bouquet of fresh-cut carnations. He resembled the sketch. Not an exact match. But the resemblance was there, nonetheless. Driscoll had a sinking feeling. He doubted the man was Angus.

“I didn’t know we were expecting company,” Luxworth said absently as he fussed with a Waterford vase. “There!” he said, happy with his floral display.

“Everett. Is there something you haven’t told me?” Peterson asked.

“What do you mean?”

“This gentleman is Lieutenant Driscoll. He’s from the police department and he’s here to see you.”

“Me?” Luxworth said, alarm in his voice.

“Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” the Lieutenant suggested.

“We’ll do nothing of the sort. Antoine stays right here!”

“Your call,” said Driscoll.

“Everett, have you been playing with matches again?”

“Matches? No. But I’ve been known to carry a torch or two.” Luxworth cast a sidelong glance at Peterson.

What was that all about? Was this guy an arsonist? Driscoll let the matter go unanswered, for now. “I’m here with some questions regarding the murder of several tourists in New York,” said Driscoll, eyes fixed on the suspect.

“I knew I saw your face before. You’re that Lieutenant Driscoll! From the newscasts. Oh my,” said Peterson.

“That no-good son of a bitch of a priest,” Luxworth muttered, his eyes brimming with anger.

“This isn’t a game, Luxworth. Several people have been killed. Father Terhune says you’re to blame.”

“I didn’t think he’d really tell on me! I wasn’t serious when I told him to call the police.”

“Told him what?” asked Peterson.

Luxworth collapsed on the ottoman.

“Your roommate confessed to a series of brutal crimes,” said Driscoll.

“Everett, I thought we were beyond all that.”

“I’m so sorry, Antoine. I’m so sorry,” Luxworth sobbed.

“Sorry for what?” said Driscoll.

“Lieutenant, Everett suffers from depression. He has an inferiority complex as big as Texas! It makes him do anything-and I mean anything-to get attention. Even convincing a parish priest that he’s the serial killer hunted by the police for killing those poor people. But my Everett wouldn’t swat a mosquito. Everett, what am I to do with you?” Peterson cradled Luxworth in his arms.

Driscoll’s cell phone sounded.

With his eyes fixed on the weeping Luxworth, Driscoll listened intently to what Cedric Thomlinson had to report. A minute later, the Lieutenant ended the call and turned to face Luxworth.

“Everett, just how was it you managed to kill all those people over the past twelve months if you were confined to the psychiatric ward of the Coxsackie mental health facility for setting trash cans ablaze? They didn’t let you out until four months ago!”