Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

Several members of the audience followed his suggestion.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I will now lower the house lights so The Thing will be unable to see you. It is important, from here on out, that you remain absolutely silent. For your safety, he must believe that he is alone. And now the time has come for you to meet the demon. The demon from hell.”

Darkness ensued. A whisper of a melodious flute sounded as a yellow spotlight crept across center stage. As the light grew in intensity, The Thing became visible. The creature, appearing to be part lizard and part man, had batlike wings and a face like that of a gargoyle. It was perched on the branch of a tree, inside a large cage. Its left ankle was chained to the tree’s trunk. The crowd was silent; not even a breath could be heard.

“Not bad at all,” Margaret muttered, sliding a stick of Wrigley’s into her mouth.

The barker approached the cage, drawing a snarl from the creature. He tossed what appeared to be a leg of lamb into the cage.

A child, invisible in the darkness, whimpered, causing the creature to fix his stare in the direction of the sound. Leaping, the creature smashed hard against the reinforced bars of his cage. He bared his teeth, let loose a screech, and flayed the air with his claws. His eyes glowed with light.

“Oh, my God!” the child’s mother cried.

A clash of drums and a flash of light. A curtain came tumbling down, separating the beast from the stunned audience.

The house lights came on and the crowd, still spellbound, spilled down from their seats and milled toward the door they had entered. Margaret lingered behind and approached the barker.

“I wish to speak to the ghoul.”

“Is your life so meaningless that you would risk such an encounter?”

“It is a remarkable act, I’ll give you that. But an act nonetheless.” She flashed her shield.

“Come with me,” the barker said, begrudgingly, and escorted Margaret through a second maze of corridors. He knocked at a door, adorned by a paper star

“Open up. It’s me,” he said. “You have company.”

“Why does he keep his door locked?” Margaret asked.

“Beats the hell out of me.”

There was a shuffle of footfalls followed by the sound of the lock disengaging.

“You’re on your own,” said the barker.

“Whaddya want?” The Thing’s voice snarled through a crack in the door.

Margaret produced her shield and poked it through the opening. “What say you and I get better acquainted?”

Margaret heard the chain fall. The door opened wide. She stood staring into the eyes of a wafer-thin figure, clad in a plaid bathrobe; his face was covered with cold cream. She thought of the sketch and tried to envision it covered in shaving gel.

“Who sent ya?”

“Why don’t we step inside so we can talk?”

“Okay by me.”

She followed him into a dark room where a votive candle burned, casting ominous shadows on the walls. In the far corner, a twenty-five-watt bulb barely lit a vanity, complete with a large mirror. Margaret inhaled the aroma of marijuana.

“Weed. That explains the infrared eyes.”

“That’s not my poison. Alfonzo smokes the dope. Not me.”

“Alfonzo?”

“The barker,” he said, using a towel to wipe away the facial cleanser.

Not a match, but close enough, thought Margaret, as his face emerged. She placed a hand on her Walther PPK firearm.

It was as though he had read her mind.

“Ah! I know why you’re here. You think I’m the serial killer who knocked off those tourists. Which one of the trained monkeys turned me in?”

“You’re telling me you’re not our boy?”

“I spotted the likeness on the tube and thought I’d have some fun with the wee folk. C’mon, do I look like a killer?”

“In the costume or out?”

Margaret eyed him cautiously as he reached under the vanity and produced a copy of the Daily News with the sketch on its cover. “Boo!”

“Murder isn’t funny.”

“Sorry.”

Margaret studied him. He appeared to be a little older than their profile, and her instinct suggested his Thing routine was as far as he had ever gotten toward aggression, but she did have a job to complete. “You know you’d save us both a lot of time and bother if you’d be willing to give us a sample of your DNA.”

“Blood, spit, or urine?”

“How ’bout you just say ‘ah’ and let me swab the inside of your mouth?”

“You’re the boss.”

Margaret collected the DNA sample. “You got a name?”

“Lance.”

“Lance what?”

“Robert Lance.”

Margaret used a felt-tip marker to label the DNA bag, then dated it and dropped it into her purse.

“That’s it?” he said.

“What? You were expecting a nurse with a syringe?”

He shrugged.

“This specimen will do one of two things, Mr. Lance,” said Margaret, heading for the door. “It’ll clear you or guess what?”

“What?”

“You’ll get that syringe. But they’ll call it lethal injection.”

Driscoll had finally edged his way out of a parking space where two motorists had him close to bookended, when the call came in from Thomlinson.

“You’re gonna love this one, Lieutenant. We just got a call from a sergeant at the Eighty-fourth Precinct. They had a visitor. One Samantha Taft, a salesclerk at a thirty-minute photo shop on Montague Street. Said she recognized Angus in the sketch. But there’s more. Much more! You ready?”

“Ready.”

“She’s got his picture!”

Driscoll exited the Chevy near the corner of Montague and Henry streets, just west of Brooklyn’s Borough Hall. Walking east on Montague, he found the shop. A bell chimed as he opened its door.

“May I help you?”

Driscoll’s gaze fell upon a young woman whose scarlet blouse matched the streak of red in her otherwise jet-black hair.

“Samantha Taft?”

“Wow! You guys are fast! Cop, right?”

“You the one who stopped by the police station about the sketch featured on TV?”

“And you get right to the point. Double wow!” She scooted out from behind a free-standing device that resembled an MRI machine. “Got the sketch with ya? I’d like to see the two faces close-up.”

“So would I.” Driscoll leaned on the shop’s counter, bringing himself eye level with the girl. “How is it you happened upon his particular picture? You must see thousands every day.”

“The guy’s face is plastered everywhere you look! Not just on television. You’d hafta be from Neptune not to have seen it. Anyway, we’ve got a sixty-day rule here. The owner of a processed film that hasn’t been picked up after two months gets a call. You’d be amazed at the number of people who simply forget about their pictures. I would have brought it with me to the precinct, but it’s not supposed to leave the store unless paid for.” She reached under the counter and produced a white envelope with orange stenciling and embossed numerals.

Driscoll eyed the envelope. In the space for the customer’s name and address someone, perhaps this young lady, had penciled in “Cash.”

“Pretty tough to make a call on this one,” he said.

“Yup! You can thank Harold for that.”

“Harold?”

“Part-timer. Works the weekends. Not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, if ya know what I mean. That’s what made me peek inside. Sometimes I’ll spot a regular’s face in the photographs. Then I’ll have someone to call. But it wasn’t some customer’s face I spotted. It was your guy’s.”

Driscoll opened the envelope and retrieved its contents.

“He’s numero twenty-two,” she said. “The last shot before the pansies at play.”