Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

His radio crackled, dispelling the stillness that hung in the country air: “All clear.”

Eager to find out what was inside the package, he and Thomlinson drove to the house. Two officers, clad in blast protective tactical body armor, were waiting there for them.

“It’s all yours, Lieutenant, and many returns of the day,” one of the officers said with a grin as he handed a box to Driscoll.

The Lieutenant was holding a wooden coffer. Teak, he believed. On its exterior was an expertly carved Native American whom Driscoll recognized immediately as Sinister, the same Manhattan tribe warrior featured on his and every New York police officer’s shield. “Cute,” he said, before lifting the lid.

Inside was a piece of clay pottery. It stood about three inches tall and an inch and a half wide. Its body, supported by three fixed feet, resembled a bowl with strawlike stems protruding from its sides in the four cardinal directions. A small envelope was attached. Driscoll opened the envelope and retrieved a white card. He read from it. “Sorry we’re not here to greet you. My face plastered across everything but the freaking Goodyear blimp told us you’d soon make a visit to Carbondale. Lieutenant Driscoll, you got to have a heart. Don’t you think we suffered enough? This here’s a Catawba peace pipe. We’re hoping to share it?”

Margaret fidgeted with her fingers as she studied the woman seated across from her. Elizabeth Fahey, psychotherapist extraordinaire, was what Driscoll had called her. Margaret hoped his accolade was appropriate. She was as he had described: an attractive redhead with sparkling green eyes and a gentle demeanor.

“You said on the phone you wanted to discuss some childhood fears that have resurfaced,” Fahey said. “I think it best I get to know a little more about you. Would you feel comfortable with that?”

Margaret inhaled deeply. Then nodded. She was one tough cop but the thought of embarking on a journey of self-exploration scared her half to death.

Fahey crossed her legs, placed her hands on her lap, and smiled. It appeared to Margaret she was eager to listen. But was Margaret eager to talk?

“Where do I start?”

“Anywhere you’d like.”

“Okay. I’m a police officer. I work with John Driscoll. I suppose you’re aware of that since John referred me to you.” Margaret caught herself editing her words. Should I be calling him John? she wondered. Focus. Make this more about you. “I was raised in Brooklyn in a typical Italian family.” She stopped abruptly. “Well, maybe, not typical. But Italian. Catholic Italian. We attended Mass on Sunday. I wore a new outfit on Easter. And attended parochial school…”

Margaret looked down at the floor and shook her head. The gesture did not go unnoticed.

“Sounds like an idyllic childhood.”

Margaret knew better and was willing to bet Fahey did too.

“Look at me. I’m acting like those zealots who drape themselves in enough scapulas and Saint Anthony medals to choke a horse! Rambling about a childhood steeped in allegiance to the Catholic Church, Easter Sunday, and goddamn parochial school as if it would all protect me now. Hell, it didn’t then!” Moisture coated Margaret’s eyes.

“Define ‘maybe not typical.’”

Margaret smiled. “We’re there already! Wow! I’ve been hovering an inch above solid ground for over thirty years. You ask me for a snapshot of my life. And in less than a minute I stumble over the word ‘typical’ and wham! We zero in on why I’m here.”

“We have?”

“I was in therapy once before. In my teens. It seemed to take a lot longer back then to get to the crux of the problem.”

“I’m not sure we’re there yet. But we’re circling. What was so untypical about your family?”

Margaret felt like she had been asked to dive into a freshly dug grave. She’d been caught. On some level, she had hoped she could get away with hinting that her childhood was anything but ordinary and leave it at that. The mere notion of exploring it further shot splinters of fear through her marrow.

“Let’s see. My cousin Tony owned a pizza shop. Both grandmothers dressed only in black. And that was long before it was considered voguish. We ate pasta every Sunday. I had four brothers and three sisters. And if that wasn’t atypical enough, my father…”

Fahey was watching a woman desperately try to distance herself from her inner demons. It was not uncommon for a patient to use levity, in this case tinged with sarcasm, to avoid dancing with the devil.

“You were about to tell me about your father. What was he like?”

She had a delicate way of probing. “I like you, Elizabeth. I was told you were kindhearted. I’m finding that to be true.”

Margaret had sidestepped the question. Fahey found self-preservation to be a curious mechanism. For many it was in-born. For others it was clutched after.

“That Lieutenant Driscoll! You’ve got to love the man. How do you and he get along?” the therapist asked.

There’s no stopping this one. Margaret felt like she was being led through a minefield, but was comforted in knowing she wasn’t making the trek alone. She also knew the course was skillfully plotted and designed to help, but an inner voice yelled caution.

“The Lieutenant is a gem. We get along famously,” she said.

“A minute ago you called him John. He’s your boss, right?”

Zapped again! Margaret searched Fahey’s eyes for escape. Outmaneuvered, she succumbed to the inevitable. “He’s part of the reason I’m here. I’m guessing this is way out of bounds, but has he discussed me with you?”

“Out of bounds? Hmm…what say we keep it in bounds by you discussing him with me. With emphasis on the part about him being part of the reason you’re here.”

Yup. She earned her title. Psychotherapist extraordinaire fit. “You know what’s funny. I’ve got this sudden urge for a cigarette and I haven’t smoked a day in my life.”

“Some crave nicotine. Others, scotch. But it’s a good sign. It means you’re seriously considering the exploration of your inner self. The mind goes to great lengths to protect the journeyer. It’s suggesting a sedative.”

“Not a bad idea. You wouldn’t happen to have a jumbo-sized Prozac on hand, would you?”

“I wish it were that easy.”

Margaret felt dizzy. Trepidation was on the rise.

“At your pace, Margaret.”

“I was hoping our hour was up.”

“My Timex has a slow second hand.”

Margaret exhaled sharply and stared at the therapist. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Anywhere you’d like.”

“Okay. Here goes,” she said, slapping the tops of her legs. “Since I’ve confided to you that my boss is one of the reasons I’m here, I’ll begin with him. John and I have this thing going on. I’m not sure what else to call it. When we worked our last case, we realized we had feelings for each other and eventually let it be known. He was married. To Colette, who I’m betting you know was in an irreversible coma and was being cared for at home. He loved his wife. Adored her. And this man’s moral fiber is forged in steel. The investigation called for us to work side by side for hours on end. One night, after a grueling day, we ended up at my apartment. It was supposed to be for a bite to eat. But I think we both knew we were flirting with trouble. After actually sharing a meal, one thing led to another and before we knew it, we were in each other’s arms sharing a kiss. And then another. We knew what came next. At two in the morning, just as we were about to give in to passion, his cell phone rang. For a homicide honcho a call in the middle of the night is not unusual. But the call was from his wife’s nurse. Colette had stopped breathing. Care to take a stab at what happened next?”