Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

Driscoll, northbound on the Henry Hudson Parkway, was heading for the Ossining Correctional Facility in Westchester County. Considering the traffic flow, he’d likely be there in forty-five minutes. The fifty-five-acre fortress known as Sing Sing, a name derived from the Indian words Sint Sinks, meaning “stone upon stone,” sat on a rocky hillside overlooking the Hudson River. Oddly enough, it was part of a residential town where neighboring homes sold for upward of $500,000. So close, yet so far, he thought-probably in sync with the thoughts of the nearly two thousand inmates.

Oliver Novak was doing a stretch of twenty years to life for attempted murder. Driscoll was certain the three-time convicted felon would be looking for something in return for the information he claimed to have on the twins’ father. There wasn’t much he could offer though to a three-time loser, outside of a softer pillow.

It was nearing two o’clock when he pulled the Chevy into the prison’s administration building’s parking lot, where he flashed his shield to the gatekeeper before heading for the six-story tan brick structure. Was it his imagination or was he actually hearing the wails of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, who had been convicted of espionage and executed on the site? Or the faint voices of President Abraham Lincoln, Mayor Jimmy Walker, or the actor James Cagney? They, too, had visited the maximum-security prison. Amusement ebbing, he put his flight of fancy aside and checked his phone to see if his sister or anyone else had tried to reach him. He was a distance up. There may have been trouble getting to him live. With his world in order, he got on with the reason he had come.

Novak was not as Driscoll had imagined. His freckled face and crooked smile suggested he be cast in a remake of the Hardy Boys. Had this man, cloaked now in prison green, met the right talent scout, he may have turned his back on savage butchery. His attempted-murder rap stemmed from an assault with a machete. The sliced and diced woman survived, saving him from lethal injection.

“Driscoll?” Novak wanted to know, taking a seat across from the Lieutenant at a metal table.

“You eyeball a couple of kids from a dated Polaroid in a downstate newspaper but miss my mug on page two?”

“You look better in the paper.”

Do I, now? “I’m told you knew the twins.”

“Their old man, too. I figure that’s gotta be good for something, no?”

Why alert the police? Driscoll wondered. He could have called Shewster and laid claim to $3 million. That’d be a whole lot of something. “I don’t know how current your newsstand is, but we already know who the twins are.”

“Yeah? Then why ya here?”

“You tell me. You’re the one who called.”

“If the police department has ID’d the twins, why is their lead investigator here and not sitting before a judge and a jury with the twins lawyered up like O.J. Simpson?”

“News flash, Novak. Johnnie Cochran’s dead. It’d still take a lot of money to hire the remaining Dream Team. And where would a pair of sixteen-year-olds get that kind of money?” The expression on Novak’s face said he was aware he had slipped somehow. But it was too late to take back his remark. “Look, Novak, you placed the call. That tells me you’ve got something to say. So say it.”

“What do I get out of it?”

“You must have me confused with the genie inside Aladdin’s lamp. The police department’s not a financial-aid office.”

“I’m not after money. If I thought the king’s ransom they’re advertising in the paper could get me outta here, I wouldn’t have called you. Besides, I’m sure who ever is fronting the money would figure out a way of not having to pay a three-time convicted felon.” He smiled. “There are other forms of compensation.”

“Inmates can still be charged with extortion, my friend. And here’s another news flash. If you don’t start talking, I can make life a little more challenging.”

“This is a freakin’ prison. They got bars on the windows. How more challenging can it get?”

“Oh, I dunno… How about a stretch in Special Housing? Or maybe a new roommate. One who doesn’t waste time soaping up after he tells you to bend over.”

“Yep. Much better in newsprint. It hides your ugly side.” After a bit of reflection, Novak opened up. Driscoll figured it was the prospect of no soap. “Their old man’s name is Sanderson. Talk about an ugly side. This guy’s a real prick.”

He’s speaking in the present tense. Could Sanderson be alive? “Yeah, like coming after a thirty-three-year-old woman with a machete makes you an Eagle Scout.”

“That dyke had it coming. She led me around by the dick for three years while she was screwing my sister-in-law.”

Driscoll was surprised. They usually swore they were framed. “Nice group of company you ran with. This Sanderson guy have a first name?”

“Gus. Gus Sanderson. A prince.”

“Sounds like he fit right in with your stable buddies.”

“You know the guy?”

“No. Should I?”

“But you said stable.”

“Yeah?” As in where people like you should sleep at night.

“C’mon. You’re shittin’ me. Stable. Like in horses. Right?” The look on Novak’s face was one of disbelief.

“So?”

“Sanderson was a hansom cab driver. Made a livin’ carting tourists back and forth in Central Park between the Plaza Hotel and the Tavern on the Green. When he wasn’t loaded and beatin’ up on his kids, that is. He did some carving job on the girl’s face, huh? Musta been tired of seeing double.”

Driscoll lunged across the table and grabbed Novak by the throat. “Your sense of humor just pissed me off!”

The prisoner’s face flooded with color. He gasped for air, leaning precariously backward in his chair until Driscoll released his hold.

“What’s the big deal?” Novak managed, choking on his words. “You figure they’re killing people. Aren’t you? You forgettin’ who the bad guys are?”

Was he? Or had the vision of a girl’s face being butchered forced a memory of his daughter’s mangled body entangled in the twisted metal of the family van?

“Lighten up, Lieutenant. You nearly killed me, for Chrissake! Lighten up already.”

“Talk.”

“I’m afraid to now.”

“Tell me about Sanderson.”

“As long as you stay focused, I will. Jeeesus! I thought it was lights-out back there.”

“Start talking about Sanderson.”

“Like I said. He ran a horse-drawn carriage in the park.”

“How is it you knew him?”

Novak looked over both shoulders and leaned in to within inches of Driscoll’s face. “This stays here, right?”

“Depends on what ‘this’ is.”

“Look. I’m a three-time loser. I’m never gettin’ out. But if Sanderson finds out it was me that turned on him, it’s goodnight Elizabeth. I may be behind bars, but that don’t mean I’m protected from the likes of him.”

“Talk.”

“Does that mean we have a deal?”

“DAs cut deals.”

“C’mon, Lieutenant. You know what I’m askin’ for.”

“Talk.”

Novak looked defeated. He took a deep breath and held it. But when he finally exhaled, his words flowed like water. “Sanderson wasn’t just cartin’ tourists around the park. Once a week, one of those tourists dropped off a package. The package contained a half-pound to a pound of methamphetamine-working man’s cocaine. It came from a variety of sources. Some cooked right here in the USA. Some from other countries. At the end of the day, Sanderson would head to his stable, on East Sixtieth Street, under the FDR Drive. After tending to his horse-Teener was her name.” Novak grinned at the notion. And Driscoll knew why. “Teener” was street slang for meth. “After settling Teener in for the night, Sanderson would climb the stairs to a loft he had built over the stable. There, he would cut the meth with either baking soda or vitamin B12. One time he used lye. Said he had a score to settle. Remember, we’re talkin’ one mean son of a bitch. Back to the story. After depositing a sixteenth of an ounce of the stuff, Teener. The horse. A sixteenth, get it? Anyway, after depositing the speed into mini-press-n-seals, he’d call me.”