Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“Well, will you look at that? You’ve got a million-dollar view of my city,” said the Mayor, casting his stare across the bay.

“You could buy the place, Mr. Mayor. Keep a close eye on your city.”

Sully Reirdon smiled at the suggestion.

“But something tells me you didn’t travel out here to discuss beachfront real estate.”

“You know why I’m here, John.”

It was Driscoll’s turn to stare across the bay. “I’ll sure miss the view, but the efficiency I’ll be buying in Brooklyn Heights will cut my commute time in half,” he said.

“John, I am very sorry about your wife. I know I should’ve been at the funeral, but I was in Albany arm-wrestling with the governor. He knows we need more cops, but he won’t release the sixty-three million he promised the city when he was elected.”

“How about assigning some of those cops to a drunk-driving detail?”

“I’ll give it every consideration,” the Mayor said with a nod, aware of the automobile accident that had robbed Driscoll of his wife and daughter. “John, despite what Katie Couric says, I’m not an insensitive man.”

Driscoll stared at the politician.

“I appreciate your not wanting to sign off on a case without crossing all the T’s. In fact, it’s admirable. I’ll make certain a competent commander does just that. Right now my city needs you. There’s a guy killing tourists, for Chrissake! And that makes him the department’s priority one. Do you know how much money visitors dropped in the Big Apple last year?”

Driscoll obliged the Mayor with a shrug.

“Twelve point six billion! I want you to focus on the here and now. There’ll be no time to waste on yesterday’s cases. Nobody gets to hold New York hostage on my watch. I want this tourist-scalping killer stopped dead in his tracks. And I want it done now!”

“I wouldn’t be able to fully focus, Mr. Mayor. I’d be the wrong man for the job.” As soon as he heard himself say it, he knew he had pushed the envelope too far. But there was no way of retrieving what’d been said. “Besides, the fact that these two victims were tourists could be a coincidence. The twelve-plus billion speaks for itself. There’s a whole lotta tourists in New York.”

“Coincidences don’t happen in my city.”

Driscoll raised an eyebrow.

“You know, John, you’re beginning to piss me off!” Reirdon stormed to his limousine and ducked inside. “As long as I run this town and you’re on my payroll, you’ll do as I say. Peter, get me outta here!”

The Lincoln’s tires charred the asphalt. With the two security autos in tow, the Mayor’s limo disappeared along Point Breeze Boulevard.

John Driscoll sat on the steps of his porch. Despite his obstinacy, he knew the assignment was unavoidable. It would become his job to formulate a strategy to catch this villain.

Why make waves? You’re not the only cop in town, John. Reirdon said he’d have a competent person nail the case shut. It’s not like its outcome rests on the type of hammer he uses.

Unpocketing his cell phone, he rang the Mayor on his car phone. Driscoll detected arrogance as Sully Reirdon’s voice echoed in his ear.

“So, you’ve decided to come around, have you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“This city doesn’t need a bout of mass hysteria, John.”

“If these murders lead to a rash of killings, I’ll need to establish a task force. And it would be a big help if the FBI is kept at bay.”

“You’ll wrap this up before it causes an international stir?”

“God willing.”

“What else will you need?”

“Please. No female detectives assigned to this one.”

“I’d have never guessed you were a chauvinist.”

“I support affirmative action and the advancement of all working women. But I just buried my wife. Call it superstition. Nothing more.”

“You have my promise. No women.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and John, there’s one thing more.”

“What’s that?”

“You’d better lighten up or you’ll never unload that house.”

Driscoll could detect Reirdon’s smirk right through the phone line.

“Then I’ll just bulldoze the place down to the sea,” he said.

“You do that and I’ll nail you for pollution of the Atlantic shoreline. What are you asking for the place, anyway?”

“It’s out of your price range, Mr. Mayor.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I could get an insider’s deal on, say, a thirty-year mortgage.”

“Better shop for a five. You may not be in office that long.”

“No, the Atlantic Ocean isn’t gonna wash the house away. It’s been sitting three hundred yards from the water for the past forty years, for Chrissake!” Driscoll bellowed into the phone to his realtor. “Tell you what. I’ll throw in a couple of life vests just in case.” Driscoll wasn’t having a good day. “Maybe these folks would prefer the USS Nautilus! Hell, if they’re left wing, I could get them a good deal on a mothballed Russian sub. Whiskey class!” Driscoll slammed down the receiver, jarring Socrates, his electronic cockatiel, who, faithful to his programming, squawked. The battery-operated bird had been a gift from members of a former command. Though he’d like to, Driscoll felt it would be ill-mannered to dispose of it.

“Lock ’em up! Aawkk! Aawkk!”

The door to Driscoll’s office opened. Detective Thomlinson poked his head inside.

“Lieutenant, there’s a sergeant here to see you.”

“Throw away the key! Aawkk! Aawkk!”

“Turn that damn bird off, will you?”

Thomlinson walked over to the bird and clicked off its miniature toggle switch.

“A sergeant? What’s he want?” Driscoll asked.

“Something about the Mayor keeping his promise,” Thomlinson answered with a shrug of his shoulders. But the look on Thomlinson’s face said to Driscoll that something was up.

“Well, then, show him in,” Driscoll said, warily.

With the hint of a smile, Thomlinson reached for the door and invited Driscoll’s newly assigned assistant to enter.

The Lieutenant’s eyes widened. Standing before him was Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante. A dazzler. At five-foot-seven she had a figure that would rival any of Veronese’s models. Her anthracite hair was long and cascaded onto her shoulders like a mane. Her dark eyes sparkled. Her nose was regal, and her jaw delicate. They created a face that was riveting and inviting. Too inviting for Lieutenant John W. Driscoll. There was history between the pair. They had recently worked together on a major homicide and during that investigation had realized they had feelings for each other and had expressed those feelings. Despite the fact his wife was in a permanent coma, Driscoll considered himself a married man and had spent many a sleepless night feeling guilty about his attraction to Margaret. But the attraction, a mutual one, was unmistakably there and so they had started seeing each other socially. At what most considered the close of the case, she and Driscoll agreed it wouldn’t be a good idea for the two of them to work together. Margaret willingly took a transfer to another homicide squad and they continued dating. When Driscoll’s wife died, the emotionally distraught Lieutenant asked for a time out, a request that Margaret granted.

“Margaret, what gives?” It appeared to Driscoll that Margaret was trembling.

“I come bearing a message. Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”

“Message? What message?”

“Reirdon told me to tell you, and I quote: ‘I’m best suited for the job because no team delivers closure faster than we do. And as far as City Hall is concerned, police officers come in only one color. Blue. And as to gender. They surrender that each and every time they pin on their shield.’”