Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

The ritual that followed was played out in darkness.

“You’ll do it to show how much you love me,” he’d say. “C’mon, a little faster. Hold it a little tighter. That’s it! Just like I showed you.”

Margaret followed his instructions carefully. The goal was not to upset the man. God forbid that happened. It only made him drink more and Margaret knew what that meant. The alcohol would dull his senses and interfere with his concentration. Even so young, Margaret realized, perhaps not on a conscious level, but realized nonetheless, that sex was, indeed, ninety percent mental. And if he drank enough, fast enough, she’d have to do it all over again. But this time with her mouth.

“You’re Daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?” he’d stammer. “You love your Daddy, don’t you? Now, slow it down. Just use your palm on the tip. That’s it! Oh, yeah! Slower, now. A little slower. That’s it! Ohhh…”

The sound of the phone ringing shattered the nightmare.

“Hello,” she managed.

The voice was familiar but she couldn’t place it; part of her was still under the influence of the terrifying memory

“This is Claire. Claire Bartlett. From the foundling? You called our office. Left this number?”

“Oh? Oh, yeah. Thank you. Have you come up with something?” Margaret’s heart began to race.

“Yes, we have. One of our resident therapists knows what became of Miss Newburger.”

“That’s good news. Tell me.”

“I’m afraid she’s dead, Miss Aligante. She died close to three years ago. At an assisted-living facility in Nanuet.”

Margaret tried to respond but couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” said the caller and after a moment of silence hung up.

As Margaret placed the receiver on its cradle, she was certain she heard the sound of footfalls making their way toward her door.

Once again that billion-dollar New York City skyline made Kyle Ramsey awaken minutes before dawn, climb atop his Bontrager ten-speed racer, and make a swift dash across the bicycle path of the Brooklyn Bridge. Greeted by a saffron sky, Kyle came upon the runway that led him to the upper stretch of the historic overpass. Filling his lungs with Brooklyn air, he lifted his body to gain increased thrust from his gluteus maximus muscles, and the bike rocketed up the incline; the Edward Jones financial wizard upshifting in rapid succession. As he was circumventing the first stanchion of architectural pylons, Kyle noticed a body slumped against the massive brick column. It was a dozing wino still clutched fast to his empty pint. Indifferent, Kyle increased his speed and continued across the bridge’s medial span. By the time he reached the second set of pylons, his spandex biking gear was drenched with sweat. He checked his wrist chronometer: 48.6 seconds. Good. But not good enough. Yesterday, he covered the same stretch in 42.9. Last evening’s second martini proved costly.

Someone or something darted out in front of him. Kyle swerved to avoid contact, but collided headlong with the shadowy figure, who let out a groan before running off. Kyle tumbled and crashed into the span’s wooden decking. The bike careened against the second brick column of the bridge. The errant pedestrian was now a vanishing speck in the distance.

“You son of a bitch!” Kyle screamed, painfully scrambling to his feet. “You’re dead meat when I get ahold of you!”

He righted the ten-speed and mounted it. The front wheel, bent from the impact with the brick column, locked in his grip. The frame looked like an accordion.

“That bike cost me two thousand dollars, you bastard!”

Something else caught his attention. A figure was strewn near the base of the second column. Was that a camera and tripod lying at his feet? Curiosity drew him closer. He bent down and picked up the camera. A Leica.

“That sucker costs nineteen hundred dollars!” he mumbled, fingering the casing, tempted to make it his. Loot for the taking. No? He examined the camera closely. Sure, it came fully loaded with a Summilux-M f/2/50 mm lens! “Wow!” he said, discovering its 0.85x viewfinder. He clutched the camera to his chest and eyed the probable owner sprawled before him. What’s wrong with him, he wondered?

That’s when he spotted the rivulet of blood.

This guy’s hurt. And pretty bad, at that.

Kyle lifted the man’s head. “Good God, what happened to your hair?” Blood flowed heavily from a massive wound, just behind the right ear.

“Jesus! I think this guy’s dead!”

He didn’t know what to make of it. If this was a mugging, how could the thief miss the camera? Maybe, Kyle thought, he had interrupted a crime in progress. His mind wandered to the fleeing pedestrian. Pressing his ear to the victim’s chest, he thought he heard the man’s heart still pumping but then realized the sound was emanating from the vibrations caused by the pre-rush hour traffic below. His original suspicion was confirmed. The guy was deader than dead. What were needed now were a cop and a coroner. Retrieving his cell phone from his saddlebag, he powered on and punched in 911.

As he ended the call, his focus fell, once again, on the camera.

The sound of the alarm clock jarred Driscoll from an uneasy sleep. It was 6:30 A.M. Police sirens echoed in the distance. Their wailing was growing increasingly closer. He checked on his kid sister by opening his cell phone. There were no messages. He walked to the window and took a peek outside. Two hundred yards away, the Brooklyn Bridge glowed in the dull morning mist. At the entrance to the bridge were two parked police cruisers, their array of emergency lights flashing. A police helicopter hovered above, its searchlight bracketing the span’s northwest pylon. An ambulance sped east on Tillary Street, the bridge’s Brooklyn foothold.

I guess the Thirty-ninth Airborne is on its way, he mused, closing the shutters and heading into the kitchenette, where he hit the switch on the Braun espresso machine. The whine of another police siren tore through the dawn.

He found his Bushnell field glasses in the hall closet, behind several boxes of shoes. Ambling back to the window, he took a closer look. There were three more police cruisers parked at the foot of the bridge, lights ablaze. He watched two ambulance attendants cart off a body. There was a man bending over, examining a bicycle. The man righted himself.

That’s Jimmy Capelli, Brooklyn South’s top dog!

Driscoll found his cell phone atop the kitchen counter, next to his keys. He rushed back to the window and punched in a number.

He watched in amusement as Capelli patted down each pocket in search of his phone. Finding it, the top cop flipped it open.

“Capelli, here.”

“Who dressed you this morning?” said Driscoll.

“Who the hell is this?”

“You look like Robin Hood! Who in their right mind wears a bright red tie with an olive-green suit?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Driscoll. And have I got my eye on you.”

“Driscoll! Where the hell are you?”

“I lay out an extra three hundred a month to have a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, and this morning I gotta see your ugly mug?”

“Funny man you are, John. Your landlord must have thrown in a pair of binoculars.”

“That’s why you’re a detective. Whaddya got?”

“A DOA. He took one hard to the head. You’re sure to get a call. This one’s been scalped.”

Driscoll’s eyes narrowed. “What else ya got?”

“There’s some pretty expensive camera equipment lying around. There’s even a professional tripod. We’re figuring the DOA for the photographer. What brings a guy out onto a bridge at six in the morning?”