Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

“Any witnesses?”

“All we got is an anonymous call to 911. Otherwise, zip.”

“You ID the DOA yet?”

“Guenther Rubeleit. He’s carrying a German driver’s license. You know Reirdon’s not gonna be happy with that.”

“Tell me more about the head wound.”

“It’s ugly. Just behind the right ear.”

“I see a bike there. Looks all bent up.”

“Yeah. Looks like it hit something. I’m figuring maybe it belonged to the DOA.”

“Doubt it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Tourists don’t get around on bikes. Especially one carrying a tripod. It’s gotta belong to somebody else. Make sure the lab boys are all over it.” Driscoll heard a beeping sound on the line and rolled his eyes skyward. “Gotta go, Jimmy. I got another caller and I’m sure I know who it is.”

Cassie couldn’t sleep. That was unusual. Was the killing spree she and Angus had begun weighing on her conscience? Her brother warned her that might happen. She still had a portion of her soul left, was how Angus had put it. She glanced next to her. Angus’s eyebrows were twitching, an indication he was dreaming. Where did his nocturnal escapades take him? Did he, like she, still dream of Mother in the hope that she’d return and somehow put an end to the madness? Or was what Angus said the truth? That the only thing she was good at was leaving us behind.

Cassie gathered the covers around her as uninvited memories swirled.

“One little, two little, three little Indians…” Father’s voice sounded, as he pressed his pockmarked face into mine. “Circle the wagons! The injuns are comin’!”

Grabbing hold of my arm, he yanked me from my bed. “Time to get ready, little darlin’.”

After dragging me down the stairs, he steered me into the small room behind the furnace, where I was forced to climb atop a table and lie down.

“One little, two little…lie still little darlin’. Daddy needs to get this just right.”

Using angular brushes, Father dabbed at the acrylic paint and applied a colorful array of markings to my face.

“This is just for practice, mind you, little darlin’. When I get the war paint just the way I want it, we’ll make it permanent. Four little, five little, six little Indians…”

“Examination of the cephalic region reveals sharp force trauma resulting in a massive head wound, measuring seven-point-six-six centimeters to right parietal, causing fracture to the skull and bone splinters to penetrate the brain. Thirteen-point-eight-centimeter linear penetration to the skin of the forehead noted. Irregular tearing of scalp…”

Larry Pearsol’s words echoed in Driscoll’s ear as he and Thomlinson, seated in the Chevy cruiser, blended with the flow of traffic on Second Avenue. It marked the third time the medical examiner had used those words in as many weeks. And it officially tied the crime on the bridge to the other homicides, making it part of Driscoll’s investigation. New York had another serial killer on its hands and, thanks to the press, the city’s populace was reminded of it with every newscast and in every headline. The Daily News went with DEADLY TOLL ON A NO TOLL BRIDGE while the Post opted for NUMBER 3 SCALPED!

Driscoll had spent the better part of his morning listening to the ranting of Joseph Santangelo, the chief of detectives. How the man had risen from inspector to chief was a mystery. There had been other more qualified candidates for the job. The belief was that he had some politician or cash-cow benefactor in his pocket. Chief Santangelo, derisively called “The World’s Greatest Detective” by his squad commanders, was his usual cantankerous self, telling Driscoll he’d be directing traffic down on Canal Street if he didn’t turn up a lead in the case soon. But after his posturing, he gave Driscoll the green light to set up a task force. A contingent of thirty detectives and three sergeants, from throughout the borough, would be handpicked by Driscoll. The support team at TARU, or Technical Assistance Response Unit, would be ordered to stand at the ready. And Fleet Services would supply ten additional cars and two surveillance vans. A Tip Line, a phone number established by the department at which the general public was encouraged to report any pertinent information, would be established and manned twenty-four-seven by a police investigator. The line had proven to be a valuable aid in many previous investigations. Thomlinson would be Driscoll’s broom, his right-hand man. He would oversee the Tip Line activity and other administrative duties. Any directives that came from him were to be interpreted as coming from the Lieutenant.

Crime Scene had reported their findings to Driscoll immediately after the barrage of mortar fire from Santangelo. Helga Swenson’s blood had been found in the third stall of a second-floor ladies’ lavatory in the east wing of the museum. The blood of victim number two, Yen Chan, was found in one of those industrial green Port-a-Potties near the entrance to Cleary’s Boardwalk Fun House, just steps away from the site where his body had been found. Now came the hard part. Crime Scene would have to process two public facilities where hundreds, if not thousands, of fingerprints and other forensic evidence would be found. This wasn’t television’s CSI. The NYPD Crime Lab was understaffed and lacked the high-tech gadgetry of the highly equipped labs featured on TV. But they got the job done, just not within the sixty minutes it took their TV counterparts. But, as Driscoll was fond of pointing out, the NYPD did it without those annoying commercials.

All precincts throughout the five boroughs had been ordered to beef up their presence at all tourist attractions throughout the city. This presence was to be provided around the clock. Thomlinson had made some of the forensic team’s findings known to the news media, asking that they include the information about the holding sites in their reporting. The general public was urged to call the task force’s Tip Line with information about any suspicious activity they may have encountered in and around the restrooms, the attractions, or on the bridge. Trace evidence of three other blood donors was also discovered at the museum. Test results showed all three to be menstrual blood. Driscoll figured as much. After all, it was a ladies’ room. Considering that the crime scenes themselves had been violated by being trampled upon by the general public, Driscoll wasn’t banking on much, if any, pertinent evidence. But the preliminary forensic reports did prove Sergeant Aligante’s theory to be correct about where the victims were held. And her assertion that the killer had a conversation with the deceased before rendering the fatal blow was also likely. The autopsies of all three victims revealed no defensive wounds. And all three were indeed tourists. The sad part was that none of them saw it coming. Support for Margaret’s speculation was encouraging news. Score one for the good guys. And a slam dunk for Margaret!

Fifteen minutes later, Driscoll pulled the cruiser into a restricted parking space in front of Thirty-two East Houston Street, NYPD’s Crime Lab, where he tossed the Police Department Vehicle Identification card onto the dash.

Once inside the building, he and Thomlinson were greeted by Ernie Haverstraw, the lab’s top criminalist, who reminded Driscoll of the ubiquitous hefty man you’d inevitably run across in the meat department of every Gristede’s grocery store in the city.

The three men crowded around the Bontrager ten-speed bicycle that had been recovered from the Brooklyn Bridge. It was still coated with blotches of white powder, the residue of the technician’s search for fingerprints.