Scream Catcher (6 page)

No chin beard.

No sideburns.

No mustache.

No crazy long hair.

The eyes are narrow. The only thing about them that resembles what he witnessed emerging from the gravel pit is their color: ice blue.

Even the style of clothing depicted in the ViCAP mug can be construed as far different from what Lennox wore out in back of Sweeney’s. In the photo he’s wearing a navy blue cotton suit with a yellow silk tie accented in light blue polka dots. For an added mod splash, gold hoop earrings dangle from each of his ear lobes.

The man Jude spotted giving chase outside Sweeney’s Gym sported long blond dreads and tight black clothing. As for earrings he can’t recall noticing any. But then high stress situations distort memory. Even for former officers of the law.

Mack perks up, says, “Suspect’s got a brand new alias: Christian Jordan. And he’s got the proper documentation to back it up—driver’s license, social security card, credit cards. But I know of him by his real name: Hector Elijah Lennox. Thirty-six years of age, Gulf War vet, Marine computer hacker, clinical-psych dropout out of UCLA. Born and raised—if you want to call it that—in West Hollywood. The only son and child of an alcoholic Baptist minister who ran a storefront Bible-Belt church on Sunset Boulevard.

“Lennox refers to himself as the ‘Black Dragon’ because of a tattoo he got planted on the interior of his right forearm during the second Gulf War. L.G.P.D. first picked him up on probable cause after a taxi-cab driver looking for place to shoot up witnessed an execution inside an abandoned tanning factory on the lake’s south end. But after three days of interviews between us and the prosecutor, the witness got cold feet and a serious case of the shakes. In the end, he backed out. And I mean backed out of town for good. That left the gate wide open for our Black Dragon boy to stand up tall before Judge Mann, plead false arrest and entrapment. Bastard went Al Sharpton on us, threatened to sue. In the end the prosecution backed off due to a quote—’lack of evidence’—end quote. In turn Judge Mann buried the gavel, insisted that all charges be dropped. Even
before
a Grand Jury got a chance to convene down in Albany and vote a no bill.”

Sitting back, Jude peers down at the tabletop.

“Mistakes were made in due process,” he surmises. It’s more a question than a statement.

“Truth is, county prosecutor couldn’t offer up sufficient facts and circumstances to warrant an indictment. In her defense, forensics and CSI produced minimal prints, minimal blood residue. There were no hair follicles, no clothing or fabric fibers, no trace evidence to speak of.” Shaking his head. “Correction: some evidence was there—emphasis on
some
. It’s just that investigators couldn’t get any of said evidence to
link
Lennox directly to the crime scene other than probable cause. And, as you well know, probable cause cannot reverse presumption of innocence.”

A spark of light flashes inside Jude’s head.

“But you had a body.”

Mack smirks, runs an open hand across his scalp.

“Yeah, we had a clean stiff. But what we needed was scientific proof—forensics and trace evidence that could be attached directly to the monster himself.”

“And a reliable eyewitness who was willing to walk the walk,” Jude adds, knowing full well where this was going.

“An eyewitness like you,” Mack says, slate gray eyes burning holes into his son’s sternum.

* * *

Lifting the pitcher up off the table, Jude pours more water into his cup.

At the same time, he’s asking himself these questions:
is Hector Lennox a serial killer? Is he a serial killer with a talent and resources for reinventing his physical appearance and legal ID. to suit his needs? To blend into any environment he chooses?

Mack lights another cigarette, exhales the smoke through his nostrils.

“This is the part of the backstory where the weird takes a turn for the surreal,” he goes on. “Lennox is a militarily trained computer hacker. A talent he’s incorporated into the design and development of first-person video kill games.”

“Kill games,” Jude repeats, his son’s numerous video game systems flashing through his mind. “Video kill games meaning
violent
video games.”

“Video games that kids play precisely
because
of that violence. The plots are all the same: shoot and destroy; stalk and destroy; fight and destroy; Kung Fu and destroy. In clinical terms, impersonal perspective stealth action games that thrive on intense graphic violence. Their popularity is growing so large and fast that kids now spend more money on them than they do the movies. A fact that hasn’t gone unnoticed in Tinsel Town.”

“Jesus Mack, for an old timer, you’ve been studying up.”

“You have no idea.”

Immediately Jude pictures his son Jack sitting up on his bed, big brown eyes glued to the TV, a plastic game controller in his hands. When was the last time they had gone to see a movie together?

“With kill games,” Mack goes on, “the aggressor characters and their victims are modeled on real life human beings. At least in the physical sense. But what the thrill-kill game can not possibly convey is the sensitive nature of the human condition. Therefore, gone is the sense of fear, anger, adulation, panic, love, guilt … all those emotions one might naturally take for granted especially when associated with a man or woman in grave danger—a person fearing for his or her own life.”

“Computers trying to mimic human beings,” Jude adds.

“And failing miserably,” Mack insists. “First-person kill games lack the human element. They lack emotion and most of all a conscience. Let’s face it, they’re interactive cartoons. No one knows this better than Lennox. In his world, the killing of an innocent man or woman is not an act against civil and social mores. It represents a payoff, plain and simple. The more kills a player accomplishes, the more satisfied the player feels about him or herself, the more he or she desires.”

“Okay so Lennox designs violent video games and at the same time he likes to kill people. But where do the two come together, Mack? How exactly does a make-believe video game make the leap to becoming a real life murder?”

Pulling the spent cigarette from between his lips, Mack drops it into the coffee cup, stares into it, waits for the dousing hiss.

“Through his Black Dragon alter ego, Lennox has sought out a way to capture the elusive human element.”

“How exactly?”

“We believe he abducts a victim, engages him in an elaborately designed first-person kill game. In that manner he’s able to observe how a human subject reacts to the chase.”

“Kind of like an experiment.”

“More like an experiment in terror and dying.”

Now it’s Jude’s turn to bite down on his bottom lip; to contemplate the information his father has calmly conveyed.

Crossing arms over chest he says, “Yeah, but why bother?”

“Why bother killing?”

“No, what I mean is, why bother with all the fuss, all the planning? Why risk it? Why not kill someone and be done with it?”

Mack cocks his head to one side.

“How’s the song go?” he asks. “‘The taste of blood is sweet?’ For Lennox, the taste of the kill game blood is even sweeter. He gets off on it. He gets off on the process. And now, from what you’re telling me about this morning, he enjoys capping off the thrill kill by recording the screams of his victims only seconds before their execution.”

“The screams,” Jude says. “If Lennox likes to go for a big dose of reality in his video kill games, you think it’s possible he uses the real-life screams in his audio?”

The old Captain nods.

“Wouldn’t you?” he poses.

* * *

The interview room door flies open, giving Jude’s heart a start.

Again the robot-like Lieutenant Lino—the L.G.P.D.’s newest top cop—steps inside.

“Your lineup is set to go, Captain Mack,” he says, mustached face deadpan, machine-like. “Are we to proceed?”

What Jude already knows as a former dick: hidden behind the long white curtain is a long pane of thick translucent safety glass. Protected behind the window is a separate room that houses a lineup of seven men, all of them standing shoulder to shoulder. The ages of the men in this particular lineup will be anywhere from twenty to thirty-five. They will all be of large to extra-large frame, excellent health.

His heart beats so rapidly, it’s nearly impossible to ingest a deep breath. Behind his eyeballs, quick flashes of brilliant light. It makes him think.

Jude squeezes his fists, tries to calm himself down, curb the onset of anxiety.

Mack cocks his head in the direction of the window. He reminds his son of the obvious: that if he can pick out the suspect in the lineup, then back it up by making a second positive ID in a court of law, the State will get a second shot at prosecuting a serial thrill killer.

The old Captain sets a heavy hand on his son’s sweat-shirted shoulder.

“So what’s it going to be, Jude? You up to the task?”

The newly carpeted floor feels like it’s about to be pulled out from under the ex-cop.

But then here’s his chance to do something good, a chance to make up for his ineffectiveness at the morning’s kill scene.

Jude gives the nod to open the curtain.

Mack barks, “Now you’re cooking with Wesson.”

Turning to the wall mirror, Lino raises his right hand, makes a thumbs up.

The lights in the room are automatically dimmed at the very same moment the curtain slides open revealing a small, not-to-distant platform that holds seven men. One of them a kind of real-life, real-time comic book villain—with a head full of blond dreadlocks, a crooked sneer and a black dragon tattooed to his right forearm.

L.G.P.D. South Pearl Street Precinct

Tuesday, 10:31 A.M.

The closing curtains automatically trigger the bright overhead lights.

Mack glances at his watch, picks up the telephone extension. When he says “Round up the Jeep,” Jude knows his father has to be talking to his driver (“Long Legs”).

Jude is happy about the directive, happy that his revisit to the L.G.P.D. precinct is coming to an end. He’s beginning to feel cooped up. Beyond cooped up.

Claustrophobic.

He feels like all eyes inside the precinct have been focused on his backside since his arrival. Or maybe he’s just being paranoid. But then his tighter than tight sternum is speaking to him. It’s saying,
Get me the hell out of here!

“Where you heading, Mack?”

“Medical Examiner. You wait for me here, catch some rest. Maybe grab a bite to eat.”

Jude can’t help but feel the needle prick of disappointment. But then he knows that in Mack’s mind it makes sense for him to take a breather while the old Captain makes the short road trip down to Glens Falls. After all, between the two-way drive and the meeting with the M.E. he’ll eat up the better part of an hour. Time enough to allow Jude the chance to catch a nap.

But Jude is not tired …

Scratch that … He’s tired all right. But at the same time so wired he could not possibly sleep. And the last thing he wants right now besides sleep is food. Every time he thinks of food he pictures the two quick blasts from a sound-suppressed automatic, the way the victim’s head violently jerked forward, chin against chest. He sees the frail body fall limply forward, rubber-like, splashing into a puddle of rainwater. He hears the screams.

There’s something else he sees too: He sees himself dropping to the pavement at the precise moment he should have been stopping the killer before he got away.

Jude knows that if Mack were to leave him alone for an hour, he would be reduced to pacing the interview room—
heart aflutter
so to speak. Minutes would go by like days.

But there’s another reason Jude does not want to be left alone—or left behind, to be more accurate. He watched a man die today. He knows neither the victim’s name, age nor what he looked like up close. He has no idea if the man lived alone or had a family. Jude knows nothing about him. Not even the color of his eyes.

Jude’s played the part of the puppet long enough.

Mack the puppeteer has led him by the strings, told him what to do, how to do it. At the same time Jude senses an overprotectiveness—the father still watching out for the son, even in adulthood. But perhaps if he could find out just a little bit more about the man who screamed on demand and who kneeled idly while taking two shots to the head outside that gravel pit, then he might afford himself just a hint of control. He would know what he’s fighting for.

Mack is putting his jacket back on when Jude stands, heads for the interview room door.

“Where do you think you’re going, kid?”

“This is my case, remember?”

The old Captain cracks a crooked grin.

“Just like old times,” he says.

“Let’s hope not,” Jude says.

* * *

Glens Falls Medical Center

Tuesday, 11:03 A.M.

Father and son stand inside the basement level, open double-doorway that accesses the Glens Falls Medical Center autopsy room. Jude’s head is reeling, not only from the .22 caliber bullet that grazed his scalp, but also from the pungent, systemic odor of formaldehyde and alcohol. If you want to stand inside the brightly illuminated, white-tiled room, you just can’t avoid it.

The body of the shooting victim is laid out on the first of three identical, side-by-side stainless steel tables. From where Jude stands he can clearly make out the blood and water seeping off the body where it collects drip by audible drip inside a steel vat positioned beneath the table’s drain. Almost thoughtfully, the thin man’s sex has been covered up with a green sheet, the ends of which hang over either side of the narrow slab.