The Screaming Room (16 page)

Driscoll had finally edged his way out of a parking space where two motorists had him close to bookended, when the call came in from Thomlinson.

“You're gonna love this one, Lieutenant. We just got a call from a sergeant at the Eighty-fourth Precinct. They had a visitor. One Samantha Taft, a salesclerk at a thirty-minute photo shop on Montague Street. Said she recognized Angus in the sketch. But there's more. Much more! You ready?”

“Ready.”

“She's got his picture!”

 

Driscoll exited the Chevy near the corner of Montague and Henry streets, just west of Brooklyn's Borough Hall. Walking east on Montague, he found the shop. A bell chimed as he opened its door.

“May I help you?”

Driscoll's gaze fell upon a young woman whose scarlet blouse matched the streak of red in her otherwise jet-black hair.

“Samantha Taft?”

“Wow! You guys are fast! Cop, right?”

“You the one who stopped by the police station about the sketch featured on TV?”

“And you get right to the point. Double wow!” She scooted out from behind a free-standing device that resembled an MRI machine. “Got the sketch with ya? I'd like to see the two faces close-up.”

“So would I.” Driscoll leaned on the shop's counter, bringing himself eye level with the girl. “How is it you happened upon his particular picture? You must see thousands every day.”

“The guy's face is plastered everywhere you look! Not just on television. You'd hafta be from Neptune not to have seen it. Anyway, we've got a sixty-day rule here. The owner of a processed film that hasn't been picked up after two months gets a call. You'd be amazed at the number of people who simply forget about their pictures. I would have brought it with me to the precinct, but it's not supposed to leave the store unless paid for.” She reached under the counter and produced a white envelope with orange stenciling and embossed numerals.

Driscoll eyed the envelope. In the space for the customer's name and address someone, perhaps this young lady, had penciled in “Cash.”

“Pretty tough to make a call on this one,” he said.

“Yup! You can thank Harold for that.”

“Harold?”

“Part-timer. Works the weekends. Not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, if ya know what I mean. That's what made me peek inside. Sometimes I'll spot a regular's face in the photographs. Then I'll have someone to call. But it wasn't some customer's face I spotted. It was your guy's.”

Driscoll opened the envelope and retrieved its contents.

“He's numero twenty-two,” she said. “The last shot before the pansies at play.”

Driscoll raised a curious eyebrow at Taft's remark, then fanned the array of photographs. The dimly lit panorama of the New York City skyline came to life. And, just as the sales clerk had said, he found what he was looking for in photo number twenty-two, which he placed on the counter before him. It was a clear shot of a hooded Caucasian male running away, his head, though, clearly turned back toward the camera. The backdrop of the photo featured Brooklyn's skyline, which was of course what one would see if one were situated atop the Brooklyn Bridge, looking east. And, Driscoll knew all too well what the subject of the photograph was looking at. His handiwork. A fatally wounded man, taking a photograph that would speak for him from the grave.

Driscoll retrieved Shewster's sketch from his pocket, flattened it on the countertop, and compared it to the photo. Not an exact match. But close nonetheless. It would appear Malcolm Shewster's team was well trained. He turned his attention to the remaining photographs. The “pansies at play” shots featured a bevy of naked men having sex. In shocking detail.

“No other records for who might have brought this film in, huh?”

The salesclerk shook her head. But Driscoll already had an answer to the question. He'd first close the case. But after that, he'd have Margaret pay another visit to Mr. Drag Queen himself, Kyle Ramsey.

“I'll need to take the picture.”

“Figured you would. But what the hell. It's not like anybody's gonna know it's gone.”

Driscoll thanked Taft and left the store. It was apparent that Ramsey had stolen the dead man's camera. But Ramsey being at the scene was probably the reason the killer hadn't retrieved the camera himself. Judging from the photograph, the killer must have seen the victim aiming the camera at him, but the victim was no longer alone. Kyle Ramsey was now in the picture. The picture caught by the eye of a fleeing demon.

Traffic was at a standstill on Chambers Street leading to the ramp for the Brooklyn Bridge, where a construction team had chosen rush hour to cordon off two of the bridge's three eastbound lanes. The congestion caused a tie-up on all connecting arteries. While Driscoll waited impatiently behind the wheel, he took out a pad and jotted down Samantha Taft's name and circled it in dollar signs. Malcolm Shewster may end up cutting her a check for a million in cash. Driscoll would make sure she got it. Unless Shewster had worked some loophole into the offering. His suspicion of the man was growing. It'd be just a matter of time before he discovered what role he played in all of this.

As if someone lifted a gate up ahead, traffic began to flow. The Chevy's low-fuel light had been on for awhile. He prayed he'd reach home before running out of gas. Seeking distraction, he ran through the case in his mind. The DNA, collected by Margaret from the circus fiend, had proved to be a no-hit. That realization caused him to glance at the copy of the
Daily News
that occupied the cruiser's passenger seat. The sketched face of one of the killers stared back at him. “End of chapter, my friend. I've got the real deal.” He patted his breast pocket that contained the photograph. The silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of his cell phone.

“Driscoll, here.”

It was Thomlinson again, with an update.

“Lieutenant, we just got a call from a Greyhound bus driver. Says the photo in the
Post
fits the bill for one of a pair of kids he's been transporting from Carbondale into the city for the past few months.

“Only one of a pair?”

“Says his regular ride-along might be his sister.”

“Might?”

“The girl's face is disfigured.”

And that's why no one called them in as twins. “Cedric, remind me to buy you a box of cigars.”

 

It was close to six o'clock when Driscoll pulled his cruiser to the curb outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Tossing a police “Official Business” card onto the dash, he hurried out of the car and ducked inside. Following Thomlinson's instructions, he headed through the crowd for the northwestern corner and found the Greyhound Bus Lines customer service booth.

“I'm looking for Ted Clarkson. One of your drivers,” Driscoll announced, flashing his shield to the rotund lady manning the booth.

“He in some sorta trouble?”

“No, ma'am. Just need to ask him some questions.”

“Ted just finished his route. You're likely to find him in the busman's lounge. That'd be on the second floor. Take the escalator over there. When you get to the top, make an about-face. You'll be looking right at it.”

Driscoll found the lounge. It was occupied by three drivers.

“Ted Clarkson?” Driscoll called out.

One of the men pointed to a door behind Driscoll marked “Men's Room.”

In a minute, Clarkson came out. He was dressed in bus operator blue and sported a well-trimmed mustache. Being overweight must be one of the union rules, Driscoll reasoned. The buttons on the man's shirt looked as though they were about to pop. He appeared to be in his late forties, early fifties, but was probably younger, the extra poundage adding to his age. He had a gentle manner about him and a jovial face.

“Ted Clarkson?” Driscoll asked.

“That'd be me.”

“I'm Lieutenant Driscoll,” he said, holding out his shield and department ID. “You called about the photo?”

“You like doughnuts?”

An odd response, Driscoll thought. “Who doesn't?”

“C'mon. We can talk while we eat.”

They found a Dunkin' Donuts shop.

“I'm hooked on their crullers,” said Clarkson as the two men entered the store.

“Make it two crullers,” Driscoll said to the slim blonde behind the counter. Driscoll smiled at the irony of finding a thin salesclerk serving up goodies to the heavyset Clarkson.

They sat across from each other at a Formica-topped table. Clarkson wrapped his chubby hands around the Styrofoam cup of coffee while Driscoll placed the suspect's photo on the table.

“Still look familiar?”

“Yup. That's him. Feel a little sorry for the girl. Her face bein' all scarred up and all.”

Clarkson wouldn't be so empathetic had he gotten a look at their handiwork. “Tell me all you know about him and his tagalong.”

“I'm figuring they gotta live somewhere near Carbondale. That's where they get on the bus. Every other week or so, for the past few months. They get on alone. They hand me their tickets and take their seats in the rear of the bus. It's near the beginning of the run so the bus is pretty much empty. Here's the puzzler. After they settle in, they take out this game board.”

“Game board?” Driscoll felt the rush of adrenaline.

“Yeah, a game board. Sorta like Candy Land. Only this one sings.”

“Sings? What does it sing?”

“‘New York, New York.'”

“Sinatra's ‘New York, New York'?”

“That'd be the one.”

The Lieutenant's mind raced. He envisioned the pair aboard the bus. If he reached out his hand, he felt he could touch them. Excitement filled him. He sensed closure. Not surprisingly, though, he also felt sadness. He thought of the twins and their wretched childhood. He wondered what he'd have done if someone had abducted his Nicole and subjected her to such cruelty.

“Tell me more,” he said.

“One day, I smelled cigarette smoke coming from the back of the bus. ‘Oh, jeeez,' I said. ‘It's gotta be the kids.' I pulled over to the shoulder and went to see what they were up to. I find them smoking cigarettes, rolling dice, and moving these pieces around their board.”

“What did the board look like?”

“Like I said before. Like Candy Land. You remember. The one with all the colors, where you moved your pieces around a winding track. Only this one had a map on it.”

“A map of what?” Driscoll had the answer as soon as he heard himself ask the question. Of course, the city of New York!

“Wish I could help ya there, Lieutenant. I never looked at it up close.” Clarkson took a bite of his cruller. “Anyway, I pointed to the ‘No Smoking' sign. ‘A five-hundred-dollar fine,' I said. You know what these crazies did? They used the tips of their fingers to snuff out the butts!”

Driscoll's eyes narrowed. “Anything else about these kids you can tell me?”

“Not much else to tell.”

“They ever threaten anyone on the bus?”

“Nope.” Clarkson downed the last of his coffee.

Driscoll stood up. He felt like an overwound machine. In his head he was already on the road to Carbondale. “You've been a great help. If you remember anything else, give me a call.” He handed Clarkson his card, then headed for the store's exit, but stopped when he heard the man call out.

“There is something else, Lieutenant. I just remembered.”

“And what is that?”

“Every night at the end of my shift I check the bus for lost items. I use my flashlight, ya know, 'cause the light on the bus isn't that good. One night I found this little metal statue. It looked like something I'd seen before, but, for the life of me, I couldn't figure what that was. Anyway, I found it near where the kids were sitting. It's probably still in the glove compartment of the bus.”

“Let's go get it.” Another rush of adrenaline.

 

They went to the depot, where Clarkson climbed aboard his bus and rummaged through the glove compartment.

“Here it is.” It was a miniature figurine of a church with two spires. “Whaddya make of it?”

Driscoll wrapped his hand around the object like he would a trophy awarded him for winning a marathon. He was closing in. The unfamiliar mix of excitement and sadness swirled within him. “In my business, we've found that most serial killers are collectors. It lets them relive the exhilaration of their sport. This item was either bought or swiped from the gift shop where they committed their last murder. That, my friend, is Saint Patrick's Cathedral.”

“Hmm. Never been there,” Clarkson said, examining the tiny replica. “By the way, is it you I should call about the reward money after you nab the pair? The million dollars, that is. Or should I wait for another call from that other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“The guy who called me on my cell phone before you showed up. Said he was following up on my initial call.”

“He give you his name?”

“Nope. I didn't think to ask.”

“What'd he sound like?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Did he have an accent? Sound old, young? That sort of thing.”

“No accent. And I don't think he was old. But I was on a cell phone. You know how those things are. Reception ain't always that good.”

“Whaddya tell him?”

“Not much. I was still on the bus. You're not suppose to talk and drive, right?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I made it brief. Told him to call me after seven.”

Driscoll looked at his watch. It was 6:38.

“What should I tell him when he calls back?”

“Tell him you already spoke to me and gave me all your information. I'll make sure you get the reward money when the time comes.” Driscoll produced his card and gave it to the man. “If he presses you further, tell him to call me.”

“That million's legit, right?”

“Yes. And if what you've told me leads to their apprehension, you have my word you'll get it.” What he didn't tell him was that he might have to split it with Samantha Taft.