The Screaming Room (7 page)

Larry Pearsol completed the postmortem on Tatsuya Inagaki, the tourist from Tokyo whose lifeless form had been removed from the cockpit of the American fighter plane.

“Examination of the cephalic region reveals sharp force trauma resulting in a massive head wound, measuring seven-point-six-four centimeters to right parietal, causing fracture to the skull and bone splinters to penetrate the brain. Thirteen-point-two-centimeter linear penetration to the skin of the forehead noted. Irregular tearing of scalp…” said the ME, removing his surgical gloves. “Sure looks like the same handiwork that felled the last three victims, Lieutenant. But how would the killer pull it off with a twenty-four-hour police presence?”

“That's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

Bill Heisek, Manhattan's borough commander, had been hauled into the Mayor's office along with Police Commissioner Brandon to explain why the officers of Midtown North looked upon these killings as a “Task Force thing.” One universal shortcoming of the department was that almost everyone was territorial. Where the hell were they while the killer struck and posed his victim? the Mayor wanted to know. Heisek was at a loss for an answer, much to the chagrin of Sully Reirdon and the commissioner. He could only assure both men that it would never happen again. It was a sure bet he'd make good on that promise, for if he didn't, he'd be demoted to the rank of duty captain.

The Mayor was particularly perturbed because the press had trampled all over the police department. The
Daily News
headline read:
NYPD CAUGHT NAPPING
, while the
Post
ran with
COPS BLIND TO LATEST SLAYING
.

Driscoll, standing next to the corpse of victim number four, reflected on Pearsol's findings. What am I missing? he pondered. And what's with the scalping?

“I do have some good news,” said the ME. “I found some scrapings under the vic's fingernails. Looks like maybe some skin with traces of blood. Could belong to your suspect. I'll have the lab boys run the DNA and blood profiles right away.”

Driscoll nodded. The skin tracings and the blood meant this victim had a chance to fight back. With any luck, the next one might survive.

“Larry, what kind of psycho straps a Japanese tourist into the cockpit of an American fighter plane?” asked Driscoll, eyes fixed on Jasper Eliot's eight-by-ten glossy displaying the newly found cadaver.

“Could it have something to do with Pearl Harbor? Maybe your perp lost a loved one and is seeking revenge?”

“But the other three appear to be random.”

The two men exchanged a puzzled look.

“Let's see what we've got so far,” said Driscoll. “First, the hit on the German woman at the museum. Then Yen Chan, a Chinese male at Coney Island. Number three is Guenther Rubeleit, also from Germany. And now our Japanese friend here. One woman and three men. He, she, or they have crossed gender. That's something your textbook serial killer doesn't do. They usually target one or the other.”

“Your whacko is killing tourists and tourism at the same time.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Three of the four victims were discovered by children, weren't they?”

“Aligante picked up on that. Although his murder sites are places where you're likely to find kids, we haven't ruled out there being some sort of correlation. Right now we're thankful children aren't his victims.”

“I'll bet Reirdon's thankful. I'm sure, sincerely. But the media would go ballistic if a child were killed. Every parent in the city, too.”

The Lieutenant groaned, reaching for his cell phone that was sounding in his pocket. “Driscoll, here.”

A booming voice echoed through the unit's tiny earphone, causing Driscoll to nod at Pearsol. “Him,” he silently mouthed.

“That's number four, John. I'm running out of patience.”

“Mr. Mayor, we're doing all we can.”

“I just got off the phone with the Japanese embassy. They're screaming bloody murder. According to them, the New York City Police Department has its head up its ass. And the family of the latest victim is suing the city for three hundred million dollars! They've been disgraced. The guy's grandfather survived the Battle of Midway, for chrissake! Now he's ready to commit hari-kari on his futon! He says it is the greatest dishonor of his life to have his grandson dumped in the cockpit of an American fighter plane. That was the plane that sunk three Japanese aircraft carriers in the South Pacific! And there's more! Germany's ambassador called me last night. He wants to know why New York is such an unruly town and why I haven't caught the killer. You got an answer for him?”

“Mr. Mayor, I'm staring into the chalky white face of that Japanese grandson right now. The thought of his life being snuffed out by some crazed killer sickens me. We will put an end to these murders.” Driscoll lifted the cadaver's right hand and examined the underside of the nails, where the skin scrapings had been collected. “I believe our perp is getting sloppy, Mr. Mayor. Mistakes usually spell end of story.”

“Soon, John. Make it soon. Like I said, I'm running out of patience.”

Cassie and Angus were seated across from one another in the makeshift breakfast nook; Angus rearranged the letters in his Alpha-Bits, while his sister read about their murderous exploits heralded in the
Post.

“You think they're on to somethin', calling us savages? Savages, Indians, Indians, Savages,” said Cassie.

A sly smile crept across her brother's face. “Could be,” he said, an eyebrow raised.

Cassie rifled through the pages of the paper, stopping when she came to the editorials. “I'm thinkin' of maybe writin' to the editor. Tellin' him and his goddamn writers our side of the story. Savages? Screw him!”

“It does piss you off, doesn't it?” Angus leaned in, amused by his sister's reaction.

“What?”

“Them callin' us savages.”

“They should only know,” said Cassie.

“If they did, they'd be thanking us for riddin' the world of scum. Take a look on Page Six.”

“What am I lookin' for?” Her eyes scoured the page.

“The blonde cutie with the pouty lips.”

Cassie zeroed in on a two-by-four snapshot of Debra LaFave. “Who's she?”

“Babe City!” Angus grabbed the paper from his sister's hands. “Too bad it's in black and white. She's got blue eyes ya could swim in.”

Men!

Angus cleared his throat and read from the article as though he were auditioning for a play.

“Debra Beasley Lafave, a former readin' teacher at a Florida middle school, once charged with several counts of havin' sex with a fourteen-year-old…” Angus shot his sister a grin. “And you thought female offenders were a rarity.”

“I never said they were rare. Just unusual.”

“Why couldn't our pigeons look like that?” Angus's eyes bored into those of the femme fatale.

“It's a good thing they don't. The tomahawk wouldn't be the only bulge in your pocket.” Cassie swatted him on the side of the head and tore the paper from his hands. “Stay focused!”

“All work and no play…”

“To hell with play! Who's next?”

“A Pakistani called. Very bad connection.” Angus put his thumb to his ear, finger to his mouth, and mimicked the caller. “‘Hello, Mr. Gus. My name is Abdur Rahim. I'm from Islamabad. I like your Web site. I'm in New York and have U.S. dollars.'” Angus held up a Post-it note displaying the caller's number. The disposable cell phone rang. “Mmm…another lamb,” he said, answering it. After a series of “uh-huhs,” Angus jotted down a number, depressed the
END
button, and grinned at his sister. “That was Abigail from the good ole' US of A. In town on business from California and said she could use some entertainment. Sounded more like she needed a fix. Maybe we oughta switch things round a little. Give the men in blue some domestic fieldwork. Whaddya think?”

Cassie looked like she was mulling it over.

“Wanna hear the Pakistani again?”

“Screw the Pakistani. They're always in a rush.”

Blue skies prevailed over the city as Driscoll stood at the end of the dock in Toliver's Point. The wooden landing, some three hundred feet long, jutted out into Jamaica Bay. It was commonly referred to by the locals as Sullivan's Pier, named after the tavern that sat at its entrance. It had been five days since the attack on the last tourist and Driscoll was growing restless. He'd often come back to the Point to escape his demons, and today he found diversion by watching the playful antics of a handful of teens.

The mixed gang, two boys and three girls, clad in bathing suits, were horsing around in the water. Driscoll watched as the tallest boy squatted down near the dock's edge and clasped his hands together to form what appeared to be the launching pad. The three girls, their faces ripe with laughter, were lined up behind him. The girl they were calling Sally, stuffed into a skimpy one-piece, sashayed forward and placed her foot and trust into the hands of the squatting teen who swiftly catapulted the corpulent plum off the dock and into the air. She soon crashed into the water with a loud splash.

Larry, as everyone was calling him, now got into the game, posing as the announcer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the judges give that sad excuse for a dive a three-point-nine.”

His makeshift microphone was a can of Diet Pepsi. Driscoll thought Larry sounded very much like W. C. Fields.

“Sally, your boobs hit the water before you did,” Larry hollered. “Next time keep 'em in your top.”

The embarrassed teen's face turned beet red. She grabbed hold of her twisted bathing suit and disappeared under the water.

“Way to go!” cheered the catapulter, giving Larry a high five. “Okay, Peggy. Your turn.”

“No funny stuff, Billy,” the freckle-faced teen warned, slipping her foot into the teen's grip and closing her eyes.

“Up we go!” Billy roared, launching Peggy into the air.

The girl tumbled head over heels before neatly slicing the surface of the water.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the goose has touched down,” Larry whined, still in W. C. Fields mode.

Driscoll reached into his linen jacket for a pack of all-organic additive-free American Spirit cigarettes. He lit one up and inhaled deeply. A Lucky Strike it wasn't. It was a relief, though, to have his throat stroked by a feather rather than singed by a torch. He took another drag and glanced across the bay at the Manhattan skyline in the distance.

Such a contrast, he thought. Here, high-spirited teenagers were at play, while only five miles away a murderous spree was holding the city in a vise of fear.

He snuffed out the cigarette's butt on the dock's railing and watched dusk slowly blanket the metropolis. The neon sign of Sullivan's tavern came to life in fluorescent blue, beckoning him. It was time for a drink. Maybe two.

He walked toward the portal and ducked inside. The familiar scent of draught beer and oak flooring welcomed him.

“Hey, John. Good to see ya,” a bright-eyed waitress said, scurrying toward the dining room, balancing a large tray of oysters on the half shell high above her head.

“Likewise, Kathy,” Driscoll replied, heading for the bar.

The walls of the barroom were made up of glass sliding doors. They offered a panoramic view of the bay and of the city that hugged its opposing shoreline. The bar itself was U-shaped and crowded. Casually dressed couples, awaiting tables in the dining room, sipped from their glasses of Chardonnay and absorbed the ambiance, while the bar's regulars nursed Bass ale from frosty mugs, their eyes glued to the TV screen, where Mike Mussina of the New York Yankees was pitching a no-hitter against the division-leading Boston Red Sox.

Driscoll spotted an opening at the top of the U, next to the service bar, and made his way toward it, sidestepping another waitress on the run.

“Your girls should be on Rollerblades,” Driscoll said to Kevin Conlon, the tavern's proprietor, at the bar.

“Now there's a novel idea. Meals on wheels!” Kevin smiled broadly at the suggestion. “What'll it be? Your usual?”

“That oughta do it.”

Kevin gestured to Chris, the bartender.

“A Harp for the Lieutenant.”

Kevin Conlon, with his grizzly white beard and gravelly voice, seemed more suited for a Gabby Hayes Western than as a restaurant owner here in suburban New York. A well-bred Irishman and true wine aficionado, he prided himself on offering gourmet meals and gracious service at an affordable price.

“The bad guys still one step ahead of the posse?” Conlon asked, offering Driscoll a Macanudo.

“And then some,” Driscoll frowned, stuffing the cigar in his shirt pocket.

“Any truth to the rumor?”

“Which one?”

“That the police have made a breakthrough in the case.”

“Ah, that Matt Lauer report. He should stick to the Thanksgiving Day parade.”

The bartender returned with a frosty mug of Irish brew and placed it on the bar in front of the Lieutenant. “Why can't Monica Lewinsky make it as a surgeon?” he asked with a sardonic grin.

“I'll bite,” said Driscoll.

“Because she sucked as an intern,” came the reply.

A whisper of a smile creased Driscoll's face.

“You'll have to excuse our staff's highbrow sense of humor,” said Conlon. “It comes from cutting too many classes at Bartending 101.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of Driscoll's cell phone purring inside his breast pocket. The Lieutenant answered it.

Criminalist Ernie Haverstraw's voice echoed in his ear. “The DNA is back on the traces of skin and blood we found under the last victim's fingernails.”

“And?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“That I am. At Sullivan's.”

“You finished your drink?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You'd better order another. Make it a double.”

“Why? You don't like me sober?”

“Okay. Have it your way. The DNA is a perfect match to the male's blood on the torn fingernail we found entangled in the brake assembly of the bike.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Our male serial killer. Tell me something I don't know.”

“Like I said, Lieutenant, it's a perfect match to the male's blood. Only thing is, this DNA is female.”