The Screaming Room

by Thomas O'Callaghan

“You got it,” the handler said, sliding the cash into his jeans.

  “Marian, we’ll be right behind you. If you freeze and you wanna spit it out, don’t let him see ya do it.” Carmelita smiled and mouthed a “Happy Birthday” before joining Donna inside their own painted cage.

  “Yo! Let’s get this thing off the ground!” hollered Manuel, climbing in next to his darling.

  Gears engaged and metal whined as the giant Ferris wheel lifted the fun-seekers into the air.

  “So? You ready or what?” asked Manuel.

  Marian looked around. Her friends were in the cage behind them. “Ready!” she said.

  “Here it comes with a gift,” said Manuel.

  “Wow!” she said, putting on the earrings.

  “They ain’t no real diamonds. But they’re real crystal. Just like this.” He produced the packet of meth capsules.

  “Bein’ way up top’s gonna add to the rush.”

  Marian clenched the mini-ziplock in her fist.

  “Being on top with you is rush enough.”

  Howling like a wolf, Manuel wrapped his arm around his birthday girl and stared skyward.

  “Ready or not, here we come!” Marian hollered, then wished she hadn’t. I’m not a kid! Not no more! I’m gonna fly! I’m gonna fly! she heard an unconvincing internal voice cry out.

  The cage stopped, having reached its zenith. No one had come for the view.

  Marian turned her head. Panic seized her. “Let’s go back down,” she whimpered

  “Why? We just got here!”

  “There’s someone looking at us in the next cage!”

  “Whaddya—take somethin’ before we got on? That’s Carmelita and Donna!” pointing to the two wide-eyed teens in the cage behind them.

  “No!” Marian shouted. “The next car!”

  In the cage behind their friends a man sat like a propped-up marionette. There was a large gash on the side of his ashen face and red stains on his T-shirt.

  “Hey, you! Get us down!” screamed Manuel.

  “What’s he doing?” stammered Marian, her eyes fixed on the unexpected visitor.

  “He ain’t doin’ nothin’. I think he’s dead.”

  Chapter 5

  The weatherman on CNN had predicted a late spring shower the afternoon of June 4, 2006. But his prediction had not intimidated New York City Police Lieutenant John W. Driscoll, Detective Cedric Thomlinson, Sergeant Margaret Aligante, and the brass of One Police Plaza. They had gathered under threatening skies and were listening to Monsignor Norris’s final oration at the burial site of Driscoll’s wife, Colette, at Pinelawn Cemetery in New York’s Nassau County.

  The late Mrs. Driscoll had been comatose for six years, but the Lieutenant, nevertheless, had dreaded the reality that one day the electronic monitors would signal her death. The end came at 6:07 A.M. on Saturday, May 31, when for the first time in a long time, Colette experienced tranquility. She expired without fear or rattle, surrendering the spirit that had governed her body for the past forty-four years.

  Her parting brought a sense of finality to Driscoll, who had stayed married and loyal to his wife throughout the six long years of her unconsciousness. But her passing left an enormous void. And the unsought freedom riddled him with guilt and shame.

  A hand grabbed hold of Driscoll’s arm as the coffin was lowered into its freshly dug grave, where it would find its resting place alongside the couple’s predeceased daughter, Nicole. The hand was that of Detective Thomlinson, Driscoll’s long-term friend and confidant.

  “She’s finally at peace,” he said.

  As Colette’s coffin settled on moist clay, a gust of wind ravaged the funerary wreaths, scattering lilies and gentians across the finely trimmed lawn of the cemetery. Above the burial site, angry clouds continued their threat. A second gust accosted Monsignor Norris’s cassock, shuffling the pages of his leather-bound Bible. Within seconds, the sky ruptured, pelting the graveyard with wind-driven rain.

  “John…it’s time to go,” Thomlinson urged, nudging the Lieutenant.

  “Gimme a minute,” said Driscoll.

  Thomlinson nodded and hurried for the cover of his waiting automobile, leaving Driscoll behind.

  Alone, before the flooding grave, Driscoll stared down at the mahogany coffin that sealed his past.

  “Au revoir, ma cherie,” he whispered, his tears mixing with the rain. “I will miss you dearly.”

  As he turned and headed toward the line of gleaming automobiles, he thought he heard a whisper amid the clatter of rain pelting the monumental maples that surrounded the grave site:

  “Adieu.”

  Chapter 6

  Outside Porgie’s Place, a New Orleans–style jazz band welcomed the caravan of mourners with a fanfare of brass and conga drums.

  Inside, a sumptuous buffet offered specialties of the islands, while an adjoining table flaunted a variety of rums from the four corners of the Caribbean Sea.

  It was Trinidadian-born Thomlinson’s idea of a funerary feast. The only thing missing was a bevy of dancers in straw skirts. John Driscoll, an Irishman, was more accustomed to the somber reflection that followed the grim and mournful wakes he had attended during time spent as an altar server at Saint Saviour’s Roman Catholic Church in Park Slope, Brooklyn. He felt the gathering was irreverent but didn’t wish to offend his benefactor.

  “John, you gotta check this out,” Thomlinson said, approaching Driscoll, crystal tumbler in hand.

  “What is it?”

  “The cognac of rums. Bermudez! From the Dominican Republic. One taste of this and you’ll think you’re royalty.”

  Driscoll gave Thomlinson a sympathetic smile, for he knew his friend, a recovering alcoholic, would like very much to indulge. The Lieutenant took the glass, lifted it, and took a sip. The rum was suave, rich, and silky on his palate.

  “Damn! That’s good stuff!” he said.

  John Driscoll was the commanding officer of the NYPD’s Manhattan homicide squad. He carried his six-foot-two stature formidably, often intimidating adversaries without so much as a word. There was a swagger to his walk, not unlike Gary Cooper’s stride in High Noon. Precinct women found him irresistible, especially when they gazed into his enigmatic eyes. Colette, though, had found the key that unlocked their mystery. But after the automobile accident that sent her into a six-year coma, all agreed his eyes had become gray and lifeless.

  The other notable feature of Driscoll’s face were his lips, which were expressive, even when he was silent. In them, Colette discovered Driscoll’s tenderness. They did not belong to his Celtic jawline. They were more Mediterranean, almost Middle Eastern, and responded to his emotional states: expanding when contented, contracting under stress, and vibrating when anxious. Colette had learned to read his heart and transcribe his thoughts by observing the tremors.

  The Lieutenant was a snazzy dresser, often clad in a well-tailored jacket by Hickey Freeman or Hart Schaffner & Marx, with a pair of slacks by Joseph Abboud, a tie by Richell, and shoes by either Johnston and Murphy or Kenneth Cole. Halston 14, his wife’s favorite fragrance for men, had become his favorite as well. His fondness for upscale cologne and fine English tailoring had earned him the moniker Dapper John.

  And with Dapper John before him now, Thomlinson said, “It’s time to get it on with the cuisine of Jamaica, Lieutenant. This here is roti. It’s goat meat cooked with potatoes in a sauce of turmeric, coriander, allspice, and saffron. It really hits the spot! Here, try some.” Thomlinson handed Driscoll a bowl and filled it.

  Driscoll took a taste of the meal, inhaling its aroma. His friend was right. It was delicious. He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. When he turned, his eyes widened.

  “Mary!”

  “I’m sorry, John.”

  He embraced the woman. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

  “I decided this morning. This nonsense has got to stop. I’m your sister, for God’s sake!”

  “Sssh
h. Ssshh,” Driscoll whispered. He hadn’t let go. He continued to hold her, stroking her hair. “Ssshh. Ssshh.”

  When Mary Driscoll-Humphreys pulled back, her gentle round face was slathered with tears. She tried to speak. Although her mouth opened, she couldn’t produce a sound.

  “Come. Let’s sit.”

  Driscoll escorted his sister to a corner, where a gentleman in a suit was seated. He immediately stood and extended his hand. “You must be Mary. Your brother and I have been friends since the academy. I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Driscoll placed a supportive hand on his sister’s back. “This is Leonard DeCovney, Mary. He kept me in line through training.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” she replied. She had regained her voice and unfortunately continued to use it. “John, I need to go now. I’ll call you when school lets out.”

  The woman disappeared as silently as she had arrived, blowing her brother a kiss before the siblings lost sight of each other in the crowd.

  “How’s she doing?” DeCovney asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Driscoll.

  “She still taking…”

  Driscoll answered the incomplete question. “That’s what scares the hell out of me. I know she picks up her medication and that she refills it according to schedule because her pharmacist calls me. But does she take it? I honestly don’t know. Why don’t I know? Because, according to her therapist, she needs to be on her own as much as possible through what she describes as a phase. Nothing more. A phase. You wanna take a crack at what that means? I don’t.” Driscoll’s eyes narrowed. “I pray she knows what she’s doing.”

  “The therapist.”

  Driscoll nodded. “Mary changed the lock again. Added a couple more. I’m running up a tab at Ace Hardware having keys made. I should be the one on the medication.”

  “I don’t know about that. For a man who buried his wife today, you look like you’ve got a handle on things.”

  “I’ve had help. I think Colette’s been prepping me for Mary, who, inside her head, is finding it increasingly more difficult existing in the present. It tends to keep my feet firmly planted. It saddens me to think my sister will never feel a sense of prolonged attachment to anything.”

  “On that, my friend, I’d say you’re wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she has you.”

  “But between the two of us, I’m the only one who knows it. By the time she gets home, she won’t remember she was here.”

  “That may be so. But she knows how to find you. Which translates to—she has you.”

  Driscoll was deeply touched and somewhat relieved.

  “Come on, John. I’m buying.” Deputy Commissioner DeCovney led Driscoll over his bridge back to life and into a circle of friends.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “My door’s always open.”

  “I know.”

  When Driscoll rejoined Thomlinson, his anxiety was in check.

  Brooklyn’s borough commander, James Hanrahan, approached the two men with distraction in his eyes.

  “You gotta try this,” Hanrahan said, handing Driscoll a fork with a chunk of meat on it.

  “What is it?”

  “Jerk pork. It’s Jamaican.”

  Driscoll bit into the morsel.

  “Wow! That’s a three-alarm fire,” he sputtered, waving his hand in front of his mouth.

  “Give it a minute,” Hanrahan warned. “It’s got a helluva back draft.”

  “This is no brisket,” Driscoll managed, his mouth ablaze.

  A man in a dark suit walked up to the borough commander and handed Hanrahan a cell phone. “Chief, you’d better take this call,” he said.

  Hanrahan took the cell phone, his eyes narrowing as he listened to the caller. He then spoke directly and quietly into the phone. His communication complete, he turned to face Driscoll.

  “Looks like someone’s got it in for tourists.”

  “How so?” Driscoll asked.

  “Some kid spotted a dead Chinaman riding the Wonder Wheel in Coney Island while a second grader uncovered a second corpse at a dinosaur exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History. The body at the museum was set up to look like dinosaur dung. Her ID says she was from Berlin. Crime Scene thinks they may be linked because the cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma for both and their bodies were posed. And get this. Both vics were scalped.”

  “Scalped? That’s a new one,” said Driscoll, still fighting the fire inside his mouth.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Who caught the murders?”

  “Elizabeth Delgado. Brooklyn South Homicide. And Frank Reynolds from Manhattan North.”

  “Frank I know. Never heard of Delgado. She new?”

  “Transfer from Robbery.”

  “A homicide rookie. Glad I’m not on this one.”

  “What’s that you’re drinking?” Hanrahan asked.

  “Rum,” Driscoll answered, confused by Hanrahan’s sudden interest in his beverage.

  “I’d have another one, if I were you,” said the borough commander.

  “One’ll do fine,” said Driscoll, detecting an uncomfortable look on Hanrahan’s face. “Is there something you want to tell me, Jim? Who was that on the phone?”

  “We’re not about to discuss police business at your wife’s wake, for Chrissake!”

  “Police business is all I have right now. My wife’s at peace and I’m not about to sit home and stare at the walls. I’m gonna need distraction. Big time! And work will be just the ticket.”

  “You sure?”

  “Very.”

  “You’ve been assigned to the tourist homicides.”

  “Says who?”

  “Mayor Reirdon. That was him on the phone.”

  Chapter 7

  Angus sat on the cold slab of slate that encircled the top of the well. They had done it. Finally done it. Yet, he didn’t feel satiated like he thought he would. Thoughts ran rampant inside his head. That was the norm. His eyes were distracted, though, lost to the efforts of the orb-weaving spider that was crawling surreptitiously across its web. A nocturnal feeder, the spider. Angus appreciated that, for he, too, despite all that had happened, preferred the night and its often undetected happenings.

  He was born at night. Or so he had been told. A harsh night, bitter cold and unwelcome, was how his father had described it. “As unwelcome as you,” he’d scoff. His cruelest derision coming when he was drunk, which was nightly.

  Angus’s eyes were still fixed on the spider, but the timbre of Father’s voice bellowed in the recesses of his mind, unleashing uninvited memories.

  “Angus! You little bastard. Get in here!”

  “With another can of beer” was left unsaid, but I knew better than to rile the guy, and remembered, robotically, to stop at the fridge before entering the smoke-filled room where Father sat, eyes fixed on the black-and-white screen of the Emerson TV.

  “We’re not finished yet,” he reminded me with a sneer, causing me to tremble and often wet my pants. “And that sister of yours? I’ve got something real special in store for her!”

  Most nights the Budweiser worked to my advantage, acting as a soporific godsend. But only for the night. Another day would follow, giving way to another night. One more spell of darkness I’d need to live through, saddled with dread. And when the beer didn’t work its magic I’d be hauled into the godforsaken room behind the furnace, forced to strip, and climb atop a cold porcelain enamel-topped table.

  “Lay still, Angus. Don’t make me have to say it again.”

  Father would then reach for the rubbing alcohol and sanitize a portion of my skin. With the cold tabletop pressing hard against the side of my face, I eyed the row of shot glasses that held the assortment of inks. I cringed, feeling the touch of Father’s rough fingers as he applied the Vaseline. Next came the feel of the small stencil being placed on my body, acc
ompanied by the whirring sound the electric machine made when it was turned on.

  It was then that I closed my eyes and forced my thoughts to carry me to that faraway place where I wouldn’t feel the sting of the needles perforating my flesh.

  Chapter 8

  Three days had passed since Driscoll appealed to his boss, Captain Eddie Barrows, that he be allowed to tie up some loose ends on a prior case. Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t stay focused until he resolved it. Besides, the latest murders were being investigated by capable homicide detectives, and it was Driscoll’s feeling that they should stay there. It would give the rookie a chance to sharpen her teeth. So what if the victims were tourists? New York was full of them. His curiosity was piqued, though, by the scalping. What was that all about? He also wondered what the Mayor’s reaction would be to his resistance, but that thought would have to stay on hold. Right now, there were more pressing matters at hand. The Mayflower Moving Company had just completed packing all of Driscoll’s furnishings and personal belongings aboard their truck. It was time now to pay his last respects to the house that had served as his sanctuary for the past twelve years.

  He whistled the first few lines of “Time after Time,” turned his back on the moving truck, and climbed the three wooden steps to his porch. Sinatra’s rendition of Jule Stein’s love ballad had been his and Colette’s wedding song. Driscoll hummed or whistled the opening lines often.

  As he pushed open the front door to the Toliver’s Point bungalow, the sharpness of Betadine antiseptic and the sterile smell of bleached linen still hung in the air. What had once served as a makeshift intensive care unit for his comatose wife was now a barren room, reminding him of the hollowness of his own life. The hospital bed and the cluster of life support equipment were gone. It had been no small feat to convince an anxious hospital staff to agree to such an unorthodox arrangement as home care for a comatose patient. But that’s where Driscoll had wanted his wife. Home. Surrounded by her treasured paintings. And, after his acquisition of some pretty costly medical equipment, funded in part by Driscoll’s health insurance and supplemented by a sizable advance against his pension fund, Saint Matthew’s hospital had granted his wish.