The Screaming Room

by Thomas O'Callaghan

  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.

  Chapter 54

  Carbondale. Once the Pittsburgh of Sullivan County, it had been a bustling industrial town where men melted ore and forged steel. Proud smokestacks that had once billowed pitch into the Catskill sky now stood lethargic, their bricks covered with moss, their inner columns eaten away by rust.

  Margaret and Thomlinson had spent the better part of the morning flashing copies of the photo to every storekeeper on Maple Street, the heart of town. The hardware store manager and a cashier at Toys on Maple both thought the teen featured in the picture was Angus. They believed he resided with a sister, but neither the manager nor the cashier knew where.

  Driscoll, having left the Sheriff’s office with nada on the pair, was now inside Weatherley’s Hardware speaking with Fred Thurgood, the shop’s manager.

  “The kid’s been in here maybe two or three times, tops,” Thurgood said. “Paid cash every time.”

  “When was the last time he was in?”

  Thurgood scratched the back of his head. A human computer at work, thought Driscoll.

  “Hadda be a month ago. Maybe two.”

  “How is it you remember his name to be Angus?”

  “Came in with a girl, one time. Poor kid must have poked her nose inside a meat grinder. Disfigured. Ya know? Anyway, she screamed out his name like a banshee. Angus! Must have spotted a spider or something.”

  “Get her name?”

  “Nope.”

  “A last name for Angus?”

  Thurgood shook his head. “Wha’d the boy do?”

  “Plenty,” said Driscoll. “Wha’d he buy?”

  The storekeeper gave Driscoll a blank stare. It seemed to last a full sixty seconds. He then closed his eyes as if that would prompt faster recollection. The eyes shot open.

  “An ax sharpener! That’s what he bought. An ax sharpener.”

  Driscoll thanked the man, exited Weatherley’s, and headed for Toys on Maple, where a second retailer had ID’d the photo. He was greeted by a haggard gent, bib overalls draping a frail figure.

  “Help ya?”

  Driscoll produced the photo. “You the one who ID’d this fella?”

  “You must be the cop lookin’ for Prudence. Followin’ up on the brunette cutie, are ya?”

  He must have met Margaret. The old codger. “Right,” he said.

  “I’ll go get her. I won’t be but a minute. You wait right here.” He disappeared through a door at the rear of the store.

  The sound of the woman’s voice preceded her entrance. Driscoll’s eyes soon focused on a redhead with dazzling green eyes. He figured her for twenty, twenty-one.

  “Are you here to see me?” she asked.

  “You the young lady who recognized the teen in this photo?”

  “That’s Angus. Where’d you get that?”

  Driscoll caught something in the tone of her question. More than recognition registered in those glittering eyes. “You sound as though you know him. Do you?”

  The question broadsided her.

  “No,” she stuttered.

  She was concealing something.

  “You wouldn’t be in any trouble if you did.”

  Driscoll watched her. Her blank stare was replaced with the look of agitation.

  “I knew it! I just knew it!”

  “Knew what?”

  “That the cheating bastard would get himself into some kind of trouble.”

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Seventeen.”

  Clarity surfaced.

  “You’d be doing him a favor if you told me what you know about him.”

  “Can we talk outside?”

  Driscoll spotted Old Baggy Bibs peeking from behind the rear door. “Sure.”

  When they reached the curb, the teen leaned against a parked Buick and faced Driscoll.

  “Ya wanna hear it from the top?”

  “Why don’t we start with your name?”

  “Sally. Sally Potter.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sally.” Driscoll extended his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Driscoll.”

  “Okay. What I know about him. First off, our relationship, if ya wanna call it that, was like being on a rollercoaster with a stranger. The guy was distant. Seemed to have difficulty connecting. And the rollercoaster part. One minute he was up. And I’m talkin’ up! Like he was on some sorta drug. Then wham! The bottom falls out and he’s down, ‘I wanna kill myself’ kinda down. I don’t think he ever tried it, but with him anything was possible.”

  “Did you ever see him use drugs?”

  “That’s the thing. He wouldn’t take a sipa beer, for Chrissake! I doubt if he was using. Never did with me. But the mood swings had me wondering.”

  “How long the two of you been seeing each other?”

  “On and off for a few months. Like I said, it wasn’t what you’d call a regular thing. Hell, we never even—” She stopped abruptly. Driscoll wasn’t surprised. He’d found that most teens weren’t comfortable sharing intimate details with adults. More so when that adult was a cop she’d just met.

  “What don’t we see in the picture?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “In it, he’s wearing a hood. Did he keep his hair long or short?”

  “Somewhere between the two. The photo hides it, but his hair is blond.”

  “How tall is he?”

  “About five-eight.”

  “Any distinguishing marks?”

  “You mean like moles or freckles? Things like that?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No. He didn’t have any. His complexion was better than mine.”

  “How ’bout the rest of him?”

  She became flushed. “Um…” A half smile. “This is sort of embarrassing.”

  A fatherly smile told her he understood.

  “He kept his clothes on,” she said. “Always! Even when—” She stopped short again.

  Driscoll waited.

  “It could be ninety freakin’ degrees out and he’d be in pants, socks, shoes, and a long-sleeved shirt. Buttoned. To the neck!”

  What’s he hiding? Driscoll wondered.

  “Nothing was ever…what you’d call regular with Angus. Every time I turned around, he and his sister were either headin’ outta town or coming back.”

  “Ever tell you where they went?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “I guess like him.”

  “You never saw her?” Driscoll found that surprising. Surprising and disappointing. He watched as anxiety collected on the girl’s face.

  “He’s in a heap of trouble, isn’t he?”

  “He could be.”

  Silence settled. But not for long.

  “With his sister! Can you believe it? He dodged having sex with me. But he goes and does his goddamn sister!”

  Driscoll believed that if Angus had gone through half o
f what he had claimed, elective sex would be the last thing on his mind, but he wasn’t going to let Potter know what he was thinking. Instead, he’d rely on the adage about hell having no fury as a woman scorned. It’d just be a matter of time before she erupted. In the meantime, he’d light some fuses.

  “You may have heard about the killing spree in New York City.”

  “Jesus! Is he wanted in connection with that?”

  Driscoll’s expression said “you tell me.”

  “Figures. The guy was whack city.”

  “Sally, you’re in a position to help us stop the killings.”

  The teen narrowed her eyes. Driscoll sensed she was still reeling with jealousy and rage. He waited for that fury to ignite. His wait was short. With her eyes still tapered like a honing blade, she gave him up, feeling like she was a descendant of Judas Iscariot.

  Chapter 55

  Sally Potter wasn’t much help in providing a last name for the twins. When asked, she said Angus told her it was LTB. At first, Driscoll thought the letters may have some Native American significance. That notion ceased when Sally explained LTB meant Like The Beef. Angus Like The Beef was clearly fond of games.

  But she had told him where they lived.

  The clapboard one-story house sat under a sprawling willow, fifty yards in from a dirt road, some six miles from the outskirts of town. Well hidden. Weathered plywood covered the windows and a 1962 Plymouth Belvedere was decomposing by its side.

  The tall grass that helped conceal the residence was now matted down by a twenty-man Sullivan County SWAT team that was sitting tight and awaiting Driscoll’s orders.

  The Lieutenant, armed with an arrest warrant, radioed Thomlinson, who was in place with Margaret, some thirty yards away. On Driscoll’s orders, two SWAT team officers, armed with a three-foot battering ram, stormed up rickety steps and charged the door. A barrage of armor-clad policemen hustled inside, machine guns at the ready.