The Screaming Room

Prologue

The rain had stopped. The afternoon sun had resumed its assault on rotting corn shocks, casting distorted shadows across the abandoned farm. A pair of cicadas sounded, silencing the chirping of the nearby sparrows, sending them into flight.

In the middle of the field, a sturdy youth stood silently, eyes fixed on a mound of fresh clay.

A rush of cool air stirred wisps of his ripened-wheat-colored hair. Bending down, he used a finger to inscribe the name ‘Gus’ in the collected soil.

A second youth, a female, approached. Can we go now, she asked, wearily. This is our tenth field and there’s nothing left of him to bury.

In a minute.

The girl looked around. Someone could be watching, you know.

Just need a minute.

Well, you’d better make it a quick one.

The youth’s eyes lingered on the newly formed grave. With a nod of satisfaction, he uprighted himself. As a smile lit his face, he used the heel of his boot to eradicate their victim’s name. Lovee, he said, may the bastard rest in peace.

You mean in pieces. Let’s go.

Chapter One

Cassie turned her head on the pillow as a sudden flash of light woke her.

What the hell are ya’ doing? she hollered. It’s two o’clock in the morning!

Her brother, Angus, who was sitting up in bed next to her, grinned, his attention riveted to the gleam coming off the three-quarter inch ball bearing he was holding between his thumb and index finger. The narrow beam of a pencil-thin flashlight had reflected off the ball’s chrome-like finish and shone directly onto her eyelid.

I liked you better when you got off pulling wings off o’ flies, she said, hiding her head under the pillow.

Angus, flashlight still directed at the ball bearing, brought his face to within inches of the tiny sphere, watching the reflection of his pupil open wider and wider, the closer he got. Hopelessly bored, and somewhat blind, he turned off the flashlight, slid his hand under the covers, and fondled his sister’s rump.

Not tonight, we ain’t, she said through clenched teeth. We got lots to do tomorrow. Get some sleep!

Angus slid out of bed, slipped into a pair of boxers, and ambled toward the door, opening it. A blast of warm air caressed his body. The sensation aroused him. He glanced over his shoulder. His sister was snoring. He pushed open the screen door, sat on the top step, and glanced upward. It was a cloudless night. The moon, just shy of full, cast shadows on the weeds and tall grass that surrounded home sweet home; a fitting salute, perhaps to what would begin at dawn. The thought of finally executing what they had planned, brought on a surge of adrenaline. He wouldn’t sleep. Unlike his sister, he’d stay up and wait out the darkness.

A slug, slithering toward him on the surface of the step, caught his attention.

I can kill you, little fella. But I won’t.

He had the urge to pet the small mollusk but decided instead to dabble his finger in the slime that trailed behind it. He brought it to his lips, applying it as a woman would lipstick.

Women. They fascinated Angus. Every curve. Every smell. Every everything. He planned on returning in his next life as one. He could feel what they feel. Think as they think. God! Even screw as they screw!

He heard a rustling. It was not the willow tree, which was as limp as he was. No, something was pushing through the grass. A deer perhaps. He hoped so. He liked the sound they made just before dying, after he stalked them and twisted their neck, snapping their cervical vertebrae.

There it was again!

The rustling.

Following the example of the snail, he slithered down the rickety steps and began his pursuit, certain his sister wouldn’t start their big day without him.

Chapter Two

The Greyhound’s Michelins groaned over the roadway scarred with jagged potholes. But Angus and Cassie didn’t let it interfere with their game. Despite the jostling, the plastic markers held firm, their bottoms magnetized to the shimmering surface of the game board. But the cards were a different story. Using an index finger, Angus pressed down on the ‘Time of Your Life’ deck while Cassie did the same to the ‘Pay the Piper’ pile, containing the cards tenaciously inside their holding trays.

Angus picked up the dice.

Cmon ‘ten’, he whispered, releasing the cubes which rolled across the board and settled as a ‘six’ and a ‘three’.

Close enough! he said, counting off nine squares on his trek along the path that meandered around and about the game’s playing field: a map of the City of New York featuring its landmarks.

That puts me on top o’ the town at the Empire Freakin’ State Building! He slammed down his blue marker on the prized square.

His action activated a tiny speaker embedded under the skyscraper’s icon, and music sounded, replete with vocals: Francis Albert Sinatra’s rendition of New York, New York.

He reached for a ‘Time of Your Life’ card.

Well, lookee here. I’ve just been awarded a three-hour shopping spree at Paragon Sports. And it entitles me to disregard the next ‘Pay the Piper Card’. He reached in his pocket and ran a finger across the blade.

Touching the weapon aroused him.

Cassie sneered. She palmed the dice and blew into her fist.

Mama needs a new pair o’ shoes, she said, letting loose the dice which skittered across the board settling as a ‘one’ and a ‘two’. Shit! I gotta pay the piper!

Cassie counted off the three squares. Angus handed her the ‘Pay the Piper’ card.

Read it and weep, he said.

Cassie’s lower lip jutted forward.

You’ve been caught shoplifting at Macy’s.

Lose a turn.

Hellhole of a city, she muttered.

Lemme show ya how it’s done. Angus reached for the dice for the first of his next two turns, his and the one she had lost.

The cubes clattered across the board. A ‘five’ and a ‘six’.

He eyed the board and counted off eleven squares.

I’m halfway through their beloved Kings County! C’mon on ‘Twelve’! He rattled the cubes in his hand.

Cassie groaned as a ‘double six’ rolled to a stop.

Yes! he cheered, reaching for his marker.

Hold it! she said, gesturing at the Greyhound’s rain-slicked window. The bus had entered the terminal and was coming to a stop. Remember what we said. Once the bus arrives, we set it all in motion at the tourist traps closest to our pieces.

Angus eyed the board and grinned.

Well, then, Coney Island’s my next stop.

And me? said Cassie. I get to start settling the score at the American Museum of Natural History.

Chapter Three

The sun cast slivers of light through the glass cupola of the American Museum of Natural History. Below the rotunda, Jurassic skeletons welcomed the sunrise.

A chime alerted the night watchman that his shift was over. It also prompted the electric illumination of all halls and galleries throughout the vast labyrinth. Light from halogen lamps flooded the museum revealing the Star of India, the world’s largest blue sapphire, the fossilized skeleton of the Turkana Boy, a one-point-six-million-year-old specimen of Homo erectus, along with countless other natural and cultural treasures.

At 10 A.M., a second chime sounded and the day watchman unlocked the massive entrance door. Within minutes, a swarm of seven-year-olds, chaperoned by field trip coordinator Harriet Robbins, poured into the marble-floored lobby shattering the repository’s silent solemnity with giggles and laughter.

Boys and girls, first we are going to visit Triassic Hall. Who can tell me what marked the Triassic Period? asked Miss Robbins.

Me! Me! Me! echoed a chorus of young voices.

OK, Elizabeth, tell the class.

It comes before the Jurassic Period. It’s when the first dinosaurs were born.

Very good, said Miss Robbins. She led the pack inside the enormous exhibit hall.

The children, with wide-open eyes, approached a pair of teratosaurus skeletons.

Our first meat eaters, Miss Robbins said.

Matthew, the know-it-all, strayed from the group, hoping to find a critter he had not yet encountered on his dinosaur CD-ROM. He drew near a towering montage of bones he knew to be the plateosaurus but what he saw between its legs didn’t fit. Maybe Miss Robbins could explain. He rejoined his classmates and tugged on the teacher’s skirt.

Matthew, do you need to go to the boy’s room?

No, Miss Robbins.

Then what is it?

Isn’t the plateosaurus a plant eater?

Of course it is.

The boy pointed his finger at the assemblage of bones.

Then how come that one’s got a dead lady coming out of its butt?

Chapter Four

For Marian Dougherty, Wednesday, June 4 was a special day. Not only was it her fifteenth birthday, but it was also the day she had promised she would try the new wonder drug with her main squeeze, Manuel Ortiz, the leader of a street gang known as the ‘Tiburones’.

It was ten o’clock in the morning. Marian and her two friends, Donna and Carmelita, were standing on Coney Island’s boardwalk clustered outside the Wonder Wheel’s ticket booth waiting for the ride to open. It appeared that Manny was a no-show. Could it be he was all talk and no go?

Marian, you got dissed, said Carmelita, hands on hips.

Dissed . . . dissed . . . dissed, Donna echoed.

No, I didn’t, the birthday girl gloated as her young Romeo in Nike T-shirt and Hilfiger jeans climbed the steps of the boardwalk and strutted toward them.

Marian shuddered in anticipation, having looked forward to this monumental step just as much as she feared it. But all her friends had already done the dope and she didn’t want to feel like a wimp.

Yo! I’m a walkin’ birthday present, Manuel boasted, sidling up next to the girls.

Your little honey’s afraid o’ heights, Manuel. You gonna cure her?

She’s in for a double dose of magic, Carmelita. She’s with the head of the Tiburones.

The teens watched as the machinist opened the gates allowing entrance to the giant Ferris wheel.

We’re in the red one! Marian hollered, rushing toward the empty cage, hoping her excitement didn’t make her look like a kid.

Yo, man! Today she learns how to fly, said Manuel to the ride’s engineer. This here’s a twenty. That should cover us all. And here’s an extra ten-spot, just for you. Make sure that red cage stays on top for a while.

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, 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-Ziploc in her fist.

Being on top with you is rush enough.

Howling like an arctic 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!

What? Didya’ 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 tee-shirt.

Hey, you! Get us down! screamed Manuel.

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

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

Chapter Five

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’ 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 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 John 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 Cedric 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’ 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 awaiting 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 amidst the clatter of rain pelting the monumental maples that surrounded the grave site:

Adieu.

Chapter Six

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 a sense of irreverence 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 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 grey and lifeless.

The other notable feature of Driscoll’s face was his lips— expressive, even when he was silent. In them, Colette discovered Driscoll’s tenderness. They did not belong to his Celtic jaw line. They were more Mediterranean, almost Middle Eastern and responded to his emotional states, expanding when contented, contracting under stress, 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!

Ssshh. 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 Seven

Angus sat on the cold slab of slate that encircled the top of the man-made well. They had done it. Finally done it. Yet, he didn’t feel satiated like he thought he would. Thoughts ran rampantly 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, accompanied 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 Eight

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 had been caught by a new homicide detective 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 Julie 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 make-shift 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