The Screaming Room (11 page)

An anonymous 911 caller had brought the police to Strawberry Fields, a two-and-a-half-acre tear-shaped landscape inside Central Park. The well-manicured expanse had been dedicated to the memory of the slain music icon John Lennon, who lived and died a stone's throw away at the Dakota on West Seventy-second. The site boasted a bronze plaque listing 121 countries that endorsed the area as a Garden of Peace. Driscoll pondered the incongruity as he stared into the face of the city's latest victim, propped, marionette-like, against a bald cypress that marked the sanctuary's northern perimeter. Dead eyes, open and sullen, returned his gaze.

“She's been dead eight to ten hours.” It was the voice of Medical Examiner Larry Pearsol, who had sidled up next to Driscoll. “No defensive wounds or evidence of sexual assault. ID has her as Antonia Fucilla, from Tuscany. What she's doing inside a New York City park, alone, after dark is what I want to know.”

“She wasn't alone,” said Driscoll, tracing a gloved finger along the linear head wound made by the killer's weapon. His frustration was escalating. He turned and barked orders at the flock of Crime Scene detectives. “I want every inch of ground swept within a hundred-foot radius. Cigarette butts, gum wrappers, food containers, the goddamn soil if it looks out of place. Anything! You find a snipped fingernail, I want it bagged.”

“Whaddya make of the scalping?” asked Pearsol, eyes on the ravaged head.

“Serial killers are collectors, Larry. But I'm betting these scalps are more than just a trophy. These lunatics are doing something with them. Though I'll be damned if I can figure out what that is.”

“The Indians used to post them on a stick.”

“I know. Nineteenth-century machismo in the Wild Wild West.”

Margaret approached, wearing a smug look. “The vic's got surprise painted on her face and my money says the killer put it there.”

“These killers are no Picassos.”

“They think they are. They're posing the bodies, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, someone's supposed to get their message.”

“Meaning?”

“Follow me on this one. The woman at the museum is shoved up the ass of a dinosaur. Our vic on the Wonder Wheel gets taken for a ride. They prop a guy from Kamikaze Central inside the cockpit of an American fighter plane for Chrissake! This pair is doling out humiliation. God knows what they had planned for the German on the bridge because the killing was interrupted and how they posed Miss Moneybags at the zoo is anybody's guess 'cause she did a Humpty-Dumpty.”

“That'd take careful planning and a lot of smarts,” said Pearsol.

“We may be dealing with psychos. But nobody said they had to be stupid. They've got an agenda, these two. I say it's spearheaded by vengeance.”

“You may be right,” Driscoll said, impressed with Margaret's insight.

“It's textbook. Ask any profiler and he'll tell you these killers are inflicting punishment to match the way they were punished. Look at her,” she said, motioning to the murdered woman. “There's no evidence of a struggle. She knew her killer.”

“That'd give us motive and would indicate the killings weren't random. You know? I think you are right! We've been looking at these attacks from the wrong side. Sure! The answer may lie in what the victims had in common. Margaret, I could kiss you.”

“For now, I'm gonna settle for a pat on the back,” she said, hoping her angst wasn't showing.

“I had placed a call to the West Virginia Department of Health and Human Resources making an inquiry about this Raven's Breath ever being part of their foster care system. A Cynthia Travis there said she'd check into it.” It was Margaret on the phone. She sounded excited. Driscoll listened intently to what she had to say. “The woman just called back, said she'd found no records in foster care but had run the name through other state agencies. On the line with her, by way of a conference call, was Pauline Curley of the North American Registry of Midwives. Her search shows a Raven's Breath as being a midwife in 1991, residing on the Catawba Indian Reservation outside of Oak Flat. Cedric's news article, which ID'd her as the pair's foster parent, indicated the twins were five in 1996. The numbers add up. She probably was the midwife who assisted in their birth!”

“Great work, Sergeant. I'd say it's time to have a powwow with the Indians. While I'm gone, I want you and Cedric to check into the backgrounds of the vics. We'll run with your theory. See if they share anything in common that would warrant a set of twins wanting them dead.”

“On it.”

Driscoll wasn't fond of flying. Once the aircraft came to a complete stop on a regional airfield outside of Healing Springs, Virginia, he stood and grabbed his carry-on luggage. Anxious to get on with the investigation, he stepped onto the tarmac and headed for the Avis Car Rental Booth to secure the Dodge Intrepid he had reserved.

Traveling north on Route 220, he paralleled the Allegheny Mountains. The sun had climbed high in the sky, casting shadows on the red clay and evergreen mix that made up the countryside. He crossed the border into West Virginia at a town called Harper. It boasted a convenience store, an Exxon station, a single-screen movie theater, and a bait-and-tackle shop. Driscoll followed the instructions of a gas station attendant and climbed the side of the mountain into Oak Flat, destined for the Catawba Indian Reservation, which spread for two miles beyond the northern edge of town.

It was nearing 3:00
P.M
. when the Lieutenant parked the rental beside a pine cabin that appeared to serve as the reservation's produce market and general store. It also marked the entrance to the Catawba land. Driscoll stepped inside. On the far wall hung a four-foot stretch of leather that was adorned with a painted buffalo head.

“Welcome,” the Native American shopkeeper said.

Driscoll took note of the necklace the man was wearing. A string of bear claws. Levi's and a well-worn plaid flannel shirt clung to the man's angular frame. Around his forehead he wore a red bandanna, the color of blood. What concerned Driscoll, though, was that he was loading a handful of bullets into a Winchester rifle. “Going hunting?” he asked.

“For deer,” the man replied. “The name's Bill Waters.” He offered his hand. “You?”

“Driscoll. I'm also hunting.”

“On Catawba land?”

“For Raven's Breath.”

“Why? Did she do something wrong?”

“She delivered babies. No?”

“Nothing wrong with that. What do you want with Raven's Breath? You're police, right?”

“Adoption service,” Driscoll lied, not wishing to cause alarm. “I simply wish to talk with her.”

Waters ran his hand down the carved wood of the Winchester rifle, then doused it with an oil-soaked rag.

“What is it you need to talk with her about?”

“Babies.”

“I'm afraid you won't find her here.”

“Where would I find her?”

“Many miles away.”

“In which direction?”

“Down. Six feet. She's buried in Blue Ridge Cemetery.”

“Oh, I see. I'm sorry.”

Waters nodded.

“Someone must have kept records of the births. Do you know who that might have been?”

“Raven's Breath had a daughter. Taniqua. You can speak with her. She lives here, on the reservation. Look for a small house up the road with a thatched roof.”

“Thank you.”

 

The woman who answered the door appeared to be in her late thirties, sporting a denim shirt over faded jeans. On her feet, she wore a pair of hand-sewn moccasins.

“I'm John Driscoll,” he announced. “Are you Taniqua?”

“Yes, I'm Taniqua.”

Driscoll sensed her reserve. He had experienced it before, many times. But always as a policeman. How would someone from an adoption agency react? Dressed in khakis and an Izod? He'd have to wing it.

“I understand your mother was Raven's Breath and that she was a midwife.”

“Yes. That's true.”

“I'm from the Mid-Atlantic Adoption Agency. I'm seeking information on a set of twins your mother may have delivered.”

The woman flinched. Driscoll caught it.

“Please, come inside.” Taniqua walked inside the small house, Driscoll trailing in behind her. The woman sat at a loom and resumed her weaving.

“What is it you're making?” he asked.

“A shroud.”

“Someone die?”

“No. But someone will this week. Their burial cloak must be ready.” She gestured for Driscoll to take a seat. “What is it you'd like to know?”

She was deeply guarded now. Her eyes searched Driscoll's face.

“I'd like to start by asking you some questions about your mother.”

“My mother? My mother is dead.”

“I'm very sorry for your loss. I'm interested in some children…”

“Does this involve a white man's adoption?”

“Something like that.”

The woman continued her weaving.

“We believe your mother was the midwife for a set of twins born sixteen years ago. A boy and a girl. Did she keep records of her deliveries?”

“No,” she answered, but Driscoll read worry in her face. She used a set of shears to cut the end off a length of yarn.

“This cloak is for a baby,” she sighed. “Our infant mortality rate is forty percent higher than the white man's. The nearest pediatrician is thirty miles away. But even he would be of little help now.”

Driscoll read the sadness in her face.

After a moment, he continued. “The twins were Angus and Cassie Claxonn.”

Taniqua flinched. Again, Driscoll caught it

“March 1991. You were what? Twenty? Twenty-five? Surely, you'd remember.”

“I don't,” said the woman.

Driscoll knew she was lying. He wondered why.

“These were twins, Taniqua. You must remember twins being born.”

“The only thing I remember about my twenties was dropping out of school and getting high on peyote.”

A silence passed between the two. It was Taniqua, oddly enough, who broke it.

“Maybe they were born at the hospital in Franklin,” she said.

“Did your mother work there?”

“Yes,” said Taniqua. “Your white twins must have been born there.”

Although Driscoll was certain the woman was hiding something, he left her to her weaving.

Driscoll headed over to Franklin Medical Center, where his reception wasn't warm. In condescending fashion, the administrator made it clear that employment records were confidential. As he stepped out of her office, an attractive secretary silently mouthed: “Never worked here,” and handed him a flyer for Prilosec. On its back was scrawled “Sheryl–304-358-7038.”

Climbing into the rented Dodge, he tapped the flyer on the steering wheel and grinned. He checked his watch. It was nearing five-thirty and he was hungry. What he needed was a solid meal before heading south to the motel holding his reservation for an overnight stay.

He headed east, toward Oak Flat, where he discovered that Main Street was a pit stop for U.S. Route 33. It featured a Mobil gas station, the Duck Inn Whiskey Emporium, and Luellen's Diner. He pulled up in front of Luellen's. Inside, the metal walls and a string of steel stools lining a Formica-topped counter reminded Driscoll of Norman Rockwell's “The Runaway,” where a freckled-face truant was being treated to an ice cream cone by a policeman. Driscoll straddled one of the stools and looked around. A buxom gal, with the name MaryLou embroidered on her apron, cast a wink at the gent she had been flirting with and sashayed over.

“Hi there,” she said, sliding a glass of water, a paper napkin, and a set of eating utensils onto the counter. “What'll it be?”

“How's the beef stew?” Driscoll asked, looking at a blackboard featuring the menu.

“Chock-full of garden fresh veggies.”

He gave her a nod.

MaryLou poured a ladleful of the stew into a bowl and placed it before Driscoll. “You'll be wantin' crackers with that,” she said, placing a handful of Saltines next to his meal.

Driscoll took out the area map he had been given by the Avis attendant, palmed it flat across the counter, and found Sugar Grove, where he'd spend the night. His actions were watched intently by two of the locals, who were seated in a nearby booth, sipping from bottles of Rolling Rock beer.

“Can I expect any traffic on Route 21 this time of day?” Driscoll asked MaryLou.

“You are definitely an out-of-towner,” she said. “Where ya headin'?”

“Sugar Grove.”

The sound of a whining dog interrupted them.

“Orville, that damn mongrel of yours is loose again.” MaryLou cast a glare at one of the beer-guzzling duo. “He puts his paw through that screen door one more time, I'm gonna shoot his ass off.”

Orville bolted for the door.

His partner, who looked like the scarecrow from
The Wizard of Oz
, eyed the contents of Orville's beer bottle. After a quick look outside, he downed half of what remained.

Orville returned from tying up his dog and eyed Driscoll and his map. He glanced at his buddy and grinned, displaying incomplete rows of nicotine-stained teeth.

Sensing a scene, MaryLou glared at the drunk. “Go on. Get back to your booth before ya get yourself into trouble.”

Orville cast a threatening glare at Driscoll before following her instructions.

“Pay no mind to those two idiots,” MaryLou said, eyeing Driscoll's designer khakis and Izod shirt. “What brings a snazzy dresser like you to Oak Flat?”

“I'm looking for a set of twins. Teenagers. A boy and a girl.”

“What'd they do?” she asked, sensing he was either a cop or a private investigator.

“Plenty! We're talkin' one bad pair.”

“It's them drugs, ya know. It's all the rage, now. Teenagers, huh? How old?”

“Sixteen or so.”

“Well, I dunno if it'd help any, but a number of years back, maybe ten, there was a seta twins down here that fit that bill.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Two blond kids. A boy and a girl, like you said. Spittin' images. They lived on the Indian reservation. Cute little buggers, they were.”

“You sure they lived on the reservation?”

“Sure as there're carrots in the stew.”