The Screaming Room (15 page)

Driscoll, having lost the coin toss, had a quandary. A comprehensive investigation leaves no doors unopened. But there was no evidence to indicate Abigail Shewster had been into sex with sixteen-year-olds, bizarre or otherwise. He didn't feel comfortable broaching the possibility with her father. He'd likely deny it, and Driscoll believed a man of Shewster's influence could have buried such a degradation on Mars. There was also the possibility that his daughter was a player but had managed to keep her father, and everyone else, in the dark. He'd only pursue it if evidence surfaced to support such a scandal.

Telephones had been ringing. The department's Tip Line, linked to Shewster's 800 number, thanks to the ever-accommodating Mayor, had every Tom, Dick, and Harry spewing knowledge of who Angus was, and they were eager to cash in on the big bucks. In Ann Harbor, Michigan, he was the Domino's Pizza delivery boy. In Titusville, Florida, a lifeguard. In Nashville, an usher at the Grand Ole Opry. And in Albuquerque, the tour guide on a Hopi reservation. He was everyone's next-door neighbor. The irony was he might be one of them.

Driscoll summoned Thomlinson and Margaret to his office.

“The possibility is that the twins could be anywhere in the country,” he said. “Coming in, making their hits, and hightailing it back home. Out of the forty-two calls that came in since the face made its debut, we've got three possibles in our neck of the woods. A night watchman's call from a halfway house over on Staten Island is one of them. He says one of the kids there had a meltdown when he saw the sketch on the tube. Number two is a clown from the Pie in the Sky Circus. Says the image is a good likeness to some guy they feature as The Thing, a circus hairy scary, of sorts. Without his costume and makeup, he's a dead ringer for our guy, says the caller. The third one has curiosity written all over it. A priest at Saint Barnabas Church in Brooklyn apparently broke the seal of confession by calling to say a member of his congregation confessed to the crimes.”

“That's a new one,” said Thomlinson. “Since when does a Catholic priest turn his back on a vow to help the police?”

“Good question. It's one I'll be sure to ask him.”

Saint Barnabas Church was a red stone building with three Gothic steeples towering over the southwestern entrance to Prospect Park, on a street lined with quaint boutiques and trattorias. The parish had gone through a gentrification that was underwritten by Keyspan, the local utility company. What once were tenements teeming with welfare recipients now housed dual-income professionals who traded mutual funds.

Cutting the Chevy's engine, Driscoll stepped out onto the sidewalk and proceeded toward the rectory, where the bell was answered by a matronly woman in a floral dress.

“May I help you?” she asked, in an Irish brogue.

“I'm Lieutenant Driscoll. I'm here to see Father Terhune.”

“Father Terhune is it? Well, the good father is in his study preparing a sermon. It wouldn't be wise to disturb him.”

“But we spoke on the phone. He'll want to see me.”

“And I'm tellin' ya he left instructions not to be disturbed.”

“Telling him I'm here would be the Christian thing to do, don't you think?”

“I suppose next you're gonna tell me you're an envoy from his Holiness, the Pope.”

“Even the Pope would be in favor of you interrupting Father Terhune,” said Driscoll, with a smile.

“You're a sly one, you are.” She motioned for him to come inside and pointed to a chair in the corner of a richly furnished room. “Have a seat, why don't ya? I'll see what I can do.”

Soon, Driscoll heard the sound of wheels in motion laboring down the corridor.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Driscoll. I'm Pat Terhune,” the priest said, rolling his wheelchair into the room. “I see you got past my sentry.”

“You're safe with her around.”

“Right you are about that.”

Father Terhune was clad entirely in black, save for an open clerical collar. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses framed kindly blue eyes set in a boyish face.

“Let me say it's an honor to meet you, Lieutenant. Your reputation for commendable police work makes you a hero to me and to all of my parishioners.”

“Thank you,” said Driscoll, handing Terhune the illustration. “Is this the youth you called about?”

“As sure as the day is long,” said the priest.

“Would you know his name, Father?”

“Everett Luxworth.”

“You're sure about this?”

“Quite.”

Driscoll sat back in his chair. “Forgive me for raising the question, Father, but I'd be remiss if I didn't ask it. Doesn't the confidentiality of the confessional prohibit you from speaking out?”

A soft smile formed on the priest's face. “He asked me to call you.”

“Luxworth?”

“The lad had been coming to see me, regularly, over the past few months. He considers me his therapist.”

Their conversation was interrupted as the sentinel reappeared with coffee.

“Cream and sugar?”

“A touch of cream. No sugar,” Driscoll said, annoyed at the loss of momentum.

“As I was saying, Lieutenant, Everett saw himself as my patient. We clerics handle our fair share of spiritual counseling, you know. In any case, he came to confession twice a week. He was troubled. He raised issues of self-respect and was seeking a way to get a handle on his anger. It was only when the image hit the newspaper and I confronted him with his likeness that he broke down and confessed to the killings. It was then he asked me to call the authorities. I told him I'm not here to sit in judgment. The church is not a law enforcement agency, I said. But he begged me to stop him. And told me if I didn't, he would kill again and that I alone had the power to save a soul that he was prepared to send to hell. It would be on my conscience if I didn't stop him, and the only way to stop him was to call the police. When he left the confessional, I felt it would be his last confession and that he would never return.”

“And so you placed the call.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where this Luxworth lives, Father?” Driscoll asked.

After staring at the Lieutenant for what seemed like minutes, he answered the question.

“Two-two-five Sussex.”

“Thank you,” Driscoll said, standing and preparing to leave. “Father, one last question. Does Luxworth have a sister?”

“I wouldn't know, Lieutenant. He never mentioned one.”

Driscoll wasn't banking on Father Terhune's information. He had met many a confessor on the job. And for some reason this one didn't feel right. Perhaps it was the absence of a sister acting in tandem. Driscoll wasn't sure why his instincts said no. But he'd have to track down the lead.

“Cedric, run an Everett Luxworth through the system and give me a call if you get a hit.” Driscoll folded his cell phone and headed for the suspect's residence.

225 Sussex was a two-story frame structure in need of maintenance. A cluster of mismatched mailboxes, hanging haphazardly near the front door, suggested it might be a single-room occupancy home. Its peeling paint and eroding gutters suggested that here, gentrification had missed its mark.

Driscoll approached the house, which was marked by a steel security gate more suited for the rear of a boiler room than a multiple family dwelling. Of the six weatherworn mailboxes, only three had names on them. None read “Luxworth.” Only two of six doorbells were labeled. Evans and Peterson. The word
super
appeared below Peterson, so that's the one he rang.

“Who's there?”

“Mr. Peterson?” Driscoll hollered. “May I have a word with you?”

Driscoll heard the shuffling of feet and the sound of another door opening inside the residence. In his mind he envisioned a balding man, clad in a soiled T-shirt, trudging along on falling arches. Peterson turned out to be a strikingly handsome man in his late thirties. He wore his well-groomed hair parted on the side. His eyes were Mel Gibson blue and he sported a mustache, trimmed in Clark Gable fashion. Clad in a shimmering white robe, he looked more like a movie star on a break than a superintendent of a run-down rooming house in Brooklyn.

“May I help you?”

“You Peterson?”

“That's me.” The man spoke in a theatrical, effeminate voice.

“Everett Luxworth. He live here?”

“Yes. With me. But you just missed him. He went down to the florist not five minutes ago.” The man smiled, showing off a dazzling set of pearly whites. “Love your suit.”

Driscoll figured Luxworth to be this man's live-in partner.

“What is it you want with Everett?”

“My name's Driscoll. Lieutenant John Driscoll. I'm with the New York City Police Department.”

“Would you like to wait inside?” Peterson asked, anxiety and curiosity piqued.

“That'd be fine.”

The interior of the apartment was a far cry from the house's drab exterior. The living room, its walls papered in lilac and fern, was elegantly furnished with a satin ottoman, facing matching love seats, as its centerpiece.

“Would you like some rose hip tea? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

“Why not?”

Peterson disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a Japanese lacquered tray supporting an earthenware pot and two clay mugs. He poured tea into Driscoll's cup and the two men took their seats, Driscoll on one love seat, Peterson on the other.

“Is Everett in some sort of trouble?” Peterson asked.

“I need to speak with him. Some routine questions.”

“He is in some kind of trouble, isn't he?”

The door opened and Luxworth stepped into the room holding a bouquet of fresh-cut carnations. He resembled the sketch. Not an exact match. But the resemblance was there, nonetheless. Driscoll had a sinking feeling. He doubted the man was Angus.

“I didn't know we were expecting company,” Luxworth said absently as he fussed with a Waterford vase. “There!” he said, happy with his floral display.

“Everett. Is there something you haven't told me?” Peterson asked.

“What do you mean?”

“This gentleman is Lieutenant Driscoll. He's from the police department and he's here to see you.”

“Me?” Luxworth said, alarm in his voice.

“Perhaps we should discuss this in private,” the Lieutenant suggested.

“We'll do nothing of the sort. Antoine stays right here!”

“Your call,” said Driscoll.

“Everett, have you been playing with matches again?”

“Matches? No. But I've been known to carry a torch or two.” Luxworth cast a sidelong glance at Peterson.

What was that all about? Was this guy an arsonist? Driscoll let the matter go unanswered, for now. “I'm here with some questions regarding the murder of several tourists in New York,” said Driscoll, eyes fixed on the suspect.

“I knew I saw your face before. You're
that
Lieutenant Driscoll! From the newscasts. Oh my,” said Peterson.

“That no-good son of a bitch of a priest,” Luxworth muttered, his eyes brimming with anger.

“This isn't a game, Luxworth. Several people have been killed. Father Terhune says you're to blame.”

“I didn't think he'd really tell on me! I wasn't serious when I told him to call the police.”

“Told him what?” asked Peterson.

Luxworth collapsed on the ottoman.

“Your roommate confessed to a series of brutal crimes,” said Driscoll.

“Everett, I thought we were beyond all that.”

“I'm so sorry, Antoine. I'm so sorry,” Luxworth sobbed.

“Sorry for what?” said Driscoll.

“Lieutenant, Everett suffers from depression. He has an inferiority complex as big as Texas! It makes him do anything—and I mean anything—to get attention. Even convincing a parish priest that he's the serial killer hunted by the police for killing those poor people. But my Everett wouldn't swat a mosquito. Everett, what am I to do with you?” Peterson cradled Luxworth in his arms.

Driscoll's cell phone sounded.

With his eyes fixed on the weeping Luxworth, Driscoll listened intently to what Cedric Thomlinson had to report. A minute later, the Lieutenant ended the call and turned to face Luxworth.

“Everett, just how was it you managed to kill all those people over the past twelve months if you were confined to the psychiatric ward of the Coxsackie mental health facility for setting trash cans ablaze? They didn't let you out until four months ago!”

“Thank you, God. Thank you,” said Peterson. “And this time you're to take all your medication. The Lexapro, the Wellbutrin,
and
the Zyprexa! Is that clear, Everett?”

“Okay,” whimpered Luxworth.

The Lieutenant chose not to dwell on the combination of medication. From conversations with his sister's pharmacist, he had become familiar with the drugs and what they were used for. He said a silent prayer for Luxworth as he headed for the door.

“Step right this way, ladies and gentlemen! Right this way! See the sword-eating Claudius and the tiger-faced lady! Right this way, ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages!” The circus barker stood behind his rainbow-colored podium at the entrance to the Midway, a corridor of wonders that led toward the circus's big top. “Our Midway is now open, ladies and gentlemen! And later tonight, our big top will open for the main event! A wonder of wonders! Not to be missed!”

The Pie in the Sky Circus was a traveling extravaganza that toured the East Coast, delivering weekends of joy and pleasure. Under three multicolored tents, it featured a “barrelful of clowns,” a troupe of trapeze artists, and a host of animal acts.

It was a bright Friday afternoon when Margaret arrived on the fairgrounds outside of Lester J. Coddinton Elementary School in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. The caller to the Tip Line, a clown named JellyBeans, had told the police to look for a red and yellow camper, just to the right of the big top.

Margaret walked to the camper and knocked on its door.

No one answered.

Just as she was about to knock again, a voice sounded.

“Who ya lookin' for?”

Margaret followed the voice to the back of the camper, where she found a wafer-thin midget seated on a stool.

“You JellyBeans?” she asked.

“Nope. Ya lookin' for work. Are ya?” said the little man.

“No. I'm looking for a clown. Goes by the name of JellyBeans.”

“Jelly's my friend. Whaddya want with him?”

“He's expecting me,” said the Sergeant.

“He's expecting you, is he?” The little man squinted as if examining the Trojan Horse.

“That's right. We spoke on the phone.”

“What's this all about?”

“It's personal,” said Margaret, amused.

“I'm on to you Immigration people, ya know. Always buttin' in and stirrin' up trouble. You people make me sick.”

“You gonna tell me where JellyBeans is or do I have to bust you for interfering in the investigation of a crime?” Margaret flashed the tin. JellyBeans! Good God!

“You callin' my friend a criminal? Come down off that high and mighty horse of yours, sister, and fight like a man!” The dwarf climbed down from his stool, not a simple task, and squatted, kung-fu style.

“You've gotta be kidding,” said Margaret, laughter now erupting. “Look. I'm not here to arrest anyone. I'm just here to ask your friend a few questions. Like I told you before, JellyBeans is expecting me.”

“Scared the pants off ya, didn't I?” the dwarf gloated.

“That ya did.”

“Well if you must know, my bestest friend, Jelly, is sleepin' it off right here in this camper. He drank buckets of swill last night and the show goes on in less than three hours.”

“Would it be asking too much to wake him for me? I'm asking this as a favor, mind you,” said Margaret, fighting the impulse to squat down to the little man's level.

“Well…okay,” said the dwarf. “Give him a minute to freshen up.”

The dwarf disappeared inside the camper. Shortly after that, he stuck his head outside.

“Da-da-da-dah! His highness, Lord Jellsworth, will see you in his royal chamber! Step right this way.” He held open a rusted screen door.

Margaret entered the narrow camper.

“Follow me!” the dwarf ordered, leading Margaret into what could only be described as the master bedroom. In miniature.

There, stretched across a diminutive bed, lay a second dwarf.

“Please, world, stop spinning,” he pleaded.

“I'm gonna brew us some fresh coffee, Jel. It'll fix ya right up,” the tiny man said. Then turning to Margaret, “How 'bout you, sweetums? Sorry, I didn't get your name.”

“Margaret. And, yes, I'd love some coffee.”

“Glad to meet ya,” the dwarf said, exiting. “They call me Hot Stuff.”

With a burst of energy, JellyBeans hoisted himself out of bed.

“Tough night?” asked Margaret.

“My birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday! You're the one who called the police, right?”

“Sure did!”

“Feel well enough to tell me about this guy they call The Thing?” Margaret asked.

“He done it.”

“He done what?”

“The killings. That's what he done. There's no hiding place for him now. Not with his mug all over the news.”

Margaret took out the sketch and handed it to JellyBeans.

“This the guy?”

“The spittin' image. Bragged about the murders, he did.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Where he always is this time of day, the rascal. In his cage! Look for the red tent.”

“And where would I find that?”

“At the top of the Midway.”

Margaret left just as Hot Stuff reappeared laden with a tray supporting three cups of coffee and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. The two would have to eat without her.

Outside, Margaret spotted the red tent and approached it. At its base, “The Thing” was inscribed on a wooden placard advertising the macabre oddity that was featured inside. Some curious thrill seekers had already gathered, waiting to be entertained by what was sure to be a ghastly experience.

The barker lectured the crowd. “The creature you're about to see once roamed the deserts of Arabia. He is the first of his kind to be captured alive. Do not trust your eyes, gentle visitor. For the manlike being is not human. He only assumes human shape to induce in you a sense of security and safety. Stare bravely into his eyes. Pay attention to his every move. For, if he feels you waver, he will change into an abomination, and before you can say ‘Boo!' he will feed off your very flesh. Be warned, this exhibit is not for those of you with coronary weaknesses. Pregnant women, and children who suffer from insomnia, should likewise avoid entering these fright-filled halls.” He pulled back a portion of the crimson curtain. “All other brave souls are now invited to enter. Once inside, follow the dimly lit arrows embedded in the stone floor. They will lead you to a wooden door that marks the entrance to his lair.”

They lined up to enter. When it came to Margaret's turn, the barker asked, “Have you listened closely to the warning, madam? Do you believe in the supernatural?”

“I do.” She lied.

“Are you prone to nightmares?”

“No. Are you?”

“Ghouls have been known to invade dreams.”

“Can't be any worse than my day job.”

“Enter, then, at your own risk,” he cautioned, gesturing theatrically toward the opening in the curtain.

Aligante did just that and followed the illuminated arrows, which led through a winding corridor. Howling and yelping sounds echoed around her. Some twenty feet in, she came upon the door, which opened automatically. She ducked inside and found herself in a small auditorium that had stadium seating. The crowd that had preceded her had already taken their seats. Margaret joined them. An eerie silence filled the theater, broken intermittently by the giggles of wide-eyed children.

A drum sounded, sending a chill through the audience. Lights came on, illuminating a small stage. In its center stood the barker holding a cattle prod.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your last warning,” he cautioned. “What you're about to witness will frighten the most courageous of men. Remember, The Thing is not of our world, nor, sadly enough, since his capture, his own. This creature belongs to a species long cursed by all of humanity, a living anathema to God. And mind you, he has not eaten human flesh since his nightly foraging in the Arabian desert, where he feasted on unfortunate nomads. But he can wait hundreds of years for his next meal. I further caution you, ladies and gentlemen, if you wear a cross, you are warned not to wear it inside your clothing. Display it boldly as an emblem of your faith. Your faith, the very essence of safe haven for you. An abomination for him.”

Several members of the audience followed his suggestion.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I will now lower the house lights so The Thing will be unable to see you. It is important, from here on out, that you remain absolutely silent. For your safety, he must believe that he is alone. And now the time has come for you to meet the demon. The demon from hell.”

Darkness ensued. A whisper of a melodious flute sounded as a yellow spotlight crept across center stage. As the light grew in intensity, The Thing became visible. The creature, appearing to be part lizard and part man, had batlike wings and a face like that of a gargoyle. It was perched on the branch of a tree, inside a large cage. Its left ankle was chained to the tree's trunk. The crowd was silent; not even a breath could be heard.

“Not bad at all,” Margaret muttered, sliding a stick of Wrigley's into her mouth.

The barker approached the cage, drawing a snarl from the creature. He tossed what appeared to be a leg of lamb into the cage.

A child, invisible in the darkness, whimpered, causing the creature to fix his stare in the direction of the sound. Leaping, the creature smashed hard against the reinforced bars of his cage. He bared his teeth, let loose a screech, and flayed the air with his claws. His eyes glowed with light.

“Oh, my God!” the child's mother cried.

A clash of drums and a flash of light. A curtain came tumbling down, separating the beast from the stunned audience.

The house lights came on and the crowd, still spellbound, spilled down from their seats and milled toward the door they had entered. Margaret lingered behind and approached the barker.

“I wish to speak to the ghoul.”

“Is your life so meaningless that you would risk such an encounter?”

“It is a remarkable act, I'll give you that. But an act nonetheless.” She flashed her shield.

“Come with me,” the barker said, begrudgingly, and escorted Margaret through a second maze of corridors. He knocked at a door, adorned by a paper star

“Open up. It's me,” he said. “You have company.”

“Why does he keep his door locked?” Margaret asked.

“Beats the hell out of me.”

There was a shuffle of footfalls followed by the sound of the lock disengaging.

“You're on your own,” said the barker.

“Whaddya want?” The Thing's voice snarled through a crack in the door.

Margaret produced her shield and poked it through the opening. “What say you and I get better acquainted?”

Margaret heard the chain fall. The door opened wide. She stood staring into the eyes of a wafer-thin figure, clad in a plaid bathrobe; his face was covered with cold cream. She thought of the sketch and tried to envision it covered in shaving gel.

“Who sent ya?”

“Why don't we step inside so we can talk?”

“Okay by me.”

She followed him into a dark room where a votive candle burned, casting ominous shadows on the walls. In the far corner, a twenty-five-watt bulb barely lit a vanity, complete with a large mirror. Margaret inhaled the aroma of marijuana.

“Weed. That explains the infrared eyes.”

“That's not my poison. Alfonzo smokes the dope. Not me.”

“Alfonzo?”

“The barker,” he said, using a towel to wipe away the facial cleanser.

Not a match, but close enough, thought Margaret, as his face emerged. She placed a hand on her Walther PPK firearm.

It was as though he had read her mind.

“Ah! I know why you're here. You think I'm the serial killer who knocked off those tourists. Which one of the trained monkeys turned me in?”

“You're telling me you're not our boy?”

“I spotted the likeness on the tube and thought I'd have some fun with the wee folk. C'mon, do I look like a killer?”

“In the costume or out?”

Margaret eyed him cautiously as he reached under the vanity and produced a copy of the
Daily News
with the sketch on its cover. “Boo!”

“Murder isn't funny.”

“Sorry.”

Margaret studied him. He appeared to be a little older than their profile, and her instinct suggested his Thing routine was as far as he had ever gotten toward aggression, but she did have a job to complete. “You know you'd save us both a lot of time and bother if you'd be willing to give us a sample of your DNA.”

“Blood, spit, or urine?”

“How 'bout you just say ‘ah' and let me swab the inside of your mouth?”

“You're the boss.”

Margaret collected the DNA sample. “You got a name?”

“Lance.”

“Lance what?”

“Robert Lance.”

Margaret used a felt-tip marker to label the DNA bag, then dated it and dropped it into her purse.

“That's it?” he said.

“What? You were expecting a nurse with a syringe?”

He shrugged.

“This specimen will do one of two things, Mr. Lance,” said Margaret, heading for the door. “It'll clear you or guess what?”

“What?”

“You'll get that syringe. But they'll call it lethal injection.”