Read Online The Screaming Room by Thomas O'Callaghan - Free Book Online

Lightning filled the luminous sky, followed by a slow rumble of thunder that echoed through the graveyard. Driscoll thought it sounded like the drumroll that preceded an execution.
    Silence filled the cruiser’s cabin as the rain subsided. Driscoll opened the car door and was engulfed by cold and damp air. Heading for the gravesite, he noticed green moss had begun to obscure the headstone’s carved lettering. He used his handkerchief to scrape away the uninvited decay.
    â€œ Bonjour, ma cherie, ” he whispered to his bride, standing somberly before the mute stone. “Nicole, Daddy is here,” he added.
    Was it merely the wind that rustled the nearby willow or was his salutation being answered?
    He marveled at the sweeping motion of the tree, smiled, and returned his focus on the grave.
    â€œI miss you,” he said. “Both of you.” He leaned over and placed his hand on the damp granite stone as serendipitous thoughts whirled into a kaleidoscope of memories. He saw himself and Colette lounging on the open porch outside their Toliver’s Point bungalow; a wooden glider providing a view of an ocean varnished in moonlight. The liquid sounds of Debussy serenaded them, as notes from Nicole’s flute wafted through an open window.
    Without warning, the intrusive peal of a cell phone interrupted his reverie. He reached inside his breast pocket and turned the unit off. But it was too late. His daughter’s concert had ended and the vision had ceased.
    â€œGotta go,” he grumbled.
    Forcing a smile, he climbed behind the steering wheel of the Chevy and guided it along the winding road that led to the cemetery’s exit, taking note of the tombstones that stood like sentinels on either side. Too many lives lost, he thought, reaching the limestone pillars, where the security guard gave him his customary salute. Odd, even the dead need guarding, he said to himself as he veered the cruiser onto Saint Philip’s Drive.
    On the entrance ramp to the Meadowbrook Parkway, he remembered he had turned off his cell phone. He reached in his pocket and turned it back on. It rang almost immediately. He flipped it open.
    â€œDriscoll.”
    â€œLieutenant, I’ve been trying to reach you. Something wrong with your phone?” It was Thomlinson. He sounded anxious.
    â€œI was elsewhere. Whaddya got?”
    â€œThe DNA results are in on the nail.”
    â€œIt’s about time. Meet me in my office in forty-five minutes.”
    â€œWill do.”
    Â 
    When Driscoll arrived at his desk, he found Thomlinson seated beside it. Driscoll slid into his seat and unpocketed a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit one up.
    â€œThought you were off those things.”
    â€œI am,” he said, shooting Thomlinson a glare. “Let’s see what Forensics has to offer, shall we?”
    He reached for the secured file, broke its seal, and leafed through a score of typed pages.
    â€¦Complete search of the national DNA database produced no match.
    â€¦subject unidentified. “Now, that’s a surprise,” he quipped and read on.
    â€¦In conclusion, chromosomal scanning, utilizing standard Bayesian interpretation, suggests the subject to be Caucasian…Polymerase chain reaction-short tandem repeat methodology, reveals the subject to be male .
    â€œMale?” He lowered his brows and shot Thomlinson a puzzled look. “Why would he have used a ladies’ room at the museum? A place where he’d run the risk of being seen?” Driscoll stared long and hard at the italicized printing as if expecting it to change gender. When it didn’t, he used an index finger to circle the word. “Cedric, could we be we looking for some sort of cross-dresser?”
    â€œIt worked for Hadden Clark.” Thomlinson was referring to a notorious cross-dressing serial killer who had a penchant for wearing ladies’ clothing while perpetrating his madness.
    â€œWell, my friend, we