The Scream Catcher Page 6

“Don’t you think you fucked up my business enough for one day?” he sneers, making a direct reference to Lennox’s morning arrest inside the video gaming establishment.

  Wild Bill is seething, big blue eyes wide and wet. He’s dressed in blue jeans, motorcycle boots, leather vest, no shirt to hide the purple artery popping out of his neck. Gripped in his fisted right hand, the folded Prosecutor’s summons for the big man to appear in county court in the matter of Lennox’s arraignment. Or so Jude deduces.

  The three-way stare-down might continue forever.

  That is, until Project Night Fright’s Tighty Whitey lets loose with a scream. The scream seems to have no effect on the adolescent first person player. But it stands the hair up on the back of Jude’s neck.

  The scream catcher.

  “My son and I are conducting a little prep before we’re due in court,” Mack says. “Didn’t think you’d have any objections, Bill.”

  The still alive Tighty Whitey lets loose with another scream before collapsing like a house of cards in a windstorm. He falls to the floor, a flood of computer-animated blood spilling out from underneath the torso.

  YOU WIN! flashes triumphantly across the vid screen.

  Big blood red letters.

  “Damn right,” exclaims the excitable boy as he digs into his jeans pocket for another four quarters, slips them out one at a time, slides them into the machine’s narrow mouth.

  Cold, hard, U.S. currency: the fuel that feeds the beast.

  Jude approaches the kid, sets a hand on his narrow shoulder.

  “Tell me,” he says. “What exactly did you win?”

  Kid, with hands still gripping the controls, fingers positioned above the colorful buttons, shrugs the hand off, throws Jude a cockeyed glance like, you must be out of your mind to ask such a stupid question.

  In video land, a new game pops up, locked and loaded.

  A clean slate. A new opportunity for another murder.

  And wonder of wonders, Tighty Whitey is alive and not-so-well again. But then the badass, dark man is right on his tail, firing round after round from his shotgun.

  Soon, Tighty Whitey will scream again, and he will die again.

  And for what?

  Jude feels suddenly queasy, lightheaded. How much murder can one man be expected to witness in the course of a single morning?

  “Let’s get out of here, Mack,” he says, pushing himself past the boy player, past Wild Bill.

  “I’m right behind you,” Mack confirms.

  Heading for the exit, the old Captain tosses a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the four-square Wild Bill Stark.

  “Don’t be late for court, Billy,” he says.

  Together, Jude and Mack cross a busy Main Street, past diagonally parked cars and motorcycles, past electronic parking meters, through heavy two-way traffic, through waves of summer tourists to the lake side of the street and the new eight-story courthouse. When they make the stairs up to its front portico, Jude about-faces, gazes up at the summit of Tongue Mountain. On that clear day, the summit looms large and foreboding above the village rooftops. While people in suits come and go through the front revolving glass door, Jude looks into his father’s gray eyes.

  “A serial killer loose in beautiful Lake George,” he says. “I seem to have missed all this murder and mayhem on the local news.”

  “How many times you make it up from New York in the past four years,” Mack points out. “And did I mention the fact that prior to the dismissal of Lennox’s last indictment proceedings, our gorgeous county prosecutor petitioned the court for a gag order and got one? We could not give the media the chance to create a panic over Lake George’s first serial killer.” Turning towards the village, its waves of tourists. “Take a look at all those people lined up on Main Street, Jude. This town—my paycheck, Blanchfield’s paycheck, your pension—survives and depends upon the tourism industry. On another level, you can’t allow the media to encourage a man like Lennox with all kinds of print and electronic publicity, give him a reason or reasons for killing again. Silence and secrecy are the golden rules.”

  “Go back four years,” Jude says. “If you were convinced Lennox was your killer, why allow him to roam free even after an indictment was dropped?”

  Mack, exhaling, frustrated. Hard face turning a distinct shade of red.

  It’s obvious Jude has struck a raw nerve or pulled back the scab on an old wound anyway.

  “You had to ask it, didn’t you?” the old Captain smirks.

  The ex-cop feels caught off guard. Maybe he’s no right to pry into Mack’s business. Even if Mack is his stepfather.

  The old Captain breathes in, breathes out. “Lennox left town immediately upon his release. Left town, left the country, disappeared. Interpol tracked him for a time until they lost him for good. When the second murder was discovered along the Hudson a couple years later, we couldn’t even be sure that Lennox was responsible. Like I said, the crime scene was a riverbank. The only thing linking him to the murder was method.”

  “Pepper-ball welts and two .22 caliber slugs,” Jude intuits, mind shifting back to Project Night Fright.

  “Doesn’t mean he did it.”

  “But you knew it had to be him, didn’t you?”

  “I knew in my heart it had to be him. It smelled too much like him—his M.O.”

  “But he got away again, got away with abduction and murder in the first degree.”

  “Yes, he got away. He’s the fucking magician, the master of disguise, the plastic surgeons cream dream. A masked Lennox could have been right under our noses and we wouldn’t have known it was him.” Hand outstretched, pointing to the busy Main Street and the mobs of colorful people that occupy it. “Just look at that crowd. You don’t even have to try and lose yourself in it.”

  “But if Lennox was cleared prior to a Grand Jury hearing, you might have kept tabs on him regardless. You could have gotten the FBI or Interpol to monitor his phone calls.”

  Uncomfortable silence ensues while a sweet breeze blows off the lake, through Jude’s now dry sweats. The prodigal son can’t help but feel like he’s stomping on his father’s Achilles heel. The silence, the old Captain’s obvious frustration . . . It tells Jude there’s something else to the back-story of Hector Lennox.

  “Lennox beat a murder rap,” Mack speaks up. “Beat the rap and it was something I had to accept as the Chief of Detectives. If I could have, I would have arrested him for Jay-walking. But not only was he invisible, and probably long gone from Lake George, but I was issued strict orders from Prosecutor Blanchfield to avoid harassing him. He’ll fuck up again, I was told. When he does, we’ll pounce on him like a fox on a rabbit.” Nibbling the lower lip. “And then along comes an obit published in a Paris newspaper claiming the death of Hector Lennox, an American, originating from West Hollywood, USA. Iraq War Vet, computer wiz, video game designer.”

  …Don’t forget scream catcher…

  Jude, shaking his head.

  “That body he left in Sweeney’s parking lot this morning,” he says. “Is that the fuck up the Prosecutor’s been waiting for? Another human life?”

  But of course Mack can’t answer that.

  No way he can answer it.

  In a way, Jude can’t blame his father; can’t help but commiserate with his frustration. Because who is Jude to begin questioning his father’s methods?

  As a former cop, Jude knows that if Mack is speaking the truth—that his hands were essentially tied in the matter of Hector “the Black Dragon” Lennox due to what sounded like an overly cautious county prosecutor, then there wasn’t a damn thing Mack could have done about it. Only seventy percent of homicide arrests result in an indictment. Jude supposes that Lennox’s original case and the riverside murder that followed falls in with the unsolved and/or un-prosecuted thirty percent.

  Until now, that is.

  Mack heads for the revolving courthouse door.

  “We gotta go.”

  Jude fig
hts back a surge of acid that shoots up from his stomach, settles in the back of his throat like red hot charcoal. He’s about to put himself on the line by testifying against a suspected serial killer. He can’t imagine that Mack would steer him wrong, put him in danger. Jude can’t imagine that once faced with an indictment for a second time, Lennox would get off again. This time the prosecution will have both an eyewitness and the proper forensics to back up their cause.

  Or so one can only hope.

  The way Jude sees it, Mack wants the creep so badly he can taste it.

  Jude peers back up at the mountain, at the sharp peak that stabs its way through the wispy white clouds.

  “Now, Jude,” Mack presses.

  Like he’s been doing since he was a boy, Jude follows his father’s lead.

  This time into a courthouse.

  Warren County Courthouse

  Tuesday, 1:15 P.M.

  The man Jude Parish knows as Hector “The Black Dragon” Lennox, but who now I.D.’s himself as house painter Christian Barter, stands before the Judge’s bench. He’s tall, bulky, blond, clad not in the orange jumper of the Warren County lock-up, but allowed to sport the clothes already on his back—white basketball sneakers, baggy Carhardt pants hanging low on narrow hips, too-tight T-shirt bearing the likeness of Jesus Christ. Clothing that for some judges might be considered a mockery of their court.

  But not for the Honorable Judge Gerry Mann.

  The old gaunt-faced, bespectacled, north-country adjudicator sits back behind his bench, relaxed in a leather, tall-backed swivel chair, hands interlocked at the fingers. His eyes are peeled not on Lennox or on Jude, who, along with Mack and P.J. Blanchfield, occupy the Prosecution table on the opposite side of the recently constructed, marble-floored court. The judge’s eyes remained fixed instead on a beefy, tattooed, and leather-vested Wild Bill Stark, who also stands directly before the bench.

  “And you’re certain you can verify the presence of the defendant inside your establishment at the hours indicated by the prosecution’s complaint?” begs the Judge.

  “I have him recorded on security video,” Stark announces, big baritone voice rattling the court room. “It’s been surrendered as requested.”

  Mack leans towards his son, whispers into his ear.

  “I wanna see that video.”

  “Your honor,” the tall blonde, Blanchfield interjects, “I’ve yet to view that video and would like a chance to have it examined prior to the Preliminary Hearing should you grant one.”

  “Naturally, Ms. Blanchfield. But before we proceed any further, might I point out that your eyewitness—the single individual you base your accusation on—was discovered knocked unconscious as the scene of the crime. Now, while I have no doubt that a homicide took place, I do have my doubts that anyone got a good look at it in all that rain and all that darkness. Certainly, I’m not calling Mr. Parish a liar, but before you proceed with an action you might want to consider that you are working with an unreliable eyewitness. And might I further enlighten you that Mr. Stark has never before appeared before this court for having committed any offense. Not even for a traffic violation. Which leads me to believe that his security tape is legitimate and/or untampered with.”

  Mack, leaning into Jude again.

  “Money talks,” he says. “Just ask Wild Bill Stark.”

  “We have probable cause, your honor,” Blanchfield says, her voice not seething with authority but more like a timid whisper. “And an M.O. that appears to match the previous two Lake George homicides of 2008 and 2010.”

  “Duly noted,” Mann goes on. “Also another north country citizen has been robbed of his life not to mention the fact that your eyewitness nearly took a bullet to the brain. What all this means, of course, is that I must play this one out to its rightful conclusion and do it fast. There could be a killer on the loose. With that in mind, I’ll offer up a Preliminary Hearing in the matter of Christian Barter but only if you have enough proof and evidence to support a case of murder in the first degree, and only if your eyewitness proves himself reliable. I don’t want to waste Captain Mack’s time if the real killer is still out there somewhere just waiting for the chance to pounce on one our fine tourists.”

  “And the request for the Defendant to be remanded to the Warren County Jail, your Honor?” Blanchfield quietly pushes.

  “Denied,” Mann exclaims. “I know it’s highly unusual in the case of murder, but I have an eyewitness who was rendered unconsciousness. More importantly, it’s one man’s word against another. I am not in the business of locking up innocent people, especially at the height of tourist season. Lake George has an image to uphold and public relations to consider. Therefore, this court agrees to release this man on two-hundred-fifty thousand dollars bail bond pending a return for the Preliminary Hearing, which I am personally scheduling for three days from now on Friday, fifteen August.” Eyes now on Barter/Lennox. “Mr. Barter, you will make your bank check or licensed bond payable to Warren County, care of the Town of Lake George. You will surrender the materials directly to the Bailiff immediately subsequent to these proceedings along with your passport if you have one.” Setting half glasses back on the crest of his nose. “Any questions? Anything I’ve missed?”

  P.J. Blanchfield sets a hand on Mack’s shoulder before rising.

  “Your honor,” she softly speaks. “Hector Lennox is suspected of two further counts of murder. Your releasing him on bail poses at least the possibility of placing the eyewitness and his family in reasonable jeopardy or in harm’s way.”

  “Allow me to correct you, Ms. Blanchfield,” Mann shoots back. “Hector Lennox was charged with one count of murder four years ago. Those charges were dropped due to insufficient evidence as cited by your office. Lennox has since disappeared from my town and has been reported as deceased.” Pulling the glasses back off. “From what I am made to understand, according to the prosecutor’s complaint, the man we have before us is not Hector Lennox but Christian Barter. Not only does his I.D. support that fact, but so does an initial fingerprint and facial analysis.”

  He pauses a moment, as though allowing his words to sink in. Squinting, he looks Lennox up and down and up again.

  “Jesus, P.J., this man doesn’t even look like Lennox.”

  Again, Mack practically pressing his lips up against Jude’s right ear.

  “Backwards country judge assumes surgical alterations are science fiction.”

  “There something you wish to add, Captain Mack?” Mann abruptly barks.

  Startled, Mack looks up.

  “How about ordering the defendant to submit to a DNA test, Judge?”

  Mann’s face goes red. Jude can tell then that the Judge does not appreciate being told how to run his court.

  Mann says, “How about bringing me some solid proof on Friday that this man murdered that Glens Falls convenient store owner and I’ll be happy to give the go ahead for a DNA evaluation.” A sour expression painting his face, Mann sits back, stuffs both hands inside his black robe, exhales deeply. “In the meantime, tell you what I’m willing to do, P.J. In the interest of everyone’s safety, I’m going to order that the Defendant be fitted with an electronic surveillance ankle bracelet in order to ensure that his whereabouts be both monitored and restricted to his home at all times over the next seventy-two hours. You come back to me with evidence that states this man is not only the gravel pit killer but, in fact, the miraculous reincarnation of Hector Lennox, I’ll grant your remand to county lockup and I’ll go a step further—I’ll personally order a Grand Jury convened down in Albany as soon as humanly possible. Is that a fair compromise?”

  Jude can’t help but eye the man he now knows for certain is Hector Lennox in disguise. The former cop was pretty sure of Lennox’s real I.D. prior to the arraignment, but now he’s convinced of it. It’s common knowledge that people can manage to fake their deaths given they have the cash to make it happen. Now, so has Lennox. Jude knows this primarily because of the way Len
nox defiantly crosses arms over chest, grows a smile best described as shit eating.

  Or perhaps it’s Jude and Mack who’ve been made to eat shit.

  Jude has seen smiles like that during his time on the cop job and it can only mean one thing: by being granted what amounts to a conditional bail, their Black Dragon boy is playing a game by pulling the steel wool over the Judge’s eyes. To make it worse, the pony-tailed Harley man himself—Wild Bill Stark—is issuing Lennox a quiet, but somehow screaming, thumbs up.

  When Mann stands and the gavel comes down, it resonates throughout the courthouse like an exploding firework.

  “This court is adjourned until Friday, fifteen August,” he barks before stepping down from the riser, escaping into his chambers like a rat into its hole.

  Now instead of feeling numb, Jude feels like he’s about to be sick. He can’t remove himself from the courthouse fast enough to ingest a dose of fresh air. The demon inside of him has been awakened.

  Does Judge Mann truly consider him an unreliable witness? Or is his ineffectiveness during the Burns murder/suicide still haunting him? Is he considered a coward in Mann’s eyes? A former cop who folded under the slightest pressure?

  O.P. Burns turns, shoulders the shotgun, points it directly at his wife and daughter, where they sit huddled in the cabin corner. He cocks a round into the chamber at the precise moment the SWAT team bursts in through the windows and back doors. Standing within reach of Burns is Jude Parish. But the newly assigned Violent Crimes detective isn’t doing a thing to stop the would-be killer. The new detective is frozen on the spot. Paralyzed . . .

  Whatever the answers to these questions, Jude feels like he’s done enough damage already; the smart thing to do now is to simply dismiss himself from the proceedings. Cut bait and run while he still has a chance.

  He starts down the newly laid marble steps, his father right on his tail.

  “Maybe I should change my mind,” he says. “Maybe I should drop out.”

  Grabbing his son by the arm, the old Captain stops him dead.