Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [25]
He had never been afraid of the dark, never cried when the lights were switched off in his bedroom at night. He longed to retreat into the silence and stillness of the night, while others slept around him, listening to the subtle murmurings of the creatures who also felt at home in the dark. He would lie in his bed and pick out the various sounds: the metallic clicking of the crickets, the soft hoot of an owl, all the rustlings of the nocturnal creatures of the woods.
He especially liked walking from the bright sunlight of a Sunday morning into the tall, vaulted interior of the church—he loved the cool stillness of the stone columns. He knew that his mother was gratified by his interest in church, but she had no idea how much he loved the dimness of the chapel, especially on dull grainy days, when the weak light could barely make it through the tall stained-glass windows, and the congregation sat shrouded in a holy gloom. It was moments like that when he felt closest to God, when he could almost imagine His forgiveness for his own dark desires…
“Oh, oh, God…R-r-r-o-ger!”
The girl’s voice tightened and exploded in a wail of pleasure. He put his hands over his ears as he felt his face redden, warmth spreading up from his neck. Hot tears of shame slid down his cheeks, falling from his chin and gathering in the hollow of his collarbone. He felt violated by his proximity to her unholy passion, and knew then what he had to do. He leaned over on the damp ground and cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth as the wetness seeped deeper into his skin, his veins, his bones. He moaned softly. There was only one thing to do now, and the awesome responsibility of it humbled him.
The hand of God. He looked at his own hands, so white and delicate that they might almost be the hands of a woman. He knew how could it be done—he’d seen it. Now he was ready to do it himself.
Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done…
He rose from his lonely lookout and retreated into the welcoming darkness. It was time to do God’s will.
Chapter Ten
“You know, it’s funny,” Lee remarked to Butts, “but I have more sympathy for these tortured, driven guys than for your run-of-the-mill murderer—you know, the ones who kill for ‘logical’ reasons.”
They were sitting on the uptown A train as it rattled its way to the Bronx, on their way to interview Christine Riley, Marie Kelleher’s roommate at Fordham.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘logical’?” Butts asked.
“Oh, you know…jealousy, greed, revenge, money, prestige—or killing to get rid of an inconvenient spouse or family member. The usual stuff.”
“You feel more sympathy for these psychos? How come?”
“There’s something cold blooded about killing…for money, for example. But sexual homicides—well, they may be planned, but there’s usually a compulsion involved. Especially for the repeat offenders.”
“Yeah? So what?” Butts asked as the train pulled into the station and jerked to a stop.
“Once they start it’s virtually impossible for them to stop.”
“Why do they start in the first place?”
“Usually some stressor occurs in their life, and bingo—they go over the edge.”
“So what do you think the stressor was in this guy’s life?” Butts asked as they trudged up the subway stairs.
They were greeted at the top of the stairs by a leaden gray sky. A low cloud cover had settled like a slab of granite over the city. February was not the best month to be in New York, and the Bronx was hardly the most glamorous of the five boroughs. As they walked up the Grand Concourse, a chill wind nipped at their backs, scattering dried leaves and loose bits of paper around their feet. Even the buildings looked cold—four- and five-story structures of grim gray granite, with the occasional decorative flourish or wrought-iron railing a welcome relief from the massive, stolid rock walls. The Grand Concourse was one of the widest avenues in the city, with a thick median strip down the center. In the spring