Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [26]
“I don’t know what might have pushed him over the edge, but I’m sure he’s been hovering there for quite a while,” he answered as they turned onto the block Christine Riley lived on with her family.
The buildings on the side streets were smaller in scale than the ones lining the avenue, and Christine’s family occupied the second floor of a cozy little four-story walk-up. Dead clumps of chrysanthemums drooped in flower beds lining the neat little white fence in front.
They rang and were buzzed into the building. The knock on the door of the Rileys’ place produced a burst of rapid-fire barking from inside the apartment—high-pitched yapping from what sounded like a small and annoying dog. Sure enough, when Christine’s mother opened the door, at her feet was a ratty old white West Highland terrier. Fat and rheumy-eyed, the dog took little leaps up at them, barking in a shrill yelping that cut the air like bursts from automatic weapons.
“Stop it, Fritzy!” the woman commanded. The animal ignored her and continued its barrage of barking. Each bark lifted the tiny dog right off the ground, all four feet rising about an inch from the floor with every yap.
“Mrs. Riley?” said Butts.
“Yes?” She was a striking blonde with an athletic build—a swimmer’s body, with broad shoulders and long arms. She was young looking, but her eyes were worn and weary, and her pale, big-boned hands clutched the door frame.
Detective Butts showed her his badge.
“Oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Please come in.” She led them through a cluttered hallway full of religious icons to a spacious living room, also decorated with the same theme of religious kitsch. A heavy, lavishly framed oil painting dominated the east wall—a young, beautiful Mary looking up at Christ on the cross, her tearstained eyes full of saintly love and loss. Fritzy followed after them, barking and bouncing, as if he were made of rubber. It was as if the barking were a kind of unique propulsion system, moving him forward with a little jerk each time he made a sound. Mrs. Riley motioned for them to sit on a flowered couch, sheathed in plastic. It reminded Lee of a huge condom.
Brought up to sneer at such lower-middle-class ideas of home furnishing, Lee had trouble understanding why anyone would choose the discomfort of sitting on plastic just to keep their furniture clean.
“Please sit down,” Mrs. Riley said.
He and Butts complied, the plastic making a crinkling sound as they sat.
“I’ll tell Christine you’re here. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks, Ma’am—we’re fine,” Butts replied, hands on his knees. He looked uncomfortable, his sturdy body perching on the edge of the sofa, as if he were afraid to lean back, lest he might be swallowed in a sea of plastic.
Mrs. Riley left the room, but Fritzy stayed behind to guard his quarry. The dog’s barking had subsided to a few hiccough-like eruptions deep in its throat, disgruntled rumbling sounds that served as a warning that, come what may, Fritzy was on the job. He sat lopsidedly a few feet away, leaning on one pink haunch, his bright little eyes shining out from under overhanging terrier brows, fixed on his prisoners.
“I don’t get how they can see through all that fur,” Butts whispered, “but the wife tells me that they do. That’s a lousy excuse for a dog,” he added, shaking his head.
As if he had heard the insult, Fritzy looked in the direction of the kitchen, then jumped up and followed his mistress out of the room.
Lee and Butts looked around the living room. Everything was flowered—the couch, the rug, the curtains, even the wallpaper. The excess of floral patterns made Lee’s head ache.
“Geez,” Butts said, “this place is nice, huh? My wife would love this.”
Lee had an uncomfortable image of the Butts household, and wondered if it included plastic on the furniture. His musings were interrupted