Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [35]
“Shut up!” Butts shot back.
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” Walker said as they dragged him away.
“Whatever,” Chuck muttered. He looked at Lee, who stood leaning against the wall, breathing heavily, blood trickling from his nose.
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
Chuck had heard that answer before.
“I’ll call a doctor.”
“No!” Lee tried to calm his breathing and realized he was trembling—not with fear, but with rage.
“I think we’ve had enough today.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Okay, but you can’t let that happen again.”
“Right. I won’t.”
Chuck sighed. “So what about Walker? Could he—”
“No. The Slasher isn’t a child molester. His rage is directed against women—and God. And I think he could be a virgin.”
“How do you figure that?”
“I know it’s a stretch, but I think the knife is a phallic substitute. There’s been no sign of actual penetration. Which means he would probably come across as emotionally immature.”
Chuck snorted. “When’s the last time you met an emotionally mature criminal?”
“No, I mean seriously emotionally challenged. Like if you met him, you’d really notice it. Shy, withdrawn, odd—not your cocky sleazeball type like Walker. Sort of childlike.”
“The priest is pretty childlike.”
“Yeah, I guess he is,” Lee admitted.
“And he would be totally unthreatening to women.”
Even Lee had to admit that Father Michael Flaherty was beginning to look better as a suspect. But there was one thing they could all agree on: time was running out, and if they didn’t close in soon, another woman would die.
Chapter Fourteen
It was dark when Lee walked up the steps to his apartment on the third floor. As soon as he put his keys down on the table next to the front door, the phone rang. He reached it in two steps and picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Heya, Boss Man, it’s me.”
There was no mistaking that voice, high and squeaky, with a pronounced Bronx accent. It was Eddie Pepitone—hustler, Vietnam vet, professional gambler, sometime con man—and quite possibly the one person to whom Lee owed his life.
“Hi, Eddie. What’s up?”
“What’s up? What’s up?” Eddie’s tone was mock irritation. “You tell me, Boss Man—you’re the one with the dead girl on your hands.”
“How did you—?”
“News travels fast in my circle, my friend. I keep my ear close to the ground, know what I mean?”
“I mean, how did you know I was—?”
“On the case? Oh, I just figured—kinda put two and two together, you know? Seemed like it was up your alley and all.”
“Okay, but—”
Eddie cut him off. “Look, I got a little time right now. What do you say we meet at McHale’s in about half an hour?”
“Well, I—”
“Come on, you got nothin’ better to do right now. Am I right?”
Lee had to admit Eddie was right. Seeing Eddie would distract him from his disappointment at not having the Jane Doe file to work with.
“Okay, half an hour.”
“Right, see you then—and I’m buying.”
There was a click, and the phone went dead. It sounded as though Eddie was calling from a pay phone. Lee hoped he wasn’t out on the street again. Since he gave up gambling, it had become difficult for Eddie to make a living. Eddie was the most unlikely friend he could imagine, but not a day went by that he didn’t thank his lucky stars that during his stay in the psych ward of St. Vincent’s Hospital, Eddie Pepitone had been his roommate.
It was a short subway ride to McHale’s, one of the throwbacks to the old days of Hell’s Kitchen before it was renamed Clinton, and expensive sushi restaurants began to replace the old Irish bars, with their steam tables, cheap beer, and all the free pickles you could eat. McHale’s wasn’t as grungy as the late, lamented Shandon Star, but it wasn’t a tourist trap either. You could get a pork chop with all the side dishes you could want for about twelve dollars. The bathrooms smelled of mildew, and some of the red leatherette booths were torn and clumsily mended with duct tape, but Lee loved the place. Unpretentious and welcoming, it was comfortable as an old shoe. Snuggled on the northeast corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, at the edge of the theatre