Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [68]
Lee took off after him, but he was forced to go around a group of elderly mourners coming out of the church. Then, as he approached the gaggle of journalists, a short, balding man stepped forward.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you with the NYPD?”
Taken off guard, Lee stared at him.
“Well, I—”
“Yeah, you’re the profiler, right? The one who lost his sister?” the man said. “My buddy wrote the story about you a couple of years ago. I recognize you from your picture.”
Lee groaned. He had been the unwilling subject of a “human interest” story when he started working with the police department; someone at the city desk had gotten wind of his appointment, remembered his sister’s disappearance, and decided it would make a good story. It did make a good story, but Lee did not enjoy the attention and publicity that followed.
“Are you working on this case?” the man continued, and then, without waiting for an answer, “Do you have any comments?”
The others, smelling blood, crowded around him, shouting out questions:
“How’s it going?”
“Any leads?”
“What have you figured out about the Slasher?”
“Will he keep killing until you stop him?”
“I’m sorry,” Lee said, “but I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.” Standard fare, and he didn’t suppose they would swallow it.
They didn’t.
He struggled to push through them, murmuring apologies, but they trailed after him, sticking to him like so many leeches in black raincoats. He hurried around to the back of the church, turning the corner of the building just in time to see an old, dark-colored car peel around the bend in the road. He couldn’t read the license plate, and he didn’t know cars well enough to place the make of this one. It wasn’t a late model, and he thought it was American—but he couldn’t even be sure about that. Black or dark blue, dented left rear fender—that was all he could see.
The reporters crowded around him, barking out their questions.
“Do you think he’ll strike again?”
“Are you any closer to solving it than you were?”
“Who else is on the special task force?”
“Are you going to bring in the FBI?”
When they saw that Lee wasn’t going to give them anything, they broke up, peeling away one by one, tucking their notebooks into raincoat pockets before heading off to expense account lunches at local restaurants.
Well, if it is him, at least now I’m sure he owns a car, Lee thought. But he had been fairly certain of that already. Everything about this guy fit the profile—right down to the inhaler. Lee pulled his coat collar up to his ears and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The rain was coming down harder now, cold little needles stinging his bare skin. He walked briskly toward the train station as the heavens let loose a torrent intense enough to wash clean the transgressions of an entire generation of sinners.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Later, back home in his apartment, Lee looked out the window at the softly falling rain. He thought about his earlier conversation on the phone with Chuck, who had been less than thrilled with his report of his visit to the funeral.
“Damn reporters—they’re like goddamn locusts! I can’t believe you couldn’t even get a license plate number.”
Lee had no good reply. He didn’t feel comfortable vilifying the press, but he had to admit that they had gotten in his way.
“How do you suppose he got a press pass? Just forged one, I guess?”
“Probably.”
Chuck was exasperated when Lee admitted that he didn’t manage to read the name on his press pass.
“It was probably a pseudonym anyway,” Lee pointed out.
He had seen the department sketch artist, just in case. Lee had made a vow to himself that he would not forget the lean, ascetic-looking face with the striking yellow eyes and high cheekbones, the Cupid’s-bow curve of his mouth. He had looked like a lost little boy, until he smiled—and then he looked like a hungry wolf. The resulting sketch was pretty good, though it failed to convey the feeling Lee had of the twisted personality behind that smile. Butts had