“The guy’s face is plastered everywhere you look! Not just on television. You’d hafta be from Neptune not to have seen it. Anyway, we’ve got a sixty-day rule here. The owner of a processed film that hasn’t been picked up after two months gets a call. You’d be amazed at the number of people who simply forget about their pictures. I would have brought it with me to the precinct, but it’s not supposed to leave the store unless paid for.” She reached under the counter and produced a white envelope with orange stenciling and embossed numerals.
Driscoll eyed the envelope. In the space for the customer’s name and address someone, perhaps this young lady, had penciled in “Cash.”
“Pretty tough to make a call on this one,” he said.
“Yup! You can thank Harold for that.”
“Harold?”
“Part-timer. Works the weekends. Not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, if ya know what I mean. That’s what made me peek inside. Sometimes I’ll spot a regular’s face in the photographs. Then I’ll have someone to call. But it wasn’t some customer’s face I spotted. It was your guy’s.”
Driscoll opened the envelope and retrieved its contents.
“He’s numero twenty-two,” she said. “The last shot before the pansies at play.”
Driscoll raised a curious eyebrow at Taft’s remark, then fanned the array of photographs. The dimly lit panorama of the New York City skyline came to life. And, just as the sales clerk had said, he found what he was looking for in photo number twenty-two, which he placed on the counter before him. It was a clear shot of a hooded Caucasian male running away, his head, though, clearly turned back toward the camera. The backdrop of the photo featured Brooklyn’s skyline, which was of course what one would see if one were situated atop the Brooklyn Bridge, looking east. And, Driscoll knew all too well what the subject of the photograph was looking at. His handiwork. A fatally wounded man, taking a photograph that would speak for him from the grave.
Driscoll retrieved Shewster’s sketch from his pocket, flattened it on the countertop, and compared it to the photo. Not an exact match. But close nonetheless. It would appear Malcolm Shewster’s team was well trained. He turned his attention to the remaining photographs. The “pansies at play” shots featured a bevy of naked men having sex. In shocking detail.
“No other records for who might have brought this film in, huh?”
The salesclerk shook her head. But Driscoll already had an answer to the question. He’d first close the case. But after that, he’d have Margaret pay another visit to Mr. Drag Queen himself, Kyle Ramsey.
“I’ll need to take the picture.”
“Figured you would. But what the hell. It’s not like anybody’s gonna know it’s gone.”
Driscoll thanked Taft and left the store. It was apparent that Ramsey had stolen the dead man’s camera. But Ramsey being at the scene was probably the reason the killer hadn’t retrieved the camera himself. Judging from the photograph, the killer must have seen the victim aiming the camera at him, but the victim was no longer alone. Kyle Ramsey was now in the picture. The picture caught by the eye of a fleeing demon.
Chapter 53
Traffic was at a standstill on Chambers Street leading to the ramp for the Brooklyn Bridge, where a construction team had chosen rush hour to cordon off two of the bridge’s three eastbound lanes. The congestion caused a tie-up on all connecting arteries. While Driscoll waited impatiently behind the wheel, he took out a pad and jotted down Samantha Taft’s name and circled it in dollar signs. Malcolm Shewster may end up cutting her a check for a million in cash. Driscoll would make sure she got it. Unless Shewster had worked some loophole into the offering. His suspicion of the man was growing. It’d be just a matter of time before he discovered what role he played in all of this.
As if someone lifted a gate up ahead, traffic began to flow. The Chevy’s low-fuel light had been on for awhile. He prayed he’d reach home before running out of gas. Seeking distraction, he ran through the case in his mind. The DNA, collected by Margaret from the circus fiend, had proved to be a no-hit. That realization caused him to glance at the copy of the Daily News that occupied the cruiser’s passenger seat. The sketched face of one of the killers stared back at him. “End of chapter, my friend. I’ve got the real deal.” He patted his breast pocket that contained the photograph. The silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of his cell phone.
“Driscoll, here.”
It was Thomlinson again, with an update.
“Lieutenant, we just got a call from a Greyhound bus driver. Says the photo in the Post fits the bill for one of a pair of kids he’s been transporting from Carbondale into the city for the past few months.
“Only one of a pair?”
“Says his regular ride-along might be his sister.”
“Might?”
“The girl’s face is disfigured.”
And that’s why no one called them in as twins. “Cedric, remind me to buy you a box of cigars.”
It was close to six o’clock when Driscoll pulled his cruiser to the curb outside the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Tossing a police “Official Business” card onto the dash, he hurried out of the car and ducked inside. Following Thomlinson’s instructions, he headed through the crowd for the northwestern corner and found the Greyhound Bus Lines customer service booth.
“I’m looking for Ted Clarkson. One of your drivers,” Driscoll announced, flashing his shield to the rotund lady manning the booth.
“He in some sorta trouble?”
“No, ma’am. Just need to ask him some questions.”
“Ted just finished his route. You’re likely to find him in the busman’s lounge. That’d be on the second floor. Take the escalator over there. When you get to the top, make an about-face. You’ll be looking right at it.”
Driscoll found the lounge. It was occupied by three drivers.
“Ted Clarkson?” Driscoll called out.
One of the men pointed to a door behind Driscoll marked “Men’s Room.”
In a minute, Clarkson came out. He was dressed in bus operator blue and sported a well-trimmed mustache. Being overweight must be one of the union rules, Driscoll reasoned. The buttons on the man’s shirt looked as though they were about to pop. He appeared to be in his late forties, early fifties, but was probably younger, the extra poundage adding to his age. He had a gentle manner about him and a jovial face.
“Ted Clarkson?” Driscoll asked.
“That’d be me.”
“I’m Lieutenant Driscoll,” he said, holding out his shield and department ID. “You called about the photo?”
“You like doughnuts?”
An odd response, Driscoll thought. “Who doesn’t?”
“C’mon. We can talk while we eat.”
They found a Dunkin’ Donuts shop.
“I’m hooked on their crullers,” said Clarkson as the two men entered the store.
“Make it two crullers,” Driscoll said to the slim blonde behind the counter. Driscoll smiled at the irony of finding a thin salesclerk serving up goodies to the heavyset Clarkson.
They sat across from each other at a Formica-topped table. Clarkson wrapped his chubby hands around the Styrofoam cup of coffee while Driscoll placed the suspect’s photo on the table.
“Still look familiar?”
“Yup. That’s him. Feel a little sorry for the girl. Her face bein’ all scarred up and all.”
Clarkson wouldn’t be so empathetic had he gotten a look at their handiwork. “Tell me all you know about him and his tagalong.”
“I’m figuring they gotta live somewhere near Carbondale. That’s where they get on the bus. Every other week or so, for the past few months. They get on alone. They hand me their tickets and take their seats in the rear of the bus. It’s near the beginning of the run so the bus is pretty much empty. Here’s the puzzler. After they settle in, they take out this game board.”