Free Silent Screams by C. E. Lawrence Page A

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 it was probably festive, with all the trees in bloom and beds of crocuses lining the strip, but now it was just grim. Still, there was a grandeur and dignity in its winter desolation that made Lee sort of glad he was there.
    “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