“I’ve got more snapshots,” Driscoll offered.
“I’ll pass,” said Thomlinson.
Driscoll stopped pacing, coming to a halt beside a large map of New York City that was thumbtacked to the east wall of the Command Center.
“This is where her Volvo was abandoned,” he said, the tip of his finger on a small blue pennant that punctured the Canarsie section of Brooklyn. “And here is where her body was found.” He sprinted his finger to a red pennant inside Prospect Park. “A ten-mile stretch between the Volvo and the dump site.”
Hearing himself speak of the dead woman, Driscoll considered the parallel to his own life. Hadn’t villainous fate interceded and robbed him of his wife as well? Sure, Colette’s body was intact. She hadn’t been boned. But she might as well have been, for her soul had been stolen.
“Back home in Trinidad, when bones are missing, we’re usually looking for a ritual sacrifice.” Thomlinson said. “Whad’ya got on the victim?”
Whad’ya got on the victim? Driscoll’s mind raced. His wife loved art. It was her life. She built her world around it. She loved her family. Nicole was her sunshine on a rainy day. She was my wife, goddamn it! She was my wife. Do you know what it’s like to lose the love of your life? And to lose that love at the merciless hands of some bastard who has no regard for the law, and little regard for the grieving spouse?
“Lieutenant, whad’ya got on the victim?” Thomlinson’s voice echoed, dispelling Driscoll’s anger and instantly bringing him back to the matter at hand.
“The victim was a housewife and mother whose only mistake, it seems, was in dropping off videos after dark in a dimly lit parking lot,” he said.
“What kind of movies we talkin’ about?”
“She returned South Pacific and The King and I, and rented It’s a Wonderful Life. That one’s still missing.”
“Broadway musicals and a seasonal love story. Downright innocuous. Simple romantic movies,” said Margaret.
“Now what provoked our guy?” Driscoll pondered. “This bone scavenger? Cedric, do you know how many bones there are in the human body?”
“Aahh…two hundred?”
“Two hundred and six. And judging from what he did to the torso, I’d say the son of a bitch removed each one of them. That’s dedication. That’s tolerance under stress.”
“And our boy’s meticulous,” said Margaret.
“This ain’t no sexual crime. No run-of-the-mill butchering. We’re looking at the artwork of an educated vandal. A white-collar psycho,” said Driscoll. “But how much of this was planned in advance? Did he know his victim? Had he stalked her? Will he strike again? One thing’s for certain, our subject is arrogant. He flaunts his crime. Hell, he identified his victim for us.”
“Was there any semen?” Thomlinson asked.
“The lab says no,” said Margaret.
“How ’bout how he savaged the body? Now that says overkill.”
“I don’t think his primary intent is killing,” said Driscoll.
“Are you for real?” said Thomlinson.
“We’re looking for a thief. A bone thief.”
“Then why are we handling the case? It should’a been Robbery that caught it.” The black detective grinned and lit a cigar. With one eyebrow arched like a drawbridge, he blew out a cloud of smoke that filled the Command Center.
“What you said before about a ritual sacrifice may have some merit,” said Driscoll. “Could we be dealing with voodoo in the Big Apple?”
“It might be worth a looksee.”
“What’s going through your head?” Driscoll asked, sensing that Thomlinson wasn’t satisfied with the voodoo theory.
“Still got the look of a sex crime to me.” Thomlinson leaned back on the rear legs of his chair and expelled a series of smoke rings, poking at each one with his finger.
“And what makes you so sure?” said Margaret.
“Look where he left the ID. Only a disgruntled lover is gonna use her slit as a mailbox.”
“Go on,” Driscoll urged.
“I think she wanted out, but her Romeo wasn’t willing to call it quits.”
“So he mutilates her?” said Driscoll. “He took her bones, goddamn it! That doesn’t fit the profile of a jilted lover.”
“You guys ever hear the story of the thief of hearts?” Thomlinson asked.
Driscoll and Margaret shook their heads.
“In the summer of 1976, in Trinidad, several women were murdered. Their hearts had been plucked out. A big investigation followed. Bodies kept piling up. Beautiful girls. No hearts. Suddenly the murders stopped. Three years later, the mayor of this little tourist town shoots himself. He had written a letter before pulling the trigger. In it, he admitted that he was the one who had killed the eight women he had once loved. They had all betrayed him with other men. If he couldn’t have their hearts, no one would.”
“But our ghoul takes bones,” said Driscoll, his finger pressing hard on the hanging 8-x-10 glossy of the mutilated corpse. “And this ghoul has no regard for human life. The McCabe woman weighed 116 pounds and stood five-feet-two. My Nicole had ten pounds on this woman, and three inches. We’re talking a frail target. It must have been easy to overtake her. For all we know, the poor woman might have died from fright before being slaughtered. And that would have been a blessing.”
Driscoll picked up a wooden pointer and tapped its tip on the red pennant inside Prospect Park.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this murder,” he said. “I have a hunch we’re looking at victim number one. What we must do, and do now, is get inside the mind of this crazed killer. What sets him off? What drives him to commit such a vicious crime? The key, as I see it, is in understanding what the bones mean to him. He’s got a real good reason for taking them, and our job is to find out what it is.”
Chapter 8
The rain that pelted the city for the past three days had finally stopped. Driscoll pulled the Chevy into an open parking space just outside the video store where Deirdre McCabe had last been seen alive. The “after view,” as he liked to call it, seemed surreal. The present passivity of the crime scene disturbed him. It seemed like any other slice of America, not the place where demons danced. He thought of the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn and the stretch of roadway that serves as a service road for the westbound Belt Parkway. On that particular roadway David Berkowitz, better known as the Son of Sam, staged his last bloody assault on an unsuspecting couple who were parked in, what was for them, a lover’s lane. Are there any signs to indicate that an abominable act had taken place there? No. That “after view” has taken on the embodiment of a quiet and cozy lover’s lane once again, and the tranquillity of life goes on around it.
Driscoll got out of the cruiser to better scan the area, the same area that the crime-scene crew had scoured, producing no tangible evidence, and he counted eight parked cars and one utility vehicle, a Ford Bronco. None were occupied. The space where McCabe’s Volvo had been parked was now empty. It was a good thirty feet from the video store. Had the killer been waiting in the dark? Watching her? If so, from where? Did the victim know her assailant? Had this been a tryst gone bad? There were no apparent signs here that a murder or an abduction had taken place. But, given the fact that the Volvo was left behind, the abduction, more than likely, had taken place in the parking lot.
What bait had he used to lure her to his vehicle? Serial killer Ted Bundy liked to wear a false plaster cast on his arm and wrist and pretend he couldn’t lift a parcel into his Volkswagen. Time and again, his soon-to-be victims would come to his aid, helping him load the bulky item. Or had the McCabe woman met the killer in the shop and gone willingly to his vehicle? Or had he simply overpowered her, an unsuspecting and frail woman returning from a quick visit to a local retailer? In any case, the killer probably had his own auto.
With more questions than answers, Driscoll headed for the store.
“Hi! Welcome to Video-Rama,” a cheerful voice sounded. “May
I help you with your selection?” The clerk, a young girl of high-school age with tawny blond hair in a ponytail, had gentle blue eyes that crinkled when she spoke.
“I’m Detective Driscoll,” the Lieutenant announced. “I was hoping to speak to the manager, Ms. Clairborne.”
“I’m sorry, but Ms. Clairborne works the evening shift. She won’t be here for another fifteen minutes.”
Driscoll checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. He’d kill the time browsing the racks of videos.
Below the advertisements for Coca-Cola and microwavable popcorn, Driscoll saw that the shop’s walls were lined with rack upon rack of current releases. The center of the store, he noted, was devoted to celluloid treasures of years gone by. Driscoll meandered to a kiosk displaying a collection entitled Film Classics. Gone With the Wind, My Fair Lady, On the Town, and an entire collection of Hitchcock favorites stared back at him. The beautiful face of Grace Kelly in the arms of a young and debonair Jimmy Stewart caught Driscoll’s attention. He picked up Rear Window, returned the gaze of leading lady Kelly, and remembered Colette.
On a bright, sunny April day early in their courtship he and his date were picnicking on the rolling hills of the Sheep Meadow inside Prospect Park. Prospect Park, he thought. How ironic to have such a remembrance while investigating the death of a woman whose body had been discovered in that park. Perhaps his unconscious was at work trying to obliterate the horrendous find. Good transcending evil, he thought. His eyes were drawn back to the smiling face of Grace Kelly, but his mind was now littered with thoughts of the terrible homicide. The spell had been broken. He took one last look into the gleaming eyes of Grace Kelly and smiled sadly.
“May I help you?” a voice sounded.
“Quite a film,” he said, returning the video to its appropriate slot in the display.
“Yes, it is,” replied Ms. Clairborne with a smile. “I understand you have some questions regarding Mrs. McCabe, the poor soul. Supposing we go inside my office, shall we?”
The woman stood about six feet tall. Her blue and gray business suit hugged her lean frame. Driscoll was reminded of Mrs. Haggerty, a grade-school teacher not well liked by her students, but admired by him since she seemed strict but fair.
Once inside the office, Ms. Clairborne motioned for Driscoll to have a seat, and then sat down behind a desk cluttered with trade magazines and big-screen paraphernalia.
“How can I help you, Lieutenant Driscoll?” she asked.
“I understand you were working last Friday evening. The night Mrs. McCabe came into the store.”
“Yes, I was. I always work Friday evenings. It’s our busiest night.”
“Do you remember seeing Mrs. McCabe?”
“Yes. In fact, I waited on her myself. She returned two videos, and rented one. It’s a Wonderful Life. I remember because Jimmy Stewart is a favorite of mine.”
“Was she with anyone?”
“No. She was alone. She always came in by herself.”
“Did she seem nervous or edgy, or act as if she were meeting someone?”
“No. She was her usual pleasant self.”
“Did you notice if she spoke to anyone in the store? Anyone at all?”
“Not that I noticed. But I couldn’t swear to it.”
“What kind of person was Mrs. McCabe?”
“Why, she was a lovely person. Very polite.”
“Was anyone else in the store at the same time as Mrs. McCabe?”
“Mr. Thornwood was here with his two teenage granddaughters. They were in the New Release section, which is on the opposite side of the store from where Mrs. McCabe was. She was in the section where we feature the Classics.”
“So they didn’t interact?”
“No, I don’t think they even saw each other.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yes, two OTs who browsed the racks and then left without renting anything.”
“OTs”?
“Out of Towners. People who don’t have an account with us. These OTs were two women.”
“Ms. Clairborne, have you had cause to let anyone go recently?”
“No. I’ve never had the occasion to fire anyone.”
“Ms. Clairborne, are your records computerized?”
“Why, of course.”
“I’ll need a list of all your account holders, and especially a listing of everyone who rented or returned a video on the Friday in question.”
“I’m not sure if I can do that.”
“Ms. Clairborne, I wouldn’t ask you for anything that I absolutely didn’t require. It’s vital to the investigation.”
The woman pondered his request for a moment and then said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back. It’ll take a minute or two for the computer to print out the records.”
“Thank you, Ms. Clairborne.”
Driscoll pulled out his notepad and wrote: Have Thornwood interviewed at his home. The granddaughters, too. Check all the stores on the strip for the two OTs. See if they were picked up for shoplifting. Have Cedric run the account holders list for criminal records. Check with the local precinct to see if there were any radio runs to the area that night.
Ms. Clairborne appeared with the printouts. “Here you are, Lieutenant.”
Driscoll accepted them and thanked her again. “One more thing before I leave. Have you noticed any trouble on the strip lately? Any retailer complaining about strangers who don’t belong around here?”
“Oh, no. This has always been a safe neighborhood.”
I wonder if Mrs. McCabe felt that way, thought Driscoll.
He handed Ms. Clairborne his business card and told her to call him if she thought of anything else. Driscoll returned the woman’s smile and left the store. He glanced at the sheets of paper in his hand and wondered if the answer lay there.
Chapter 9
The rushing sound of the subway car was melodic. Colm waited on the platform for the A train to come to a stop, savoring its panting from fatigue and rust. His medical bag sat at his side. He was eager to meet his new date.
A girl was pacing the platform, forlorn, disheartened. Had she just broken it off with some lover? he wondered. He could comfort her were it not for his date. Maybe some other time.
The girl entered the subway car just before he did. The doors scraped closed. Colm positioned himself in front of the girl, watching as her fluted fingers entwined around the subway car’s stainless-steel pole. Under a fluorescent bulb he stared at her, this wingless cherub. Her face would have inspired Raphael. Her body was pure ether, tinged with sensuality. In the gash between two buttons of a linen vest he could detect the incline of a breast. The garment concealed her secret, the aroma of untouched flesh. Was she aware of her carnality?
The girl looked sixteen, perhaps a year or two older. The weight of a knapsack strapped to her shoulders caused her torso to arch and her breasts to jut forward. Her hair was brassy blond. Cut short. She wore no makeup, no jewelry. Her eyes were stratospheric blue.
He imagined her skeletal frame under her external beauty. She would rival any one of his treasures.
She got off the train at the Beach Seventy-fifth Street station. His urge was to follow, but his legs refused his mind’s order. There was another girl waiting for him. He stayed on board. He’d let this one go. In a matter of seconds the train arrived at his stop.
“Beach Sixty-seventh Street,” the loudspeaker crackled, and the doors opened.
He descended the stairs, palming the rickety railing. A gang of high-school teens stampeded up the staircase, nearly knocking him down. His fingers longed for a serrated blade.
The sun greeted him at street level. He smiled at the sight of so many abandoned bungalows and headed for the boardwalk, thrilled that his date had picked such a remote section of the city for their rendezvous.
He climbed sun-soaked wooden steps. The boardwalk was empty. He was sure she had said Beach Sixty-seventh Street. Had he been stood up? He scanned the beach. A handful of sun wors
hippers dotted the narrow strand. By the ocean’s edge, a young woman was dabbling her toes in the waning tide. Sunshine streamed through her gossamer dress. Could that be his date? It was hard to tell from a distance.
He removed his shoes and socks and strolled toward her. A thought lingered on the rim of his consciousness. All the ingredients were present for a truly romantic encounter. He thought of the girl on the train. Wouldn’t it have been satisfying if he could teach his heart to crave the tenderness of a woman? The notion disoriented him, but in a few seconds his resolve returned.
He caught up with the girl at the shoreline.
“Hello, Monique,” he said.
“Hello.”
“Or should I call you Ariel?”
“Ariel? Why would you call me Ariel?”
“Because you look just like the Little Mermaid,” he grinned.
Chapter 10
The sun had climbed above the horizon and was hidden behind lead-colored clouds. The turbulent tide, its waves brown with sludge and darkened seashells, crashed onto the shore, delivering polluted brine. Though morning had broken, there were no gulls on the beach.
In the company of her Labrador, a jogger ran the boardwalk, oblivious to the brooding ocean and its contaminated waves. Yet the absence of gulls unnerved her. They had also been her running companions, welcoming her morning endeavor. But not today.
Without warning, the Labrador broke from its leash and dashed toward the boardwalk’s staircase, then bolted down onto the beach and under the boards. The jogger brought two fingers to her mouth and let loose a high-pitched whistle. The dog did not respond. The jogger raced down the steps in pursuit of her dog. Just under the boards she found the gulls. They were screeching boldly, flying in her face, and splattering what appeared to be blood in every direction. The sound of the gull’s fluttering wings and frantic squawking was as deafening as it was terrifying. The jogger was paralyzed with fear. Again, she brought two fingers to her mouth but couldn’t manage a whistle.
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