Bone Thief jd-1

by Thomas O`Callaghan

  “They won’t let us see our daughter,” said Seamus Tiernan.

  Driscoll walked over to the policeman stationed at the door to room 732. “What gives, officer?”

  “I got my orders from Captain Hollis, Lieutenant. No one’s to be let inside. And he means no one.”

  “They’ll be with me.”

  “I’d like to accommodate you-”

  “Then let us in.”

  “But I’ve got my orders.”

  “You just got new ones.”

  The officer stared hopelessly at Driscoll. “I’ll have to check. Give me a minute.”

  Driscoll shrugged, and the officer walked down the corridor to a wall phone.

  “Margaret, why don’t you accompany these folks to the cafeteria?” Driscoll suggested. “It may take a few minutes to reconcile the situation.”

  “We’re not going anywhere until we see our daughter,” said Mr. Tiernan.

  “How about I take the kids for a soda?” said Margaret.

  “I wanna see Moira,” said Timothy, red faced.

  “They’ll wait right here with us,” said Mrs. Tiernan.

  The policeman returned and spoke to Driscoll. “I’m sorry sir, the Captain’s orders don’t apply to you.” He opened the door to let the Lieutanant in.

  “They’re coming with me,” Driscoll announced as he ushered the family inside. Then the Lieutenant’s eyes widened. Moira’s body was completely encased in plaster, the shell strategically punctured by catheters and tubes to allow for respiration and feeding. There were two slits for the eyes and two apertures for the nostrils.

  All heads turned as Doctor Stephen Astin came into the room to check on his young patient. “Her bones were fragmented, some of them pulverized,” he reported.

  Mrs. Tiernan’s face drained of all color. She stood frozen, staring at the plaster cocoon that contained Moira.

  “How could someone do such a thing to our little girl?” Mr. Tiernan asked. “He’s crushed our Moira. Do you know what it feels like to see your only daughter shattered, Lieutenant?”

  “More than you know.”

  The Lieutenant’s eyes were brimming with tears. Not since Nicole’s death had he felt so heartbroken. And why not? Hadn’t Moira become his daughter in Nicole’s absence? He cast a look at the girl, this madman’s latest victim. And as his eyes took in the living and breathing plaster mummy that Moira had become, his rage was set aflame. The son of a bitch had made it personal. And by doing so, he had signed his own death certificate.

  As Driscoll stepped away from Moira’s bedside, his eyes met those of the Tiernan family. It pained him to witness the emotional damage that had been inflicted upon them.

  Their daughter had been savagely brutalized, and Driscoll knew why. This heartless assault was a message. The killer could have murdered the girl and boned her like all the others. But he didn’t. He chose to let Moira live, a cripple for life. She would be an ever-present reminder to Driscoll of his meddling. He was telling the Lieutenant to back off. Like hell he would! If it took assigning legions of policemen, Driscoll would track down this bastard and dole out vengeance.

  As Driscoll scanned the room, a feeling of claustrophobia overtook him. He fought the urge to pound the walls, send a quake throughout the building, wake up the dying, call attention to the living. For he knew Moira lay somewhere between the two. Why, he asked himself, had the women closest to his soul met with tragedy at such an early age? His mind began to race. He found himself inside the Plymouth Voyager that carried Colette and his daughter on that ill-fated day in May. He imagined throwing his body over Nicole’s as the gasoline tanker collided with the family van. Was that some sort of silent death wish? Was that what was going on inside his guilt-ridden head? Here, now, was Moira, another daughter in his charge. He should have stopped her from the start. What was he thinking? How could he have allowed her to step into the path of a murderer? It was because of him that Moira was so horribly victimized. He was certain of that. That reality would follow him to his grave.

  He approached Moira and gently placed his hand on her plaster-encased shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I know I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Thomas O' Callaghan

  Bone Thief

  Chapter 68

  “What’d he do?” the rookie patrolman asked.

  Richie Winslow, the veteran detective, shot a disdainful glance at the prisoner in the holding cell.

  “This here’s a vandal,” said Winslow.

  “He looks a little old to be a graffiti artist. What’d he vandalize?”

  “Our friend here got a yen for earth-moving equipment. He poured a pint of maple syrup into the diesel fuel tank of a bulldozer. Speaking directly to the prisoner, he asked, “Now whad’ya go and do that for?”

  Colm winced. He felt caged, ensnared inside the Old Brookville Police Department’s holding cell. “How long will I be held here?”

  “As long as it takes!”

  The phone purred on Winslow’s desk. He spoke briefly, then turned to his prisoner.

  “Your medical degree just bought you a desk appearance ticket.”

  “Does that mean you’re letting me go?”

  “For now. Tomorrow, you’ve got an 8:00 A.M. appointment with a man in a black gown. And you’d better have lost your taste for pancakes.”

  Chapter 69

  Driscoll kept being hammered by the DA, the Mayor, and the Police Commissioner. He felt as though his head were a drum and everyone from the Mayor on down were pounding away with their drumsticks. He couldn’t stop his mind from racing. Moira’s circumstances kept coming to the forefront of his thoughts. Burdened with guilt, he summoned Margaret and Thomlinson to his office for a brainstorming session. He needed to get his mind back on the case and to restore his sanity.

  “Cedric, are you all right? You look a little pale.”

  Driscoll knew. Thomlinson was sure of it. He’d wait until the case was resolved to deal with it. “A little touch of the flu,” he said.

  Driscoll shot him a look. A look that said “we should talk.” The moment passed in silence. It was Driscoll who broke it. “Have the tech wizards figured out the password to Moira’s hard drive yet?”

  “Fraid not,” said Margaret.

  “They’re being overpaid.”

  “What is it with the bones?” she asked.

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

  “And our guy takes the whole lot. What the hell does he do with them?”

  “Maybe he’s rebuilding his ladies from the inside out,” said Thomlinson. “Sorta like the serial killer in Silence of the Lambs. Remember? The guy was sewing together pieces of flesh he had carved from the bodies of his victims.”

  Margaret poured herself a cup of coffee. “Flesh on top of bone. Now there’s a thought. Maybe our guy reads the Old Testament.”

  “I’m listening,” said Driscoll.

  “‘And I will lay sinews upon you and will bring up flesh upon you and cover you with skin.’ Ezekiel. Chapter 37, verse 6,” she said.

  Driscoll was astounded that Margaret was so familiar with liturgical verse. He looked at her and smiled. “Lord knows he wouldn’t be the first Bible-savvy predator.”

  “In Kings, they actually talk about bones being stolen,” said Thomlinson.

  Driscoll was impressed. “You guys might really be on to something.”

  “So, we’ll add that to the profile. Our guy may be driven by particular scenes from the Bible,” said Thomlinson.

  “We could use a bone specialist,” said Driscoll. “Margaret, aren’t you dating a bone man?”

  “One date. Lunch in a hospital cafeteria. I’d hardly call that dating.”

  “But you did say he had suggested dessert somewhere else. He’s opened the door for you. Why don’t you give the good doctor a call and ask him out to dinner. That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. This is the twenty-first century, remember?”


  “But, he’s no osteopath. His specialty is X-rays.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Does that give me a green light to discuss the case?” she asked.

  “Not in any great detail. Just pick his brain a little. Keep in mind that this man, a radiologist, was in St. Vincent’s pediatric ICU using defibrillator paddles on the DA’s daughter. That’s got odd written all over it. I say we keep a watchful eye on the guy.”

  “Will do,” said Margaret as she swept passed Driscoll and made her exit. Thomlinson lingered behind.

  “You think it’s coincidence that brought Doctor Pierce and Margaret together, Cedric?” Driscoll asked.

  “As opposed to-?”

  “Suppose the guy’s got his own reasons for staying close to a police investigation.”

  Chapter 70

  A dockhand cast the line, and the ferry pulled away from its berth, foaming the water with its propellers. The sun had begun its incendiary descent against the Manhattan skyline, igniting it in flamboyant amber. The fifteen-minute crossing would land Doctor Pierce and Margaret at the foot of Battery Park just steps away from the restaurant she had chosen. Pierce had suggested the island-hopping cruise to set the mood.

  A soulful instrumental version of “The Nearness of You” serenaded the passengers. A bearded black man, his upturned hat at his feet, was making magic with his reed.

  “There’s nothing like a saxophone at twilight to take the edge off the day,” said Pierce.

  Margaret studied Pierce’s face. She thought he resembled a dark-haired Donald McDonough, a friend she had made at the Police Academy during the onset of her career. The notion brought back a blizzard of memories: cramming for tests, overcrowded study halls, repetitive on-site procedural drills, and fun weekend partying. Back then, Amstel Light was her drink of choice. As she continued her study of Pierce’s features, she asked herself the question Driscoll had pondered. What would a radiologist be doing in the pediatric ICU at the bedside of a comatose patient? And why was he using defibrillator paddles?

  “Margaret? Are you all right? You look as though you’re in a trance.”

  She answered him with a smile. “I’m fine,” she said. “You resemble a friend I haven’t seen in years.”

  “Each face has a dozen lookalikes that span the globe. How would you handle that particular happenstance in a police lineup?”

  “Number 4, step forward…no, number 3…make that number 7…or is it number 10?”

  The pair shared a laugh as a humid breeze entangled Margaret’s hair, spilling strands of it into her eyes. She sipped champagne from a paper cup.

  “We mustn’t let the harbormaster know we smuggled our own Veuve Clicquot on board,” Pierce laughed. “The Captain will have us walk the plank.”

  From Amstel Light to Veuve Clicquot. If only McDonough could see me now.

  “Champagne’s the perfect accompaniment for night sailing. Don’t ya think?” said Pierce.

  “I’ll say.” She took another sip.

  “Those monks at the Benedictine Abbey of Hautvillers deserve a debt of gratitude for discovering this wondrous concoction.”

  “I’ll be sure to drop them a line.”

  “You know, they buried their deceased brethren alongside casks of wine.”

  “To continue the party?”

  “For all eternity. And did you know that the Pharaohs were buried with their beer?”

  “I had no idea. Hey, Colm, you’re a walking encyclopedia when it comes to booze!”

  “I should be. I own a winery.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “On the North Fork of Long Island. Maybe someday we’ll go there.”

  Margaret was enjoying Pierce’s company. She found him to be intelligent, good looking, charming, and delightfully mysterious. To top it off, he had a pair of soulful blue eyes that a woman could get lost in. But the question kept gnawing at her. Why the defibrillator paddles? She was determined to seek an answer at dinner.

  “Ever been to the catacombs in Rome?” Pierce asked.

  “Back in high school. I don’t think I could have endured them, though, without some help from a bottle of Chianti Ruffino,” Margaret mused. “When in Rome-”

  “Been there, done that. With pictures!”

  “Pictures?”

  “Used an infrared camera,” he boasted. “Don’t forget, I have an anatomist’s interest in bones.”

  “Bones, hmm.”

  “Incredible substances. As hard as granite, lighter than wood, and very much alive. Bones are made to withstand mountains of stress. They don’t rust, they are non-corrosive, and they are edible. A true miracle of evolution!”

  The Harbor Club boasted a spectacular view of downtown Manhattan. The pair chose a table near a bay window overlooking the Wall Street skyline. The waiter made his approach. “And now for tonight’s specials…” Margaret and Pierce sat through the interminable oration. “May I suggest starting with a cocktail?” the waiter finished.

  Margaret ordered the house Chardonnay, while Pierce chose the Merlot.

  The waiter returned with their selections, took their dinner order, and quickly disappeared.

  A gust of laughter erupted at an adjacent table. Margaret pricked her ears to steal fragments of the conversation between the two women. They spoke in a foreign tongue that had a Slavic ring to it.

  “They sound like they’re enjoying themselves,” she whispered to Pierce.

  “Scandalous stuff. The one in the blue dress caught her husband with their nanny…in the playpen, of all places.”

  “That’s so sad. Why are they laughing?”

  “Three million dollars! That was the divorce settlement!”

  “Wow, I’d laugh too,” Margaret said, sipping her Chardonnay.

  Pierce was bilingual. Margaret wondered what other languages he’d mastered.

  The waiter arrived with their hors d’oeuvres.

  “Coquelet poule au poivre, for madam. Escargot for monsieur.” The waiter delivered his lines like the unemployed actor he was.

  “You don’t mind if I use my fingers?” asked Margaret.

  “All the better,” Pierce answered, taking a sip of his wine.

  The pair exchanged smiles.

  “So, Margaret, I know so little about you. I know you’re a policewoman, but what exactly does that entail?”

  “I catch the bad guys,” she said, dismantling her Cornish hen.

  “Is that so?” he said, staring intensely at her meticulous dissection of the bird.

  “And I’m good at it.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt about that.”

  “New York City Police Sergeant Margaret Aligante at your service.”

  “Well protected am I. Sounds like an exciting job. Any interesting cases of late?”

  She was mindful of Driscoll’s instructions. She shouldn’t discuss the case in detail. But she saw no harm in letting the man know she was part of the Task Force.

  “Actually, there is one. You must have read about it in the papers.”

  “I don’t read the papers. I get all my news through the Internet. Let me guess…the child abuse of the six-year-old in Greenpoint?”

  “I investigate homicide.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re on the case involving the madman who’s killing all those women and stealing their bones?”

  “I’m part of the team.”

  “I’m impressed. What’s his fascination with bones?”

  “You’re the radiologist, you tell me.”

  “I’ve read all there is to read about the case through the Internet. But none of the articles tells you very much.”

  “Wow, you’re really following the case.”

  “Well, like you said, I am a radiologist.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think it’s too gruesome to talk about over coquelet poule au poivre.”

  “Nothing gets in the way of my appetite.”

  The waiter reappeared with their rac
k of lamb a la Berrichonne, for two. He gracefully sliced a portion of the meat and placed it on Margaret’s plate. He then uncorked a bottle of Charmes-Chambertin and filled two glasses.

  The pair ate silently, savoring the rich bouquet of spices mingling with the gamey lamb.

  “I guess you’re really not supposed to talk about the investigation,” Pierce said.

  Margaret, caught with her mouth full, moaned a languorous “no.”

  “Even if I can help?”

  Margaret stared intently at Pierce. She was here to pick his brain a little, and he had just given her an opening.

  “We are quite curious as to what he does with the bones.”

  “My guess would be he collects them as trophies. Reminders of his conquests.”

  “He takes their heads, hands, and feet, too.”

  “He must be trying to hide their identities. He wouldn’t want the police to ID them from their fingerprints or dental records…But wait a minute. The reports say you’ve been able to ID them.”

  “True.”

  “Then I’m at a loss. Why would he need their head, hands, and feet? Unless he’s trying to complete their skeletons. If that’s what he’s after, he’d surely need the skull, the metatarsus, a full set of phalanges, and the rest of the tiny bones that make up the hands and the feet.”

  “That makes sense,” said Margaret. Is this guy stating the obvious, or am I being played, she asked herself. She was not one to be toyed with. Neither as a woman nor as a detective.

  “Perhaps it’s not a murderer you’re after. He could be a simple thief. A bone thief.”

  “Try telling that to the victims’ families.”

  “That’s one part of your job I don’t envy.”

  “I’m sure in your line of work, there comes a time when you need to give a patient’s family bad news.”

  “On occasion.”

  Margaret took a sip of her wine and gazed at Pierce. It was time to tie up some loose ends.

  “There’s one question in the investigation that remains unanswered, Colm, and it involves you.”

  “Me?”

  “Why were you in the pediatric ICU using defibrillator paddles on the Parsons girl?”