Bone Thief (6 page)

Margaret had interviewed Mr. Thornwood and his two granddaughters, the customers in the video store where the McCabe woman was last seen alive. The interviews had added nothing to the investigation. Ms. Clairborne was right: Thornwood and his girls hadn't even seen Deirdre McCabe. There were no records of any shoplifting on the part of the OTs, and the local precinct, the 68, had had only two radio runs in the area of the video store that night. One drunk-and-disorderly, and one single-car automobile accident involving an elderly woman who took a turn too sharply and clipped a parked car. Thomlinson had run the store's account holders' list for criminal records. Nothing active. Thomas Whiting, seventy-two, had been arrested in 1984 for stock fraud, and Alice Hathaway, now forty-five, had been busted for prostitution when she was twenty-three.

Driscoll mulled over these “revelations” as he put up with bumper-to-bumper traffic on East Broadway. He and Thomlinson were headed for the Medical Examiner's office on First Avenue. Because of a water main break on Allen Street, all traffic had been diverted onto Canal. Driscoll placed the emergency flasher atop the cruiser, turned on the siren, and veered the Chevy north on Centre Street, leaving behind a string of cars and taxicabs.

The NYPD was now galvanized. The total resources of the department were at Driscoll's disposal. Cedric Thomlinson was to be Driscoll's house mouse, the lead detective who would speak with Driscoll's authority and coordinate the efforts of the additional police personnel. In spite of what each member of the Task Force thought of Thomlinson, they knew he was acting on direct orders from the Lieutenant, and therefore, so were they. In his new capacity, Thomlinson had already been in contact with Telephone Control, the NYPD's own internal telephone equipment server, and asked that ten additional phone lines be installed inside the Command Center. He would soon be calling TARU to secure the electronic equipment that might be needed. That electronic equipment would include such items as listening devices, telephone taps, trap-and-trace units, and videotape equipment. Thomlinson would also oversee the force's telephone tip line. The tip line was a separate phone line the public was encouraged to call with information that may be relevant to the case. The number was furnished to the news media and to the publishers of the daily newspapers, and was included at the close of every broadcast or newspaper article about the case. It usually prompted a number of crank calls and dead ends, but each call was assigned to a detective, and it became his or her responsibility to track down the lead.

As the Lieutenant continued north on Centre Street, he glanced over at Thomlinson and could tell his friend's anxieties were getting the best of him. He knew that Thomlinson was craving a drink. Driscoll watched as his newly ordained house mouse reached in his vest pocket and produced a Macanudo. That was always a sign. When he wanted to drink, Thomlinson would settle for the taste of tobacco over the taste of booze. Driscoll noted how anxiously he peeled away the cigar's cellophane wrapper, pressed the Chevy's cigarette lighter, and waited patiently for it to pop back out. It didn't.

“Check the coil,” said Driscoll.

Thomlinson did. It was cold to the touch. “Got any matches?” Thomlinson asked.

“There should be some in the glove box.”

Thomlinson rummaged through the clutter in the glove compartment and produced a book of matches with the name of
SULLIVAN'S TAVERN
embossed on its cover. He struck a match and fired his Macanudo.

“I gotta tell ya, Cedric, there was something very haunting about that cadaver under the boardwalk. The killer's obviously staging his victims. It's up to us to decipher his message.”

“The guy's a psychotic exhibitionist,” said Thomlinson, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from his cigar.

Driscoll wouldn't argue that. He asked Thomlinson, “Tell me something, why do you suppose he's so hell bent on IDing his victims?”

“We'll need to get inside his head to answer that one.”

Inside his head
, thought Driscoll.
Now there's a one-way ticket to the Twilight Zone
.

The Lieutenant turned right off of Centre Street at East Houston and then made a left onto First Avenue.

335 First Avenue, the City Morgue, loomed in the distance.

“Our guy's a collector,” Driscoll remarked, as he pulled the Chevy into a parking space and turned down his visor, revealing the NYPD's “
OFFICIAL BUSINESS
” placard. “He must be taking the bones as souvenirs from his kill.”

“Maybe the guy's a movie buff. Remember that
Predator
flick, where the alien comes to earth on a hunting spree? After each kill, it collected the victim's skeleton and hung it on a tree. What's the chances this guy's got his own relic garden?”

“He's gotta be putting his trophies somewhere.”

Once inside the building, the pair rode the elevator to the sixth floor and marched down the long corridor toward the double-glass doors marked “
CITY MORGUE
.”

The main room of the morgue was spacious, with white-tiled walls and a high ceiling. High-wattage halogen bulbs illuminated eight naked cadavers lying atop stainless-steel gurneys. Two corpses, their chests and abdominal sections gaping, were attended by a team of morgue assistants busily dissecting and weighing the individual organs.

On a separate gurney, unidentifiable rotting flesh was being meticulously examined by Larry Pearsol, the Medical Examiner, and Jasper Eliot, a coroner's assistant.

“Welcome, Lieutenant. Good to see you again, Cedric,” said Pearsol. “This one's yours,” he gestured with open arms. “We've got the internal organs out of the way, and I was just about to record my findings.”

Driscoll winced at the remains. He saw shreds of boneless flesh, and slivers of odorous skin and muscle.

“You get Crime Scene's report?” Pearsol asked.

“Yes. They came up with zilch. All the blood was from the victim. The cotton fibers could have come from any one of a thousand sources, and they found no trace of any other forensic evidence on the body or at the site. It's almost as if a ghost is performing these murders.”

The ME depressed the button activating the Uher recorder and spoke:

“Item C296B21. Arrival date, October 19, 2005. Monique Beauford, tentatively identified by New York State driver's license. Remains consist of a female torso with partial extremities attached. Examination reveals multiple beak lacerations, and absence of a skeleton and a right breast. Internal organs are torn. Further micro-analysis is required, with DNA and pathology examination to follow. Victim's bones have been surgically removed after evisceration. First cut measures 26.5 centimeters, beginning at the base of the abdomen and ending at the labia majora.” Pearsol turned off the recorder and gestured to Driscoll. “He gutted her like a fish.”

“Your guy likes to slash and carry,” said Jasper Eliot.

Pearsol hit the on button and continued: “The second and third cuts are lateral incisions to both thighs, allowing extrication of the bones from the upper legs. The incisions measure 29 and 30 centimeters, respectively. The victim's patella, fibula, and tibia are missing, as well as externus and internus malleolus.”

“The gulls got some of the choice parts,” Jasper Eliot whispered to Driscoll. “What's he want with the bones?”

“That's what we'd like to know. Larry, kill the recorder for a minute and talk to me.”

“You got it.” The ME hit the switch and turned to face Driscoll. “What we have are the remains of an undernourished Caucasian female, possibly anorexic. She dyed her pubic hair blonde. Nestled within it is an old tattoo of a faded heart. Kinky. About five-eight, five-ten, weighing between 105 and 110 pounds. My initial examination of her genitalia shows no indication of a recent assault or violation. In the flesh of her shoulders I found circular wounds, half a centimeter in diameter, eight in all, probably postmortem, left by three-inch nails.”

“That's how he hung her on the boards, by the shoulders. Tell me about the piercing.”

“An abundance of scar tissue surrounds the perforation.”

“Does that tell you when she got it done?”

Pearsol unscrewed the top to an aluminum canister and emptied its contents. The ring made a clinking sound as it hit the base of a glass dish.

“Judging from the scar tissue, I'd say she's been wearing it for a couple of months, give or take a few days,” he surmised.

Driscoll stared at the ornament, a gold band with jade studs. “I'd like to know the composition of the ring as soon as possible.”

“One step ahead of you, Lieutenant.” Jasper Eliot handed Driscoll a computerized printout detailing the chemical analysis of the ring: “11.1 milligrams gold, 26.2 milligrams copper, 2.6 lead, 2.3 tin, 8.7 steel and 3.7 resins. Studs: imitation jade. Estimated worth: $16.32.”

“Larry, what about the body piercer?” Driscoll asked, scanning Eliot's report.

“Well, he's a perfectionist. The guy knows his flesh. No nail gun used here. These suture marks are perfectly symmetrical. Impeccable work. You're thinking, maybe the body piercer and your perp are the same guy?”

“Can't overlook it.” Driscoll punched in a number on his cell phone.

Margaret answered on the third ring.

“I want a list of body piercers,” Driscoll said. “Start with the tristate area.”

“Aren't earrings against Department regulation?”

“Very funny. It may be a lead.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“I gotta run. Get on that list right away.”

“You got it.” Margaret grumbled.
He's gotta be kidding. Does he know how many body piercers there'd be in the goddamn tristate area
?

Thomlinson picked up the ring. “If this could only speak…”

“Can you make it speak, Larry?” Driscoll asked.

“I'd say the ring was handmade. Probably by the guy that did the piercing. They like to make their own jewelry. And your victim, she was into pain. I can tell you that much.”

“How's that?”

“The ring was inserted without an anesthetic. Body piercers use a local, a mix of paracin trichloride and Novocain. It always leaves a trace in the surrounding membrane. A signature. There's none here.”

“Let's hope that'll help us ID the piercer,” said Driscoll.

As Pearsol returned to his recorder, Driscoll's thoughts drifted. What does a homemaker have in common with a nineteen-year-old aside from being female? And what lure did this madman use to attract these two unfortunate women? Staring down at the butchered remains of Monique Beauford, Driscoll was instinctively certain of one thing. These killings would continue, and they would keep him and the city of New York on one hell of a roller-coaster ride.

Margaret was pleased with herself. She had managed to squeeze into one of her old Vice outfits, and damn if she still didn't look hot. The leather pants were skin tight, and the midriff top showed off her flat stomach to full advantage. A push-up bra and some red fuck-me pumps completed the package.

She opened the door to the strategically positioned TARU van and stepped inside. All the guys in the van stopped what they were doing to stare. Wolf whistles filled the air.

“Knock it off, assholes,” Margaret said. “This is a professional police operation.”

Danny O'Brien, the TARU technician, handed Margaret a small, round metal object.

“That's the transmitter, Sarge. Figure out where you're gonna hide it.”

Margaret walked to the back of the van and turned her back on the men. She reached inside her bra and hooked it on.

“Need any help with that?” hollered O'Brien.

“In your dreams,” Margaret said as she did a one-eighty and faced the technician.

“Seriously, Sarge, the skel is all set up. Speak in normal fashion. If you get into any trouble just say the word pinhead, and we'll be in there in two seconds. Remember, pinhead.”

“O'Brien, how many years did I do this in Vice? I'm quite familiar with how a skel works. You clowns just be ready to move if and when I give the signal.”

As she went to exit the van, Driscoll took her by the arm. “You be careful in there. Don't take any chances. If it doesn't feel right, you holler. You understand me, Sergeant?”

“Why, John, you do care,” she smirked, and with a flip of her hair, out she went.

 

Francis, a self-proclaimed body piercer extraordinaire, scoped the patron in close-fitting leather as she browsed the shop's window.

“Come on, honey, step right in,” he chanted, projecting his words telepathically to the lingering customer.

“I'll be damned,” Francis marveled as the shapely brunette turned the handle on the door.

Undercover Sergeant Margaret Aligante tiptoed in, her eyes taking in the panoply of gold, silver, platinum, and steel studs embedded in the vinyl epidermis of a naked mannequin.
A freestanding work in progress
, thought Margaret.

Her working undercover, she hoped, would help loosen Francis's tongue. That was also the opinion of her confidential informant, her street snitch, who steered her toward this particular body piercer. The snitch made Francis out to be the type of guy that was leery of the police but would turn in his brother if it meant saving his own ass. And that was exactly what Margaret was looking for: a turncoat.

Margaret quickly scanned the interior of the tawdry shop. Two movie posters, one for
Crash
and the other for
Hellraiser III
, adorned one wall. They stared down at three crushed velvet love seats arranged in a U shape. Freestanding lighted candles provided stark illumination while sandalwood sticks burned, perfuming the room. Margaret thought the grouping resembled a small altar. Photographs of pierced eyebrows, ears, noses, lips, and other body parts wallpapered the opposing wall, assaulting Margaret's senses. The far wall boasted antique engravings of ancient Picts, Melanesians, Maori natives, and Australian aborigines pierced to the hilt. A life-sized statue of an African Ibo warrior, his body heavily illustrated and pierced, looked down at her.

“Can I help you?” The voice startled Margaret. A tall man wearing a black-leather vest, with tattooed arms and an exposed chest, smiled at her. Several silver hoops punctured his bushy eyebrows, while fishermen's hooks pierced both ears.

“Tell me, where I should wear this?” she asked, producing Monique's ring.

Francis examined it carefully.

“That's a wedding band. Jade studs. Cool. You'll want to wear it someplace special, no?”

“Is that one of your specialties? Implanting jewelry in special places?” she asked.

“Three times a week I'm asked to hook a ring like that onto one of several places on the body.”

“How 'bout a woman's clitoris?”

“There too.”

“So that's a common request?”

“Very.”

“Some people would call that surgery.”

“You bet it is.”

“You got a license to operate?”

“I need one?”

“Some would say you do.”

Francis shrugged.

“You could really hook a ring this size to a clit?” she asked.

“Piece of cake.”

“How do you do it?”

Francis leaned his pockmarked face into Margaret's. “You leave that to me. A drop of medical magic, and you won't feel a thing.”

“What if I wanna feel a thing?”

“No Novocaine for you, then.”

“You pull teeth, too?”

“If I find any down there,” he smirked.

She held back on the impulse to slap the man's face.

“There's a catch,” Margaret said, biting the tip of her tongue, containing her anger.

“Don't tell me? You're a hemophiliac.”

“No. I want two. One for my finger, and one for down there. And I want the rings to match.”

“No problem. But you gotta bring me the other ring.”

“Can't you supply it?”

“That's a specialty item. Handmade!”

“I thought you were a specialist.”

Francis stopped speaking and stared fixedly at Margaret, this woman who was asking so many questions. The markings of fear slowly carved themselves on his face. He sensed danger. “You're in the wrong bodega, Miss. Hasta la vista.”

His stare drifted to the sheen of a police shield brandished by Margaret, its glint reflecting off of the room's overhead lighting. “C'mon, where's your sense of humor?” he said with a sheepish grin.

“Is this your handiwork?” she said, producing the forensic team's photograph of Monique's genitalia, which displayed the inserted ring.

“That's not one of mine.”

“Then whose is it?”

Anger and defiance replaced his fear. He grabbed a tattered Yellow Pages directory. “Here! Body Piercing! There's four pages. Take your pick.”

Margaret's hands grabbed his forearms like a vise, pressing them hard against the Formica counter.

“Don't try fucking with me,” Margaret growled. “You need a medical degree to draw blood, and I can close you down faster than you can say health violation.” She flipped open her cellular phone. “You're just seven digits away from an inspection by the Board of Health.”

“That's police harassment.”

Margaret punched in a series of numbers.

“Oh shit,” he groaned as Margaret placed the handheld receiver close to Francis's ear.

“You have reached the New York City Department of Health. If you are calling from a touch-tone phone, please press 1.”

Margaret's finger complied.

“If this is an emergency, please press 2…If you are reporting a violation of health code, please press 3…If you are calling to speak to someone in our AIDS Awareness Center, please—”

“I think 3 is the one we want, don't you?”

“Turn that thing off.”

“You gonna tell me what I want to know?”

Francis nodded.

Margaret hit the disconnect button and folded the cellular phone.

“You know what they do to whistle-blowers in my line of work?” Francis whined.

“I don't give a fuck. I want to know who made the ring, and who did this piercing.”

“He'll string me up by my balls!”

“Don't make me hit redial.”

“OK, OK, OK. But you gotta forget what I look like.”

“I got a short memory. Now give me his name.”

“But—”

“Name! Now!”

“Jack the Ripster. He's known for his jade studs.”

“Where would I find this pillar of society?”

Francis sighed. “Last I heard, the Ripster was operating out of a trailer on Houston Street.”

“What's his real name?”

“Lester Gallows.”

Margaret exited the shop and felt the immediate need for a shower. It wasn't the smell of sandalwood incense that she was looking to expunge, it was the entire sordid experience. The lingering vision of Francis's pockmarked face filled her head. Was it the fact that this man pierced the genitalia of so many women that filled her with contempt, or was she simply amazed by the number of women who found it fashionable to submit to such a piercing? She had always considered herself to be a modern-day thinker, but the vision of an ornamented clitoris was, to her, a complete turnoff. But she was not paid to pass judgment on what she considered vulgar. As she headed back to the TARU van, she was reminded of why she had come to Francis's body piercing shop in the first place. She was tracking a vicious killer and she hoped the information she had extracted from Francis would lead her to the man that brutally slaughtered Monique Beauford and Deirdre McCabe.