Bone Thief (7 page)

It was a sunny autumnal Saturday in New York, but city parks were filled with few revelers. The populace of the city was in panic mode after learning about the latest slaying. It was the lead story on all the local network newscasts, and the city's newspapers were heralding the shocking details as well. The headline in the
Daily News
read “Second Victim Butchered in Rockaway,” while the
New York Post
led with “NYPD Fears Serial Murderer on the Loose.”

But the newspapers and the networks were also lending a hand in the investigation. They were running Monique Beauford's photograph, the one depicted on her New York State driver's license. The public was also given the force's tip line number and was asked to call the Task Force if anyone had any information regarding the crime.

Detective Steve Samuels, a member of Driscoll's newly formed team, had been given the assignment to check out the address on the victim's driver's license and show the dead woman's photograph around. It was the only address the Department of Motor Vehicles had on record, but it was now a boarded-up tenement in North Brooklyn. Most of the adjoining buildings were boarded up as well. There were only four families living on the block. One of those families, an older woman and her two adult sons, remembered Monique. She was a loner, they had reported. Never seen in the company of anyone else. She had moved from the now-condemned building years ago. They didn't know to where. Samuels canvassed the neighboring streets, where a bodega, a soda distributor, and a dry-cleaning shop were still open for business. No one there recognized Monique's photo. And no calls regarding Monique were ever received by the Task Force.

The static chatter emanating from Driscoll's police radio filled the Chevy's interior as Driscoll and Margaret made their way down the East River Drive, heading for Lester Gallows's trailer on Houston Street. They had just left the Command Center, where Driscoll had been called upstairs and lambasted by his superior, Captain Eddie Barrows. The Lieutenant was being put to the test. He knew he'd be directing traffic in Brooklyn if he didn't soon turn up a lead.

“Don't ever aspire to head up a Task Force, Margaret. When things turn sour, the heat is on like a pizza oven,” said Driscoll, his eyes riveted on the road ahead.

“Barrows must be in the crosshairs, too. No?”

“I'd say so. The flack is flying from the Mayor's office on down. I'll bet you at least three people will be reassigned before this is all over. I'm just praying I'm not one of them.”

“Say a little prayer for me, will ya?”

“You're insulated. I'll be their number-one target.”

“The Mayor losing ground in the polls sure as hell doesn't help matters, does it?”

“The pressure's always relentless when politics is involved. But it's not politics that's gonna catch this guy. We are. This psycho is bound to slip up. They all do. And when he does, we'll be there to nab him.”

“The son of a bitch.”

“So much for business. What's going on in Margaret's world?”

“I started a new yoga class.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. You ought to try it. It's great for stress relief.”

“Does it come in pill form?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me know when it does. Extended-release capsules would be even better.”

“Really. It wouldn't hurt to consider it.”

“Between the job and Colette, I don't have much time for anything extracurricular.”

Margaret felt as though she had detonated a land mine. “Has there been any change in Colette's condition?”

“None.”

Driscoll hated that word.
None
. It was so final. So hopeless. Yet he knew it was the one word that succinctly summed up the chance of his wife ever regaining consciousness. Goddamn it! What he hated even more was his inability to do anything about it. He missed his wife terribly; the sound of her voice, her crooked little smile, the tilt of her head when she was in a seductive mood. Hell, speaking of
none
, he hadn't had sex since the week before his wife's accident. He remembered the mood of that night as though it were yesterday. He had worked a twelve to eight, and on his way home had stopped off at Hudson's wine shop for a bottle of Mondavi Merlot, her favorite wine. It made her frisky, she told him. They dined on steak au poive, listened to Francis Albert Sinatra, and moved from the dining room into the bedroom, where they made ravenous love while Old Blue Eyes's voice tiptoed in from the adjacent room, adding to the magic of their lovemaking. After the subtlety of murmurs and whispers, the pair fell asleep in each other's arms. On awakening, Driscoll found himself alone in his bed. The smell of strong coffee filled the bungalow. He lumbered into the kitchen, where he found his wife preparing a breakfast of toast and eggs. What he would do to recapture that moment, to turn back time, to set things right, if only to say goodbye.

The sound of a horn honking brought Driscoll back to the present. The Chevy inched forward in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The silence that had settled between Margaret and him was broken by Driscoll, attempting to close the door on his shattered dreams and slip back into the minutiae of life, hoping it would dispel his despair.

“I don't mean to downplay the yoga classes,” he said. “I'm sure they do wonders for you. But, if I had the time, working out in a gym would be more my style.”

“I tried that. Too many Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabes in sweat-stained polyester. A total turnoff for me.”

“Tattoos on a woman.”

“Tattoos on a woman?”

“Yeah, tattoos on a woman. My total turnoff.”

“C'mon. An intimately placed miniature tattoo wouldn't do it for you?”

“OK. I stand corrected. In just the right spot, a tiny rose or a miniature heart might.”

“Thank God! The man's alive.”

A smile creased Driscoll's face.

“So, which is it?” she asked.

“Which is what?”

“A rose or a heart?”

Driscoll's smile broadened. “It would depend on how discreet the placement.”

“I have a tattoo,” said Margaret, with the grin of a Cheshire cat.

“Lemme guess. The rose. And judging from the blush that colors your cheeks, you've picked one helluva place to hide it.”

“Damn it. You really know how to take the fun out of flirting.”

Silence returned to the pair. This time it was Margaret who broke it. Margaret, whose attempts at a love life always ended in disaster. So why was it she was suddenly attracted to her boss, of all people? Margaret was one tough cop, but when it came to relationships she felt totally inept. She thought of herself as a pre-adolescent neophyte. Relationships were to be avoided. But still, the attraction was there. That was unmistakable. She decided she'd have a go at it and hope for the best.

“Tell me. Would you ever consider seeing a woman again? I mean as a friend, that is.”

“I thought that's what we were. Friends.”

“We're good friends.” Did she want more? The thought frightened her, yet filled her with exhilaration at the same time. Goddamn it! What the hell was going on in that psyche of hers? She couldn't deny it. She was becoming attracted to all the little things he did and how he did them.
He's married, for God's sake! As in taken
. Still, the curious attraction continued. “I just thought we could go out. We don't have to call it a date. Just two friends going out. That's all.”

“Whether you're calling it a date or not, I thought it was the man who was supposed to ask the girl out.”

“That went out with Y2K. Besides, if I waited for you to ask we'd be nearing Y3K.”

“Oh, I get it. This is Relationships in the Twenty-first Century 101, and that makes it lady's choice. Is that it?”

“That's right. Whadya think?” There. She'd said it.

“You know my circumstances.”

Land mine time again
. “Say no more. I know the drill.”
Time to lighten up a bit. Fluff it off
. “Hey, you can't fault a girl for trying. But, one of these days, John Driscoll—”

“Just not today. Or anytime soon.”

“That's fine. A girl can wait.” My God! Did she just say that?

The colorful mural that adorned the side of the trailer on Houston Street featured Saint Sebastian bound to a Corinthian column. Arrows pierced his flesh.

The sign above the trailer's door read:

 

BODY PIERCING. IT'S NOT FOR EVERYONE
PROPRIETOR: JACK THE RIPSTER

 

Driscoll followed Margaret up the two rickety steps that led into the trailer and opened its aluminum door. Pushing aside a beaded curtain, the pair emerged inside a narrow reception area. A teenage girl, her hair styled in a Mohawk, waited there anxiously, dragging on a joint. Driscoll put aside the impulse to handcuff her.

“Want a hit?” the girl asked, offering the joint to Driscoll.

“No thank you,” he replied.

The Lieutenant stared at the tapestries of torture that blanketed the trailer's walls. One featured a tonsured monk, stripped of his habit, stretched across the rack. Tears welled, frozen in the cleric's eyes, as the hooded executioner wielded the iron rod. A second depicted a medieval beheading in progress. A third displayed the body of a nubile young girl impaled on the lance of an armored knight.

A seam down the center of that particular tapestry opened, and a huge man entered the reception area. A leather apron draped him like a breastplate.

“Lester Gallows?” Margaret asked.

“I am. And you must be cops. Another license violation? I assure you—”

The teenager scooted toward the exit and disappeared.

“This isn't about a license,” Driscoll answered.

“What, then?”

“Suppose we ask the questions,” Margaret said. “It's about this.” She showed him the ring.

“Where'd you find that?”

“You just answer the questions,” Driscoll said. “Does the ring look familiar?”

Gallows took the ring from Margaret's hand. “It's mine all right.”

“Do you remember who bought it?”

Recollection flashed in his pupils. “Yeah, I remember…blond bombshell…a little skanky…Wanted to try out the ring right after I put it in her. I told her she's gotta let it heal first, but she wanted to get it on right then and there. So I balled her. What the hell. Then she wanted me to put in another one. I told her I'd make one to match. The bitch never came back.”

The audacity of this man offended Driscoll. Driscoll thought of his daughter, Nicole. How could this man speak so cavalierly about a young woman? He'd seen a lot on the job, but this type of irreverence he found disdainful.

“What did you do with the other ring?” Margaret asked.

“Still have it.”

“We'd like to see it.”

“It's in the back.”

“Let's go get it.”

Driscoll and Margaret followed Gallows into the back room. A bloodstained dentist's chair sat in its center.

“Some operatory,” Margaret grimaced.

Gallows opened drawers, then unsealed cardboard boxes, porcelain jars, and metal canisters. “Where is the damn thing?” he grumbled.

“Better be here,” said Driscoll.

The man's hand reached for a Russian doll. Snapping back its head, he emptied the contents of its hollow chest into his massive palm. Out popped a gold crucifix, a penis-shaped pen, a miniature knife, and the ring. A smile formed on Gallows's face.

“Did you get her name?” Margaret asked.

“Monique.”

“Monique what?”

“Beats me. She paid cash.”

“Wha'd you know about her?”

“Not much. Only in here once.”

“When was that?”

“About two months ago. She told me what she wanted, and I fitted her with the ring. No anesthetic for this one. She seemed to get off on the pain. I told her to come back in a week so I could take out the sutures, but she didn't want to wait. Like I said, she insisted I do her then, right there in the chair.” Gallows studied Driscoll's stare. Realization registered. “Someone killed her. That's what this is about. Right?”

“Been to the beach lately?” Driscoll asked.

“I hate the beach.”

“What's not to like?” asked Margaret.

“I'm a hemophiliac. The sand is littered with jagged shells and broken glass.”

Driscoll's mind raced. Had something ugly ensued between Gallows and the girl to turn him into a killer? Or was he merely an opportunist gaining profit on a new wave of exhibitionism, and nothing more?

“I know what you're thinking,” Gallows said. “But I don't get off on murder. I get off on scarification.”

“When do you know when to stop?”

“Hemophiliacs don't do homicide. That's for real, man. You can look up the statistics.”

Driscoll continued to stare at the man. He had done the piercing and had gotten off on the intimacy with the girl. That was for certain. But did he kill her? His instincts said no.

Colm saw red: the blazing red nail polish that painted the brunette's fingernails, the crimson adorning her toes, and a spot of red marring the waxy white of her eyes. In her fevered attempts to free herself from her bindings, a vein had exploded, flooding her retina with blood. Both eyes now teared, screaming of the atrocity committed on her flesh, while the sheen of those eyes reflected the frenzy of her executioner. But Colm was immune to the mute cry for clemency that her gaze transmitted.

Her resistance to the paracin trichloride and parasolutrine mixture was unnerving. His Casio flashed 2:48
A.M
. He had waited the required fifteen minutes for the 20 cc's to perform their wonder, but to no avail. He reloaded the syringe and injected her vein with another dose of the elixir. It was now 2:51
A.M
. The second dose did the trick.

Colm's heart stirred. He picked up her pocketbook and scrounged inside.

“Amelia Stockard,” he read from a credit card. “Such a classy name. Let me tell you, Miss Stockard, your e-mails were more amusing than most. And to think you once dated the late Charles F. Brunner, a former Sanitation Commissioner of Hoboken. Well, that entitles you to one hell of a resting place, young lady.”

He grinned at his unconscious captive, then hoisted her over his shoulder and headed for the meat hook that hung suspended from the crossbeam in the center of the operatory. Once there, he turned her body to face him, and lining up the hook with the third and fourth rib, he pressed her body against its point. The steel pierced the right lung on its way to the heart, which it entered at the left ventricle. A spasm rocked his hostage. Her lungs flooded with fluid, and she began to gurgle. Blood dribbled from her nose and trickled onto her fuchsia blouse.

The sight of the blood staining her blouse disturbed him. He unbuttoned the garment, removed it, and tossed it into the kitchen sink, which he had filled with warm water and a squirt of Woolite.

Her Playtex bra was now blood soaked as well. He used a small scissors to slice it free, and tossed it in with the blouse. Her skirt, stockings, and panties followed. He positioned a bucket under her feet to catch the remaining blood. How ashen white she had become, in contrast to her scarlet flow.

Once she was bloodless, Colm unhooked her and loaded her onto the meat-cutting block, where the surrounding sawdust gave off a brassy smell.

The boning knife was pitiless to the muscles surrounding the humerus, hacking away the resilient tendons without scoring the bone. He turned his attention next to the brunette's hindquarters, then on to her lower extremities.

After decapitation by cleaver, he dunked her head into the vat of sulfur trioxide and watched its jubilant effervescence. It was less toilsome to dislodge the flesh from the skull with the acid solution. It avoided nicking the gentle veneer of the bones. Past mistakes had taught him that facial bone was more subtle and could be easily damaged by a sharp tool. The hands and feet would be next.

Ray Orbison's “Pretty Woman” blared from the surround-sound speakers. It was the perfect accompaniment for the meeting of blade to flesh. He had chosen well. His musical taste was impeccable.