Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

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.