Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

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.”