Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

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.

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.