Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

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.”