Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“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.

The fibulas and tibias of the brunette’s legs just fit the kiln. It was designed to fire clay pottery, but was quite adequate for drying human bones. It was important that all of Colm’s relics be dehydrated and preserved. Without moisture they’d survive the insult of time, like those Inca kings who emerged intact after centuries buried in the dry sands of Peru. Colm stood by, motionless, embraced by the searing heat that permeated the small room, while the kiln performed its magic.

The ring of the oven’s timer shattered his reverie. He opened the kiln door and stared at his trophies, appreciating their purity. The bones were whiter than white, chalky. He longed to hold them, but he’d have to wait until they sufficiently cooled. Only then could the fondling commence.

A buzzer sounded, profaning the solemnity of the ritual. Colm shivered like a night creature in his burrow, narrowing his eyes to tiny cracks, straining to detect the slightest stirring from the outside world.

The buzzer sounded again. The resonance was unmistakable. He had a visitor at the gate. He turned on the security monitor. The image of a young girl filled the screen. She was no more than four feet tall. Her blue blazer and plaid, pleated skirt draped a thin frame. She had a curious smile, and she was alone.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked, his voice crackling through the outdoor speaker of his palatial estate.

“Would you like to buy some shortbread cookies?”

“Cookies. Now there’s a thought.”

Colm buzzed her in. The gate unlocked. He had plenty of time before she reached the door. Swiftly, he turned off the heat and headed for the vestibule. The doorbell sounded. He opened the door and invited her in.

“And you are from Saint Agnes Elementary,” he said, eyeing the insignia on her blazer.

“Sister Mary Sean is collecting for our missions in San Salvador.”

“Our missions?”

“Yessir, because of the war there are many orphans.”

The girl, perhaps twelve, looked more fragile in person than she did through the security monitor. Her glassy eyes revealed signs of malnutrition. Poverty was etched all over her skin.

“I do have a sweet tooth,” he said.

“The cookies have been blessed by Monsignor Carlucci.”

“Delighted.”

“Smells like something’s burning,” she whispered, sniffing the air.

“You’ve got me there. I’m an awful cook.”

Colm disappeared, leaving her in the vast, well-appointed living room. When he returned, she was nowhere in sight.

It was going to be a room-to-room search, was it? All twenty-two of them, throughout the mansion? The thought intrigued him. He had never hunted a Catholic schoolgirl before.

“What took you so long?” she grinned, emerging from behind an Oriental screen, her snooping interrupted.

“I thought, for a minute, you wanted to play hide-and-seek,” he replied.

“No time for that. I’m here on a mission,” she said. “And that is to help the missions. Gee, I made a joke.” She giggled. “Anyways, it’s really, really important to help our missions, so can I count on you to buy some cookies? Please?”

The vision of her skeleton, her bones, like twigs of malnourished brush, exhilarated him. But her ashen skin told of unnamed deficiencies and genetic defects. She’d make a pale trophy in a room full of glorious relics.

“Would you like to taste one of the cookies?” she asked, opening the near-empty box with spindly fingers.

Colm envisioned the bones below those fingers, like white pebbles chiseled and polished by the tide. The urge to suck them was compelling. His craving became intense.

“I’d like that,” he murmured.

She approached, offering a chocolate-covered shortbread like a priest dispensing the Eucharist. The proximity of her fingers was maddening. “Come on, take a little bite.”

He quickly took hold of her hand, his lips avoiding the shortbread and nibbling her pinkie instead. His head lolled in bliss. To mask his perversion, he gulped the cookie whole.

“Those are three dollars and fifty cents,” she stammered, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. She withdrew her hand and gawked fearfully at the tip of her pinkie finger. “Maybe I should go now.”