Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“Suction!” ordered Doctor Stephen Astin, a stethoscope to the victim’s chest. “We’ve got pulmonary blockage.”

As a nurse intubated the patient, pink froth filled the plastic tube, draining pieces of lung into the metallic sink.

“Hypotension!” hollered Astin. “Give me two units of O-negative, and a mixture of Ringers and dextran. Now! And get her scanned for correct type.”

A bluish hue receded from Clarissa’s face as the suction cleared the pulmonary alveolus. Intravenous infusion pumps were dragged in to inject fresh serum into the girl’s arteries.

“Anyone know who she is?” asked Astin.

“Clarissa Parsons,” the lead nurse replied.

“Any relation to the DA?”

“She’s his daughter.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Doctor Colm Pierce as he entered the room holding a collection of X-rays.

When Driscoll arrived at Police Headquarters, he was immediately surrounded by a swarm of newspaper reporters and television newscasters. Microphones were jammed within inches of his face, while TV cameras captured his every movement. The reporters asked question after question.

“Lieutenant, are you any closer to finding the killer that’s murdering our city’s female citizenry?”

“Is it true Miss Stockard was pregnant?”

“Do you have any news at all that you can share with the public that might make them feel less fearful?”

Driscoll’s gaze fell upon Jessie Reynolds, one of New York’s more considerate newscasters. She had been following the crime beat for years. When he spoke, his comments were directed at her. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Department has a team of thirty dedicated detectives assigned to the case. I assure you that every effort is being made to capture the madman that has declared war on New York City.”

“What about Miss Stockard?” a voice cried out. “Is it true she was going to have a baby?”

“I can’t answer that question. The Medical Examiner’s office has not yet finalized its findings.”

Driscoll’s cell phone rang. He fought his way through the crowd of news-hungry reporters and stepped inside the lobby of One Police Plaza.

“Driscoll here.”

“Lieutenant, it’s Liz. We’ve got an address for you on the Stockard woman. She lived at 128 East Ninety-fourth Street. An apartment house turned condo on the Upper East Side. She was the only authorized shopper on her Saks charge card, and we have the list of purchases for the last year. Nothing really stands out except for a bottle of men’s cologne she purchased two months ago. Everything else is routine.”

“Liz, I want you and Luigi to go to her residence and give it a thorough search. See if it leads us anywhere. Question the super. I need to know who her acquaintances were and if she was romantically involved. Before you leave the building, slide a tip card under each of her neighbor’s doors.”

“You got it.”

When Driscoll pocketed his cellular, he thought about the volley of questions that were just directed at him. What business was it of theirs whether Miss Stockard was pregnant or not? That particular question offended him. It served only to feed the frenzied news-mongers. How despicable and crass humans could be, he thought as he headed for the bay of elevators that would take him upstairs to the Command Center.

As Driscoll rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor, his cellular rang again. This time it was Larry Pearsol, the Medical Examiner. He let Driscoll know that he had run the DNA from the Stockard fetus against the known sex offenders list, but he had gotten a no-hit.

Luck wasn’t with him today, Driscoll thought. Maybe it would be tomorrow.

Driscoll was behind the wheel of his Chevy heading for 128 East Ninety-fourth Street, Amelia Stockard’s residence. Detectives Butler and Vittaggio had run into a snag. The building manager had refused to let the two detectives search the deceased woman’s condo without a proper warrant.

Liz Butler had been in contact with Andrea Gerhard, an assistant district attorney. Since it was unknown where the Stockard woman was killed, Ms. Gerhard had agreed to write a crime scene warrant for the Stockard condominium, on the premise that dead people have no expectation of privacy. Thomlinson had already sent an officer downtown to pick up the warrant and have it signed by Judge Creedey. By the time Driscoll reached the East Ninety-fourth Street complex, the signed warrant, its truthfulness attested to by the affiant, was in the hands of Detective Butler. But when he pulled up in front of the six-story building, Butler and Vittaggio were standing outside.

“What are you two doing out here?” he asked. “You’ve got the warrant, right?”

“Yeah, we got the warrant. But we thought it best to wait for you,” said Detective Vittaggio.

“How come?”

“This ain’t no south Jamaica crack house, Lieutenant. It’s a multimillion-dollar complex. The lobby looks like something out of Architectural Digest.”

Driscoll nodded. He understood their apprehension. The last thing they needed was some Park Avenue lawyer accusing them of stealing a dead woman’s Rembrandt.

“Well, I’m here,” said Driscoll. “Let’s go.”

The sign on the door read BUILDING MANAGER. A fancy name for a super, thought Driscoll. After a knock, the door opened, and there stood Jonas McPartland.

“Back again?” he asked.

“I’m Lieutenant Driscoll. You’ve already met Detectives Butler and Vittaggio. We now have a warrant to search apartment 4E.”

“Oh my! You guys are quick. I’ll still have to check with the Board’s attorneys.”

McPartland was not what Driscoll expected. He was impeccably dressed in a Brooks Brothers three-piece suit. He was short, with close-cropped hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He seemed rather effeminate to Driscoll, a far cry from some Moe with a rag sticking out of his back pocket pushing a janitor’s bucket.

“Mr. McPartland, we are here as a courtesy to you. The warrant is signed by a judge, and we will enforce it with or without your Board’s OK.”

“Of course, Lieutenant, of course. We always try to cooperate with the authorities. I just wanted to check with my superiors. We don’t usually have this type of disturbance in the building. It’s very unsettling.”

“I understand, Mr. McPartland. It would be helpful now if you would provide us with a key. It will save us from breaking down the door.”

“Oh, please don’t do that. What would the residents think? Just give me a minute.” The little man scurried away and reappeared a few seconds later, holding a set of keys.

“Lead on, Mr. McPartland.”

When they reached the apartment, McPartland opened the door and then turned to walk away. Driscoll said, “No, you stay. You’re going to witness the search. This way there can be no accusations later that something is missing.”

“As you wish. I’m here to help.”

The apartment was bigger than Driscoll’s house. It was immaculate. Everything was in its place, giving the appearance that no one lived there.

“Did Ms. Stockard live alone?” Driscoll asked McPartland.

“Why, yes, yes she did. She did have a woman who cooked and cleaned, but she went home after dinner every night.”

“I’ll need any information you have on that woman.”

“Of course.”

“Lieutenant, take a look in here.” It was Liz, calling from the master bedroom.

“What have you got?” Driscoll asked, stepping inside the room.

“Men’s cologne. It’s about three-quarters full. I’ll bet my pension it’s the credit-card purchase from Saks. Strange, though, there’s no other sign of a man anywhere. No clothes in the closet. No razor or toothbrush in the bathroom. Even the toilet seat is down.”