Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

We finished up at 5 A.M., so I told Butler and Vittaggio to come in for the 4 to 12. Cedric will be in at 8 to field any questions. I’ll shoot for a 2 to 10 but I am pretty beat, and may not make it in till 4. See you then…Margaret

PS. Here’s something that’ll make your day. Bellevue Hospital called. They’re holding a homeless man there who claims to have seen some goings-on under the boardwalk in Rockaway. Looks like God closed one window while opening a door. M

The derelict was wearing Bellevue’s vomit-green hospital gown, which flapped open in the rear, revealing a bruised and lacerated patch of skin on his right buttock. His hair was matted, and his beard looked weedy and abandoned. As two old codgers played cards at a table near the nurse’s station, the derelict watched the goings-on through the wire-meshed window of his cramped room.

“I gotta go pee,” he muttered, venturing out into the corridor, heading for the communal lavatory across the hall. Just as the old-timer was pulling open the bathroom door, he heard his name spoken.

“Mr. Heath.”

“I gotta go pee,” he grumbled.

“I am Lieutenant Driscoll. We need to talk.”

“Look fella, I got a quart of Glenlivet in my gut. I gotta flush it out.”

“Glenlivet? That’s fifty dollars a bottle!”

“I hit it big in Keno last night,” the vagrant replied, smiling through missing teeth. “Can I go pee now?”

“All right. But make it quick.” Driscoll leaned against the tiled wall and waited for the man.

The derelict reappeared. “Whoever cut these gowns got it all wrong. The fly belongs up front,” he muttered.

“We’ll use the office down the hall,” said Driscoll. The Lieutenant ushered the derelict into a small room with a metal desk and two brown swivel chairs. Driscoll motioned for the man to take a seat. “Are you James Heath?” he asked.

“If you say so.”

“Well, are you?”

“I’m told I am.”

“Who tells you?”

“Everybody.”

“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Heath?”

“No. Do you?”

“I ask the questions.”

“You’ll like my answers better if I get just a wee bit of Chivas.”

“They don’t serve alcohol here.”

“Plum wine, perhaps?”

“That’s alcohol.”

“I’m awful thirsty.”

“How about some mineral water?”

“I’ll pass. Why’m I here?”

“That’s what I asked you, Mr. Heath.”

“I remember the ambulance. Those guys in the ambulance brought me here.”

“You make your home under the boardwalk, is that correct?”

“What of it?”

“We found a blue-and-green plaid blanket under there. It belongs to you, right?”

“And I better get it back.”

“You were screaming when they found you, Mr. Heath.”

“I had…I had a bad dream,” he mumbled through quivering lips.

“Tell me about your dream.”

“It’s personal.” His face was now disfigured by dread.

“Mr. Heath, the ambulance attendant’s report states that you were at the scene of a murder, one that was committed less than thirty feet away from where you were huddled.”

“I didn’t see nothin’!”

“What you saw could be important to the police.”

“I was dreaming… Wasn’t I?”

“No, you were screaming when the police found you. It’s possible that you saw something, something that scared the hell out of you.”

“I wanna go! Now!” Heath yelled.

“Lower your voice. You don’t want to spend the night in the lockup, do you?”

“Let me outta here!” Heath produced a corkscrew and pointed it menacingly at Driscoll.

“Put that thing down!”

“Open the fuckin’ door!”

Exasperated, Driscoll leaned over the desk and forcibly grabbed the derelict by his throat. “Put it down on the desk, now.”

The derelict growled.

“Now, I said.” Driscoll applied more pressure to his hold.

Heath dropped the weapon.

“Tell me what you remember seeing that night,” Driscoll ordered, picking up the corkscrew and placing it in his pocket.

“Why do we hafta go back there?”

“The sooner you talk, the sooner they let you out of here.”

Heath’s eyes bulged. His lips began to quiver again as he spoke. “He was down on his knees, the whole time. Like he was doin’ somethin’ holy. First he cut up the girl’s body. I think she was already dead. Then he nailed her to the boardwalk. He kept hitting her with a ball-peen hammer, again, and again, and again.”

“Who was the girl? How did she get there?”

“I couldn’t help her, I really couldn’t. He hit her so hard.”

“Did you see the man’s face? Can you describe him for me?”

“It may have been the dead of night, but living under the boards gives ya the eyes of a cat. I’m tellin’ ya, I saw the guy.”

“Could you identify him?”

“He was goin’ at it real slow. Like he really got off on it.”

“Did the killer see you?”

“No way.”

The door opened, and a police sketch artist stepped into the room.

“I got here as soon as I could, Lieutenant. There was a tie-up on the Brooklyn Bridge. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Your timing is excellent, Kelly. Mr. Heath here is about to describe our killer.”

“I am?”

“Do you know what this is?” Driscoll asked, pointing to the artist’s chalk in Officer Kelly Gilmore’s fingers.

“I know nothin’.”

“C’mon, you musta been a kid once. You musta played with crayons and colored chalk.”

“I was born old.”

“All kids enjoy playing with chalk, even old ones.”

“So?”

“So, this nice lady came all the way in from Brooklyn to draw us a portrait on this here sketch pad. Why don’t you just sit in this chair and start remembering?”

“She’s a cutie,” Heath snickered.

“That she is. And now she has some questions for you.”

“But I ain’t got nothin’ more to say.”

“How ’bout his hair?” Gilmore asked. “Was it curly? Straight? Long? Short?”

“Hair is hair. It was on top of his head.”

“You gotta help me draw it. I wasn’t there.”

“I was there, lady, but it was dark.”

“You mean his hair?”

“C’mon, lady. It was dark as a witch’s ass.”

Driscoll was growing impatient. He figured he’d try a different approach. “Drop it, Gilmore! This witness is a waste. We’ve got better things to do than stand around and listen to his arrogance. The guy didn’t see anything. He’s as blind as a maggot and even smells like one.”

“Watch your tongue, Irishman,” Heath sneered, casting a glare at Driscoll.

“I’m outa here!” Driscoll growled.

“Wait for me,” Gilmore echoed, packing up her charcoal.

“Ba dhuthchas riamh d’ar gcine chaidh gan iompail siar o imirt air!” Heath shouted in Old Irish.

“What’s he raving about?” asked Gilmore as she made her exit with Driscoll.

“Something from Ireland’s national anthem,” Driscoll answered, his voice carrying back into the room.

“Hey! I’m not done yet!” Heath bellowed. “Your guy is one of us!”

Was Driscoll being baited by an alcoholic vagrant, or did the man really have something to offer? The Lieutenant stepped back inside the room. “You better not be pullin’ my chain,” he warned.

“He’s one of us,” Heath sighed. “Shame on him. A man of Erin.”

“What makes you so sure he’s an Irishman?”

“I sure didn’t see the blue of his eyes,” Heath muttered, “but I can tell you by his Gaelic tongue that the fiend was born and bred in Sligo.”

“Alcohol plays tricks on the mind, you know.”