Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“My mind works just fine. I, too, was born and bred in Sligo.”

In a flash, Driscoll realized he had stumbled upon his first substantial lead. Here in the confines of a psychiatric ward he had found the first witness to a psychotic killing. “Whadya friend from Sligo say?” he asked, cautiously.

“He was praying. Just kneeling there, praying.”

“A priest?” Gilmore asked.

“Hell, no! He was prayin’ in Old Irish over his kill.”

“Heath, can you remember the prayer?” Driscoll urged.

“That I’ll never forget.”

The drunk assumed the killer’s stance and moving slowly, as though he too enjoyed it, began hacking away at his invisible victim. “Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga!” he intoned.

“Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga,” Seamus Tiernan, Chairman of Columbia University’s Department of Celtic Studies, read. “To the sun and the moon and the stars, Lieutenant.”

Busts of Celts and Britons, with shields and battle axes, stood vigil over the scholarly office.

“Druidic, fifth century A.D., a ceremonial incantation. Probably used for a sacrifice,” Tiernan explained.

“Sheep and goats?” Driscoll asked.

“Roosters…and infants. True pagans. They believed they owned their children and could sacrifice them at will. Yes, Lieutenant, those were the dying gasps of heathenism in Northern Europe. Christianity saw that it didn’t last much longer.”

“Getting nostalgic?” Driscoll asked, an eyebrow raised.

“You’ve missed your calling, Lieutenant. It might have been the priesthood instead of the precinct.”

Driscoll recognized the tone in his voice. He had heard it many times before. It was the tone of someone who believed the police were a necessary evil. Someone to call when your car radio was stolen. It was a common affliction among the northeastern intelligentsia.

“Professor Tiernan, I have a few more questions.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I have papers to grade.”

“Tell me, Professor, in your world are papers more important than human life?”

“That’s your job Lieutenant, not mine.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you could help me.”

“All right, then. Fire away.”

“Are these Druids still practicing? Perhaps in the tristate area?”

Tiernan reached for his pipe and filled it with an aromatic mixture. A flame gushed from his Flaminaire as he fired the pipe’s chimney. “They may be,” Tiernan said cautiously.

“Maybe doesn’t cut it. Are they or not?”

“I really do have work to do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Driscoll reached in his pocket and pulled out several Polaroid crime-scene photos. “No. I won’t excuse you,” he barked. He threw the photos on Tiernan’s desk. “There, Professor. That’s his handiwork. Now, are you gonna help me?”

All of Tiernan’s attitude abandoned him. He seemed to shrink before Driscoll’s eyes. “Oh my God,” he kept repeating. “Oh my God!”

“Well, Professor?”

“There is a secret society. They meet in a small town called Fremont Center in upstate New York. I visited them once in my fanatic days. Druids, with genealogy back to the Old Sod. But, I’m not sure if the society still exists.” Tiernan was stammering.

“When was the last time you were there?”

“Christmas Day 1988. The winter equinox. Not since.”

“Can you get me in?”

“I don’t think so. Ever since I baptized my children, the society has shunned me.”

An awkward silence settled between the pair.

“Lieutenant?” Tiernan managed, eyes fixed on the photos.

“Yes, Professor?”

“I’m not feeling well right now. Perhaps we can continue this discussion at another time. Say, dinner, at my house on Saturday?”

“Thank you, Professor,” Driscoll said, wondering why Tiernan had made such a gesture. “I’d like to bring along a fellow detective. If that’s OK with you.”

“Please do. If you’re wondering why the invite, my wife fancies herself a mystery writer. She would love to meet a pair of true-to-life homicide detectives.”

“Then, Saturday it is,” said Driscoll.

“May I ask one favor of you, Lieutenant?”

“Sure, Professor. What is it?”

“Leave the pictures at home.”

“Fate steps in, you know,” Margaret managed as she sat in the passenger seat of Driscoll’s Chevy. The pair were on their way to Professor Tiernan’s house for dinner.

“And how’s that?” said Driscoll.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I recall, the last time we were together in this car we were talking about going out on a date.” There. She’d said it. An inner voice whispered she was taking a risk, but that same inner voice was insisting she disregard all caution flags and put herself out there, regardless of how vulnerable it made her feel.

“So?”

“So? What is it we’re doing right now?”

“I suggest you look at your watch. Our tour of duty began two hours ago. This ‘date,’ as you would have me call it, is part of an ongoing police investigation.”

Had he made a mistake by inviting her to dinner? It was police business, but shouldn’t he have known that Margaret would draw the wrong conclusion? And what was his own part in this? Was he unconsciously responding to Margaret’s advances? And if so, was he being unfaithful to his wife? The thought tormented him. He had vowed to be true to Colette, through good times and bad, through sickness and good health. It was one thing to indulge in the fantasy of infidelity, but quite another to dance perilously close to the rim of its hedonistic lure. And that’s what he was doing.

“You could have gone alone,” Margaret said.

“True. I could have gone alone.” Hell! I should have gone alone.

“But, you decided to ask me.” Margaret twisted nervously in her seat. “And that makes it a date.”

There was truth in what Margaret was saying, and Driscoll knew it. He had asked Margaret to accompany him to dinner because he had feelings for her. It being part of a police investigation helped Driscoll deal with his guilt. But his feelings for Margaret were genuine. Was he ready to share that with Margaret, or anyone else, for that matter? Hell, no! For now, he’d suffer in silence.

He stopped for a light on Bay Ridge Avenue and turned to face her. “We are two police officers investigating a series of brutal murders. We have been invited to dinner at the home of someone who may help us in our investigation. Whatever else you think this might be is in your very fertile imagination.”

“Listen, I know you’re my boss, and you’re a married man. I know all of that. But I can’t put aside these feelings I have for you as though they don’t exist, and I know deep in your heart, neither can you.”

“OK. Have it your way. But in the meantime, let’s not let our feelings get in the way of our investigation. Can we agree on that?”

“Absolutely.”

The arches above the white door were more suited to a London town house than as the facade of an Irish college professor’s residence.

The woman, framed in the illumination of the living room’s torchere, was a diaphanous presence, with light hair and aquamarine eyes. She offered the Lieutenant her long artistic hand. “Eileen Tiernan,” she murmured.

“I followed your husband’s suggestion and invited Sergeant Margaret Aligante as my guest.” Margaret’s eyes were locked on Driscoll’s as the pair were led inside the house.

“Are you the police?” a young child gushed, bursting into the room. “Will you take Timothy to jail?”