Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“You mean some sort of replacement father figure?”

“No. An imago. It’s a clinical term. Suffice it to say, Margaret, the little girl, is looking to you for protection, all on an unconscious level, of course. Margaret the adult then translates that urgent need into something else. Something more grown-up, the best example being a relationship. It’s what two adults have when they’re attracted to each other, for whatever the reason. That’s how her conscious mind reconciles her feelings toward you.”

“So her feelings aren’t real.”

“There as real as these four walls, but they stem from her childhood. Her unconscious primal fear.”

Driscoll’s eyes widened. He then shook his head.

“You gotta be right, Elizabeth. I’ve been working with her for four years, but she’s only shown an interest in me since the onset of this investigation.”

“She can’t help herself. It’s a form of self-preservation rooted deep within her psyche.”

“So, the child in her is looking to me for protection and the adult is looking for a relationship.”

“You got it.”

“But I’m a married man!”

“You really like to beat that drum, don’t you? Tell me something. Do you honestly believe Colette would want you to spend the rest of your life alone?”

Driscoll looked plaintively at Fahey. He always felt like he was doing something wrong when asked to consider what Colette’s wishes might have been.

“The other night with Margaret, she had on this Johnny Mathis song, “Chances Are.” Was she trying to tell me something?”

“You’re the detective. What do you think?”

“Could be.”

“Could be? Does she have to wave a checkered flag?”

“But I shouldn’t even be in the race.”

“You, or the Irish Catholic altar boy that lives inside you?”

“Come on.”

Fahey hummed “Chances Are.”

Driscoll crossed his arms as though he had made a decision. “Checkered flag or no checkered flag, Margaret’s gonna be real disappointed.”

“Like she isn’t already?”

Driscoll sighed heavily.

“You know, Elizabeth, I can only admit this to you, but sometimes I wish Colette had died in that terrible accident. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No, John. It makes you human.”

Driscoll toyed with his wedding band and remembered the notion he had of it being a hangman’s noose. He had to admit that the feelings he had for Margaret were as real as the feelings he had for Colette. That truth was undeniable and inescapable. Sure, the feelings were different. Hell, the women were different. Though he wished he could, he couldn’t turn back the hands of time. He had crossed the line. He had acted on his feelings. Should he face the gallows for such an offense? All he did was kiss another woman. But it wasn’t just another woman, it was clearly a woman he had feelings for. While still married to Colette! He knew Elizabeth was right. This was all about guilt.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to change the subject,” he said.

“Does it have to do with the case you’re working on?”

“There you go, reading my mind again.”

“You want a therapist’s view on what makes him tick. No?”

“Exactly. Like I explained briefly on the phone, the guy is dissecting them and stealing their bones. What I didn’t say is that he’s taking their heads, hands, and feet, too. I wanna know why.”

“How does he leave what’s left of the bodies?”

“He nailed one to a boardwalk in Rockaway Beach. Another we found in an abandoned boathouse in Prospect Park. The third we recovered from the Canarsie Sanitation Dump. The last victim had been eviscerated and stuffed in a trash bag.”

“Why do I get the feeling your guy’s just warming up?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Your guy despises flesh. Feminine flesh. I’d say his crimes are not sexually motivated, not in the usual sense. He’s collecting something he needs and wants, and in each woman he goes for something hard and imperishable in their softness. Their bones. He’s a skilled cutter?”

“The guy knows his anatomy. Whadya figure his motive to be?”

“Did Genghis Khan need a motive to build mountains from human skulls? What you could have here is a display of an archaic war rite, where women are his quarry. He guts them and takes their skeletons as hostages. What he does with the head, hands, and feet puzzles me. But there’s a good possibility this savage has a war room, an intimate museum filled with the souvenirs of his expeditions. That’s where he’d store his human medals. You’ve got to find that treasure chamber, that gallery where he showcases his loot.”

“This sounds like Anthropology 101.”

“Sure it does. He’s got the mores of his Neanderthal ancestors.”

“So I should be looking for some guy covered in animal skin, wielding a stone ax?”

“More chance he’ll be wearing Armani.”

“Then I’ll have to strike at the beast behind the broad lapel.”

“Make it a sure strike.”

“Is he curable?”

“The prognosis is not in his favor.”

“Then I have no choice. I’ll have to take him down.”

“That’d be my advice.”

Driscoll looked haunted. “Is my hour up?” he asked.

“Twenty minutes ago.”

“Thanks for the extra time,” he said as he stood up. “As always, I feel better after seeing you.”

“Give some more thought to what I suggested about Colette’s wishes. The doctors are unanimous about her condition, aren’t they? She’s never coming out of the coma.”

Driscoll’s eyes were fixed in a blank stare.

Elizabeth continued, “But you don’t believe them, do you?”

“What are you getting at?”

“You haven’t given up on that fantasy, have you? You think she’s gonna get up from that bed and brew you some French Roast coffee. Tell me the truth. You’re just waiting for that day, aren’t you?”

“You don’t give up. Do you?” Driscoll said, smiling harshly.

“What kind of a therapist would I be if I did?”

Margaret and Driscoll were once again seated before the NYPD computer monitors inside Driscoll’s office at the Command Center. They were going through the motions of searching the Internet, but their thoughts were elsewhere. And so were their voices. Their awkward silence was interrupted only by the pecking of keys.

Thomlinson entered. A glaring look from Margaret told him he’d stepped into a minefield.

“Catch you guys later,” he said, ducking out the door.

Margaret lifted her fingers from the keyboard and did a one-eighty in her swivel chair. “I think we need to talk about it,” she said. “Ignoring it isn’t gonna make it go away.”

“You’re right. We do need to talk about it.”

“I’m not sorry it happened. Are you?” Please say you’re not.

“I can’t say that I’m sorry. But I gotta be honest with you, I am filled with guilt.”

“That’s a good sign. It means you have a conscience. But you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. You were only acting on true feelings. Right?”

“Yes, I was acting on true feelings, but I shouldn’t have had those feelings. I’m a married man.”

That she didn’t need to be reminded of. “Feelings are feelings. They’re neither good nor bad. They’re just feelings. You shouldn’t beat yourself up over having them.”

Driscoll fingered his wedding band. “It’s one thing to have the feelings. But it’s a whole other ball game when you act on them.”

Time to muster some courage, she thought as her heart pounded inside her chest. “I’m about to say something, John, that’ll have you thinking.”