Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

Thomlinson walked north on Yellowstone Boulevard, searching for the car. As he walked he noticed a line outside a local bodega. Curiosity got the better of him, and he made his way over to the store to see what was going on.

“What’s up?” he asked the last man on line.

“Two hundred fifty-two million dollars is what’s up, my brother.”

Of course! The Mega Millions lottery, he thought. One of the biggest payoffs in history, and he’d almost walked right by it. He took his place in line, figuring Driscoll wouldn’t mind. Hell, if he won, he might give Driscoll a million or two. It was the Lieutenant who had stood by him when all the others had turned their backs on him.

As the line slowly shuffled toward the store’s counter, Thomlinson began to dream about what he would do with all that money. It would mean a new life for him. He could finally go home. For good. Home, where it was warm. Home, where he could escape New York City and its cold, relentless winters. He had always longed for the sun and the glistening sand of his native Trinidadian beaches.

It would also take him away from all the stares, the whispers, and the looks. Away from the accusing eyes and the contempt that was directed toward him. Hell, the city could keep its pension. As a big winner he would walk into the Commissioner’s office, throw his shield on the desk, and, without a word, turn and walk out the door. It was every cop’s fantasy. So, why not his?

The line moved forward slowly, and it was twenty minutes before he got to play his numbers. He shoved the tickets into his shirt pocket and resumed his search for the car.

The car was parked in a bus stop 200 feet from the bodega. He got in, started her up, and turned on the radio. Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff” blared from twin speakers. That’s it. It must be a sign, he thought to himself. Yes, Mr. Lottery Director, I’ll take the full cash payout, no installments for me, thank you.

As he pulled away from the curb, three uniformed cops stopped to stare at the crazy detective who was singing at the top of his lungs.

Moira slammed the door behind her, bound down the steps, and ran past the hedges onto the sidewalk. She looked up and down the street, but didn’t see the car she was expecting. She paced back and forth. Her thoughts were of Driscoll. He had yelled at her in front of his men and had embarrassed her. And now he needed her help again. This time, it’s gonna cost him big time, she thought.

Pierce couldn’t believe his luck. There she was, right out in the open. He could tell by her actions that she was waiting for a ride. But from whom? Caution flags unfurled in Pierce’s brain. After a couple of minutes of hesitation, he seized the moment and acted.

He waited until she turned her back on him and then eased the van out of its parking spot and slowly made his way down the street. As he pulled up next to Moira, he rolled down the window and smiled. He would follow her lead.

“Driscoll send you?” she asked, visibly puzzled.

“That he did. Hop in.”

“I was expecting Cedric.”

“He got called away, so they sent me instead.”

He was a nice-looking man in a tailored suit. Moira decided he looked the part and got in.

“I’m Detective Sweeney,” Pierce said, as he stuck out his hand.

“Moira,” said the girl as she shook it.

Pierce eased the van away from the curb and stopped at the corner. He turned to face his prize. “Moira, I dropped my cell phone, and I think it slid behind your seat. Could you reach around and grab it for me?”

“Sure,” said Moira, bending her body away from Pierce.

With a rag soaked in Halothane, Pierce smothered the girl’s face. Moira quickly succumbed to the powerful elixir, and a gleeful Colm Pierce now had a new toy to play with.

By the time Thomlinson got to Moira’s house, the girl was nowhere to be found. He rang Moira’s bell. Her mother told him the last time she saw her daughter was when she was pacing the sidewalk waiting for her ride. That was twenty minutes ago.

Thomlinson used the car’s police radio to contact Driscoll. “Lieutenant, I’m outside Moira’s house, but the girl’s not here. Her mother says she was waiting outside the house for me. She call you?”

“No. I haven’t heard a word from her.” A feeling of dread came over Driscoll. “Cedric, start knocking on doors and see if anyone saw her in the last half hour or so. Get back to me, pronto.”

“OK. Anything else?”

“Yeah. What the hell took you so long? It’s a half hour ride, and it took you close to an hour.”

“I hit construction on the Belt. It was backed up solid,” Thomlinson lied.

“OK. Start knocking on doors and get back to me.”

Within ten minutes Thomlinson was back on the phone to Driscoll. “Lieutenant?”

“What have you got?”

“A lady down the street saw Moira get into a van and leave about a half hour ago. She says she wasn’t really paying attention, but she’s sure it was a van. Nothing else. Just a van. She doesn’t even remember what color it was.”

Driscoll felt sick in the pit of his stomach. He has her. His policeman’s instinct told him so.

“Detective Thomlinson, get your ass back here now!” Driscoll hung up without another word.

As he drove back toward the precinct, Cedric pondered his fate. He was far too good a detective not to know the girl was in danger. For the second time in his life, his mistake had put another human being in harm’s way. He retrieved the Lotto tickets from his shirt pocket, ripped them in half, and tossed them out the window. There would be no warm winter back home, no early resignation, and no escape from his fellow officers’ looks of disdain.

He saw the sign for KELLY’S BAR up ahead. Veering the car toward the curb, he pulled into a spot out front. Stepping out of the car, he opened the wide oak door and slipped inside. Wordlessly, Detective Second Grade Cedric Thomlinson stepped out of the light and into the shadows that were his past.

Twice that night, Driscoll’s sleep was shattered by the whine of distant sirens. Each time he had dashed to the window, only to stare at a deserted shoreline. Sleep starved, he pondered what Margaret had reported to him concerning the DA’s daughter. She had interviewed Doctors Astin, Galina, and Pierce, along with the ICU nurse, Susan Dupree. What Driscoll found curious was that Nurse Dupree had indicated that Doctor Pierce, a radiologist, had tried repeatedly to revive Clarissa using defibrillator paddles. Now what was a radiologist doing in a pediatric ICU with defibrillator paddles? Margaret further reported that all three doctors were at the girl’s side when she suffered a massive heart attack and died, despite the extreme measures exercised to bring her back. Had the cardiac arrest been a result of the injuries she had sustained? None of the physicians believed so. Her autopsy indicated no link as well. So why the heart failure? And what about the conversation she had had with Godsend over the Internet? Where did that fit in?

Driscoll had dozed off with the TV on, tuned to New York 1, an all-news channel. His eyes became fixed to the screen as Aaron Miesner announced breaking news: “This morning, at 4:32 A.M., security officers at Pinelawn Cemetery reported that a mausoleum had been desecrated, and a body interred in its white marble chamber had been mutilated. The butchered remains have been identified as those of Clarissa Parsons, the daughter of Manhattan’s District Attorney, Jack Parsons-”

The telephone rang. Driscoll answered it. The DA’s voice roared in his ear.

“Jesus Christ, John. If you can’t defend the dead, what am I paying you for?”