Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“I got my orders from Captain Hollis, Lieutenant. No one’s to be let inside. And he means no one.”

“They’ll be with me.”

“I’d like to accommodate you-”

“Then let us in.”

“But I’ve got my orders.”

“You just got new ones.”

The officer stared hopelessly at Driscoll. “I’ll have to check. Give me a minute.”

Driscoll shrugged, and the officer walked down the corridor to a wall phone.

“Margaret, why don’t you accompany these folks to the cafeteria?” Driscoll suggested. “It may take a few minutes to reconcile the situation.”

“We’re not going anywhere until we see our daughter,” said Mr. Tiernan.

“How about I take the kids for a soda?” said Margaret.

“I wanna see Moira,” said Timothy, red faced.

“They’ll wait right here with us,” said Mrs. Tiernan.

The policeman returned and spoke to Driscoll. “I’m sorry sir, the Captain’s orders don’t apply to you.” He opened the door to let the Lieutanant in.

“They’re coming with me,” Driscoll announced as he ushered the family inside. Then the Lieutenant’s eyes widened. Moira’s body was completely encased in plaster, the shell strategically punctured by catheters and tubes to allow for respiration and feeding. There were two slits for the eyes and two apertures for the nostrils.

All heads turned as Doctor Stephen Astin came into the room to check on his young patient. “Her bones were fragmented, some of them pulverized,” he reported.

Mrs. Tiernan’s face drained of all color. She stood frozen, staring at the plaster cocoon that contained Moira.

“How could someone do such a thing to our little girl?” Mr. Tiernan asked. “He’s crushed our Moira. Do you know what it feels like to see your only daughter shattered, Lieutenant?”

“More than you know.”

The Lieutenant’s eyes were brimming with tears. Not since Nicole’s death had he felt so heartbroken. And why not? Hadn’t Moira become his daughter in Nicole’s absence? He cast a look at the girl, this madman’s latest victim. And as his eyes took in the living and breathing plaster mummy that Moira had become, his rage was set aflame. The son of a bitch had made it personal. And by doing so, he had signed his own death certificate.

As Driscoll stepped away from Moira’s bedside, his eyes met those of the Tiernan family. It pained him to witness the emotional damage that had been inflicted upon them.

Their daughter had been savagely brutalized, and Driscoll knew why. This heartless assault was a message. The killer could have murdered the girl and boned her like all the others. But he didn’t. He chose to let Moira live, a cripple for life. She would be an ever-present reminder to Driscoll of his meddling. He was telling the Lieutenant to back off. Like hell he would! If it took assigning legions of policemen, Driscoll would track down this bastard and dole out vengeance.

As Driscoll scanned the room, a feeling of claustrophobia overtook him. He fought the urge to pound the walls, send a quake throughout the building, wake up the dying, call attention to the living. For he knew Moira lay somewhere between the two. Why, he asked himself, had the women closest to his soul met with tragedy at such an early age? His mind began to race. He found himself inside the Plymouth Voyager that carried Colette and his daughter on that ill-fated day in May. He imagined throwing his body over Nicole’s as the gasoline tanker collided with the family van. Was that some sort of silent death wish? Was that what was going on inside his guilt-ridden head? Here, now, was Moira, another daughter in his charge. He should have stopped her from the start. What was he thinking? How could he have allowed her to step into the path of a murderer? It was because of him that Moira was so horribly victimized. He was certain of that. That reality would follow him to his grave.

He approached Moira and gently placed his hand on her plaster-encased shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. I know I’ll never forgive myself.”

Thomas O' Callaghan

Bone Thief

“What’d he do?” the rookie patrolman asked.

Richie Winslow, the veteran detective, shot a disdainful glance at the prisoner in the holding cell.

“This here’s a vandal,” said Winslow.

“He looks a little old to be a graffiti artist. What’d he vandalize?”

“Our friend here got a yen for earth-moving equipment. He poured a pint of maple syrup into the diesel fuel tank of a bulldozer. Speaking directly to the prisoner, he asked, “Now whad’ya go and do that for?”

Colm winced. He felt caged, ensnared inside the Old Brookville Police Department’s holding cell. “How long will I be held here?”

“As long as it takes!”

The phone purred on Winslow’s desk. He spoke briefly, then turned to his prisoner.

“Your medical degree just bought you a desk appearance ticket.”

“Does that mean you’re letting me go?”

“For now. Tomorrow, you’ve got an 8:00 A.M. appointment with a man in a black gown. And you’d better have lost your taste for pancakes.”

Driscoll kept being hammered by the DA, the Mayor, and the Police Commissioner. He felt as though his head were a drum and everyone from the Mayor on down were pounding away with their drumsticks. He couldn’t stop his mind from racing. Moira’s circumstances kept coming to the forefront of his thoughts. Burdened with guilt, he summoned Margaret and Thomlinson to his office for a brainstorming session. He needed to get his mind back on the case and to restore his sanity.

“Cedric, are you all right? You look a little pale.”

Driscoll knew. Thomlinson was sure of it. He’d wait until the case was resolved to deal with it. “A little touch of the flu,” he said.

Driscoll shot him a look. A look that said “we should talk.” The moment passed in silence. It was Driscoll who broke it. “Have the tech wizards figured out the password to Moira’s hard drive yet?”

“Fraid not,” said Margaret.

“They’re being overpaid.”

“What is it with the bones?” she asked.

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

“And our guy takes the whole lot. What the hell does he do with them?”

“Maybe he’s rebuilding his ladies from the inside out,” said Thomlinson. “Sorta like the serial killer in Silence of the Lambs. Remember? The guy was sewing together pieces of flesh he had carved from the bodies of his victims.”

Margaret poured herself a cup of coffee. “Flesh on top of bone. Now there’s a thought. Maybe our guy reads the Old Testament.”

“I’m listening,” said Driscoll.

“‘And I will lay sinews upon you and will bring up flesh upon you and cover you with skin.’ Ezekiel. Chapter 37, verse 6,” she said.

Driscoll was astounded that Margaret was so familiar with liturgical verse. He looked at her and smiled. “Lord knows he wouldn’t be the first Bible-savvy predator.”

“In Kings, they actually talk about bones being stolen,” said Thomlinson.

Driscoll was impressed. “You guys might really be on to something.”

“So, we’ll add that to the profile. Our guy may be driven by particular scenes from the Bible,” said Thomlinson.

“We could use a bone specialist,” said Driscoll. “Margaret, aren’t you dating a bone man?”

“One date. Lunch in a hospital cafeteria. I’d hardly call that dating.”

“But you did say he had suggested dessert somewhere else. He’s opened the door for you. Why don’t you give the good doctor a call and ask him out to dinner. That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. This is the twenty-first century, remember?”