Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“1984,” answered Driscoll.

“Well, the last house that had that address burned down in ’68. A young girl and her parents burned to death in the blaze. C’mon, I’ll take ya there.”

Karp and Driscoll walked to what once was 1172 Mackmore Lane. The vacant lot, stretching between two Victorian homes, was a field of weeds.

“The townies, they won’t go near it,” said Karp. “They swear the lot’s haunted.”

“Did you know the residents?” asked Driscoll.

“No. Only the stories.”

“And what do they say?”

“That the occupants of that house were into pain,” Karp said, his eyes fixed just above the tufts of wild weeds. “Lots and lots of pain.”

“You said a young girl and her parents were lost in the fire. Were there any survivors?”

“A young boy.”

“What became of him?”

“Last I heard, he was adopted by the well-to-do Pierce family in Manchester.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, Cyrus, but, how is it you know that?”

“Cause Hortonville’s a small town, where everybody knows everyone else’s business.”

Driscoll veered the Chevy into the driveway of Edgar and Charlotte Pierce’s estate in Manchester. Japanese pine trees dotted the lawn. Sculptured bushes bordered fields of red calla lilies in flamboyant bloom. Two bronze Siamese lions stood guard in front of a portal of carved wood.

“You must be Lieutenant Driscoll.” A Chinese valet ushered Driscoll into a vast reception room. “May I offer you some green tea?” he asked.

“Coffee, please.”

The valet vanished, leaving Driscoll alone. He felt as though he had entered a gallery in some museum. On one wall, a painted Japanese screen depicted soldiers in armor, brandishing swords, decapitating a row of human heads emerging from the sand. Many heads had already been severed, their blood dyeing the earth. The spectacle was watched by a bearded man in pink robes who reclined on a sedan chair. That must be the Emperor, Driscoll surmised, and wondered why he had ordered such a bloodbath.

“There sits Zheng, a passionate sort of fellow,” said a voice behind him.

He turned to find a silverhaired woman in a long, fluid dress sashaying toward him. “The chap beheaded thousands of freethinkers.”

“Your interior decorator has some sense of the macabre,” said Driscoll, shaking her hand.

“Oh, no, Lieutenant. My decorator, Gustave D’Ambroise, protested at first, but how could I resist Premier Lin Piao? He insisted I display it. Regrettably, we women are at the mercy of powerful men. Well, in any event, I’m Charlotte. You said on the phone you wanted to talk about Colm.”

“That’s right. I do.”

Charlotte Pierce motioned for Driscoll to take a seat on an upholstered sofa.

“Shall we start with when we adopted him?” she asked, seating herself on a high-backed chair.

“That’d be fine”

“We couldn’t legally adopt him until he left Wellmore.”

“Wellmore? A boarding school?”

“Oh no. It’s sort of a rest home for children, an enchanting place. My husband contributed largely to its continuance.”

“A psychiatric residence.”

“Yes, a child’s amusement park, if you will.”

“Why was Colm committed there?”

“You haven’t read the police report?”

“I didn’t know there was one.”

“He played with matches, the poor boy. He was fascinated with fire. Torched his house, I’m afraid. But he wasn’t known as Colm Pierce then. I can understand why you weren’t aware of the police report.”

“What was he known as?”

“Colm O’Dwyer.”

Driscoll made a note of the name. He now understood why he could find no records of Pierce before he received his driver’s license.

“Were there any casualties?” Driscoll asked.

“His parents, and possibly a sister. It still isn’t clear what happened to her. Colm managed to escape the flames by burrowing himself in the cellar.”

“Did he ever confess to his crime?”

“He was…catatonic. I believe that’s what they call it. Doctor Hudson, the neurologist at Wellmore, was quite certain the fire’s excessive heat brought on the condition. But a year later, he was back to normal, having recovered most of his memory. The fire was not part of his recollections, though. He went on to redeem himself marvelously during his stay at Wellmore, putting all the errors of his youth behind him. We’re very proud of his cure. He was released to our custody ten years later because of his admirable behavior and a true sense of moral conscience.”

“Why did you adopt him?”

“On Tuesdays, back then, I volunteered my services at Wellmore, helping the nursing staff. I just fell in love with the child.”

“Did your husband share your love?”

“Absolutely. Edgar and I had lost a son, so Colm was welcomed in our home. Edgar spoiled him lavishly. It was my husband who introduced him to the finer things in life.”

“I’d like to meet your husband.”

“I’m afraid Edgar can’t receive you. He suffers from Alzheimer’s.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Edgar has lost his ability to speak intelligently, but there is one word that he voices repeatedly, and that’s ‘Colm.’”

The valet entered with coffee service.

“Will you stay for lunch, Lieutenant?”

“Certainly, and after that I thought I’d visit Wellmore.”

“I’m afraid it’s past visiting hours.”

“In the middle of the day?”

She ignored the question. Instead, she reached for Driscoll’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “This house feels like a mausoleum at times. I do crave companionship, and I appreciate your visit, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why it is you’re here.”

Driscoll searched her face. It was sharp and angular and full of power. It expressed a tenacity he had rarely witnessed in a woman. He wondered what secrets she was hiding. Being mother to the boy, she must have known his every inclination.

“A patient died under your son’s care,” he said flatly, watching her every move.

“If this is about malpractice, we will compensate generously.”

A supportive mother? Or was there something else behind the gesture? “It’s about homicide.”

“And you think my son is involved in such an affair?”

“That’s what I’m trying to rule out.”

“Thank goodness! And are you any closer to finding the culprit?”

“We’re clueless,” he lied.

“I find your sincerity jarring. Who was it that was murdered?”

“A young girl.”

Charlotte reached for a cigarette from an antique box and lit it. Her face showed no emotion.

“Her parents have influence,” said Driscoll.

“Obviously.”

As the two proceeded down the long corridor to lunch, Charlotte Pierce, her arm entwined in Driscoll’s, whispered, “Be on your guard, the patients aren’t the only crazies at Wellmore. If I were you, I’d avoid the place.”

“Your concern is noted,” said Driscoll.

Driscoll thought Wellmore looked more like a golf resort than a psychiatric facility. A guard escorted him to the administrator’s office, where he was greeted by a man casually dressed in Levi’s and a Hawaiian shirt. A mane of blonde hair cascaded down to his shoulders.

“Are you Courtney’s dad?” the man asked.

“No.”

“Strange. You look just like Courtney.”

The door opened and a jovial woman entered, wheeling a computer monitor atop a utility table.

“May I help you?”

“I’m Lieutenant Driscoll.”

“Ah, yes, from New York. I’m Sarah Abbott. I see you’ve met Gunther Etteridge. He’s one of our residents.”