Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“Why don’t you read him my goddamn file, while you’re telling him everything about me?” said Etteridge.

“I do apologize,” said Ms. Abbott. “I’ll get Mr. Lazarus, Lieutenant.”

The facility’s administrator was a man with a massive bald head and a Prussian mustache. “What is it I can do for you?” he asked.

“I have some questions regarding one of your former patients, one Colm Pierce.”

“Ah! Young Colm, our star graduate.”

“I’d like to have a look at his records.”

The two men eyed each other. “Tell me Lieutenant, why the curiosity in young Colm?”

“We’re questioning a casualty at his hospital.”

“Malpractice is an insurance matter.”

“When it involves the daughter of a city official, everybody gets involved. I was hoping I could count on your cooperation.”

“How so?”

“I’d appreciate a tour of the place, and a look at Pierce’s records.”

“Out of the question.” Lazarus crossed his arms across his chest. “You must be familiar with doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“What is it you’re trying to conceal?”

Driscoll took an instant dislike to the man. He didn’t appreciate his obstinance. Was Lazarus intentionally withholding information that would shed some light on the investigation? That would be a criminal act in itself. Or was the man simply being contrary? Driven by a larger-than-life ego, perhaps.

“Shattered lives and broken spirits crouch behind these walls, Lieutenant. Souls injured by the world you come from.”

“I’m only trying to conduct a routine inquiry.”

“Well, if you drove all the way from New York seeking a psychological profile of young Colm, I hope you took the scenic route.”

“You’re telling me I’m not gonna get a look at those records?”

“You know the rules…We psychiatrists are like priests, we swear an oath of confidentiality. Only a court order will pry open those files.”

“I’d hate to have to use a political pass key,” Driscoll countered, realizing he didn’t have sufficient grounds for a warrant.

Lazarus responded with a grin, as though he realized Driscoll was bluffing. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Lieutenant,” was all he said as he turned and left the room.

Driscoll had anticipated the outcome, but his exchange with Lazarus had enhanced his own intuition concerning the mental state of Doctor Pierce.

He strolled the grounds of the palatial estate, sensing answers shielded behind its walls. A winding path led to a miniature lake carpeted with water lilies. It was an enchanting spot, a painting by Monet come to life, and he sat on a bench to enjoy it. He felt a presence behind him. He turned around and saw it was Gunther Etteridge.

“I used to come here with Colm,” Etteridge said. “Did you know dragonflies have to molt five times in their lifetime, or they’ll die?”

The man seemed harmless, a simpleton of sorts. He sported a tight-lipped smile that hid crooked teeth. Driscoll guessed him to be about the same age as Pierce, and that realization caused him to wonder why the man was still a patient in a children’s psychiatric facility.

“Where did you learn that?” Driscoll asked.

“Colm! He knew everything about insects. Near the end of his stay we had a mosquito problem at this pond. Real bad. Lazarus wanted to spray DDT, but Colm said it would kill the songbirds and other beneficial insects. He ordered a batch of dragonfly eggs, a variety from South America. Those dragonflies, they were like tigers! Each one gobbled up nine hundred mosquitoes a day. In a month, the mosquito problem was licked. That was Colm for you.”

“Quite a guy.”

“Yeah. Nobody else like him.”

Etteridge’s face grew somber. He became silent, staring into the darkness of the pond.

“Tell me, Mr. Etteridge, do you like it here?”

“They let me make the coffee.” His face beamed. “It was Colm who showed me how to work the dispenser. He knew everything about the stuff. Did you know coffee was discovered in Ethiopia?”

“You learned that from Colm?”

“He talked about coffee all the time. Mr. Pierce, senior, was a coffee importer and a great dad to Colm.”

“Did you know him?”

“Not too well, but I know Colm was close to his dad.”

“Did his dad visit often?”

“He practically lived here. And Miss Langley was always pleased to see him.”

“Who’s Miss Langley?”

“Colm’s nurse. It was Miss Langley that encouraged Colm to become a doctor. It sure made his dad happy. Boy, I sure miss her and those visits to her house.”

“You went to her house?” This man was a wealth of information. Screw Lazarus and his obstinance. Driscoll’s prayers had been answered.

“His dad would take us there. Miss Langley would make French pastries. We’d all sit at the kitchen table and eat them with hot chocolate, and then Colm and I would play Scrabble for the rest of the evening.”

“And Colm’s dad and Miss Langley?”

“They’d go into the bedroom and watch Ed Sullivan.”

“I sure would like to have a talk with her. Does she still live in the same house?”

“I think so.”

“Could you give me directions?”

Etteridge did.

The gingerbread cottage seemed more like the residence of an elf from Tolkien than a nurse in retirement. Driscoll found the doorbell. It was carved ivory, etched in the shape of a musical note. He depressed it. Chimes echoed, but his call went unanswered.

“Lookin’ for old lady Langley?” a voice sounded.

Driscoll turned to find a small boy, no more than five or six. He was crouched on the slate steps of the house next door, sharing his lollipop with a Brittany spaniel.

“Is this her house?”

“Sure is.”

“You think she’ll be back soon?”

The youngster pointed to a small cemetery on a double-sized lot at the end of the block. “That’s her over there, feedin’ the birds.”

Driscoll walked briskly toward the cemetery and Miss Langley. Blue jays, sparrows, pigeons, white tailed doves, two mallard ducks, and four Canadian geese fluttered about the woman, screeching for crumbs.

“Saint Therese of the Birds,” Driscoll exclaimed.

Silence was his reply and he realized he was intruding on a mysterious and private ceremony. He’d wait until her service was completed.

The crumb distribution ended, yet the birds lingered, insatiable and rude. The woman opened an instrument case and produced a silver flute, which she began to play. Pastoral and rustic was the melody. As if in a trance, the birds listened.

The melody stopped and the birds flew away, perching themselves on the branches of the surrounding elms and oaks.

“Bravo!” Driscoll cheered. “Those are some lucky birds. Not only lunch, but a concert.”

The woman stared at him. “Quiet!” Kneeling, she whispered:

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae, semper Virgini, beato Michaeli archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus sanctis, et tibi, Pater, quia pecavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

Then she rose and faced Driscoll. “These grounds are my confessional,” she said. “Where do you go to ask for forgiveness?”

“The barroom at Sullivan’s.”

“Another soiled soul. Well, it wasn’t my music, nor my transgressions, you came to hear. I saw you ringing my bell a moment ago.”

“If I knew I’d hear a masterful flute solo, I’d have come here first.”

“Thank you. I used to teach musicology at Juilliard, but then my son took ill and I had to change careers.” The woman smiled. “And you are?”