Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“The way I see it, the guy was bleeding from a head wound you inflicted, and then Margaret shot him. The current got hold of him, and he was history. Case closed.”

“I still would like to hold off on the fanfare.”

“Don’t be difficult, John. This city is in the mood to celebrate, and I’m not gonna be a stick-in-the-mud. You’ve earned the medal. Wear it! Say cheese for the cameras and let the women of this city sleep through the night. Now let’s get a move on!”

Driscoll sat in his cruiser alongside a row of rhododendrons that lined the curb outside of Mary Star of the Sea Nursing Home. He felt hollow. It was as though someone had taken a blade and carved out his vital organs. Colette, the love of his life, now lay comatose inside the century-old brownstone. Placing his wife into the care of the home’s hospice personnel was a heart-wrenching decision, but he knew it was a decision that needed to be made. He had just left her bedside and was now offering a silent prayer. A prayer of hope. A prayer of love. And a prayer of resolution. It was his intention to visit often and remain loyal to her in a way that she would understand. As he turned the key in the ignition and slowly pulled away from the facility, tears blossomed and streaked his cheeks. He gazed in the Chevy’s rearview mirror and watched as the nursing home’s facade slowly faded from view.

Sullivan’s Tavern was bustling. The bar was six deep, and every table in the dining room was occupied. The mood was festive throughout. And why not? The madman that had declared war on the city of New York had been eliminated.

Driscoll and Margaret were seated at Driscoll’s favorite table, which offered a panoramic view of Manhattan. They had completed their meal and were both savoring an after-dinner cocktail. A gentleman approached. He was holding a copy of the Daily News. Its headline boasted: SERIAL KILLER ANNIHILATED BY NEW YORK’S FINEST.

“You’re Lieutenant Driscoll,” the patron said, holding forth the tabloid. “Would you mind autographing my newspaper?”

Driscoll grinned. “My lady friend here deserves the credit. It was she who fired the shot that ended it all.”

“Wow! A double-header! Would you sign my paper too?” he asked.

Driscoll and Margaret obliged the man, affixing their signatures across the headline.

“You know,” said the grateful supporter, “it’s because of professionals like you that the citizens of New York can rest easy tonight.”

As the man disappeared, Driscoll’s cell phone rang. His eyes narrowed. He listened intently to Thomlinson’s message.

“Time to go,” he said to Margaret as he folded his napkin and shimmied out of his chair. “An hour ago they found two dead bodies in Brooklyn. Looks like we have another crazy on our hands.”