“Larry, what about the body piercer?” Driscoll asked, scanning Eliot’s report.
“Well, he’s a perfectionist. The guy knows his flesh. No nail gun used here. These suture marks are perfectly symmetrical. Impeccable work. You’re thinking, maybe the body piercer and your perp are the same guy?”
“Can’t overlook it.” Driscoll punched in a number on his cell phone.
Margaret answered on the third ring.
“I want a list of body piercers,” Driscoll said. “Start with the tristate area.”
“Aren’t earrings against Department regulation?”
“Very funny. It may be a lead.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I gotta run. Get on that list right away.”
“You got it.” Margaret grumbled. He’s gotta be kidding. Does he know how many body piercers there’d be in the goddamn tristate area?
Thomlinson picked up the ring. “If this could only speak…”
“Can you make it speak, Larry?” Driscoll asked.
“I’d say the ring was handmade. Probably by the guy that did the piercing. They like to make their own jewelry. And your victim, she was into pain. I can tell you that much.”
“How’s that?”
“The ring was inserted without an anesthetic. Body piercers use a local, a mix of paracin trichloride and Novocain. It always leaves a trace in the surrounding membrane. A signature. There’s none here.”
“Let’s hope that’ll help us ID the piercer,” said Driscoll.
As Pearsol returned to his recorder, Driscoll’s thoughts drifted. What does a homemaker have in common with a nineteen-year-old aside from being female? And what lure did this madman use to attract these two unfortunate women? Staring down at the butchered remains of Monique Beauford, Driscoll was instinctively certain of one thing. These killings would continue, and they would keep him and the city of New York on one hell of a roller-coaster ride.
Chapter 15
Margaret was pleased with herself. She had managed to squeeze into one of her old Vice outfits, and damn if she still didn’t look hot. The leather pants were skin tight, and the midriff top showed off her flat stomach to full advantage. A push-up bra and some red fuck-me pumps completed the package.
She opened the door to the strategically positioned TARU van and stepped inside. All the guys in the van stopped what they were doing to stare. Wolf whistles filled the air.
“Knock it off, assholes,” Margaret said. “This is a professional police operation.”
Danny O’Brien, the TARU technician, handed Margaret a small, round metal object.
“That’s the transmitter, Sarge. Figure out where you’re gonna hide it.”
Margaret walked to the back of the van and turned her back on the men. She reached inside her bra and hooked it on.
“Need any help with that?” hollered O’Brien.
“In your dreams,” Margaret said as she did a one-eighty and faced the technician.
“Seriously, Sarge, the skel is all set up. Speak in normal fashion. If you get into any trouble just say the word pinhead, and we’ll be in there in two seconds. Remember, pinhead.”
“O’Brien, how many years did I do this in Vice? I’m quite familiar with how a skel works. You clowns just be ready to move if and when I give the signal.”
As she went to exit the van, Driscoll took her by the arm. “You be careful in there. Don’t take any chances. If it doesn’t feel right, you holler. You understand me, Sergeant?”
“Why, John, you do care,” she smirked, and with a flip of her hair, out she went.
Francis, a self-proclaimed body piercer extraordinaire, scoped the patron in close-fitting leather as she browsed the shop’s window.
“Come on, honey, step right in,” he chanted, projecting his words telepathically to the lingering customer.
“I’ll be damned,” Francis marveled as the shapely brunette turned the handle on the door.
Undercover Sergeant Margaret Aligante tiptoed in, her eyes taking in the panoply of gold, silver, platinum, and steel studs embedded in the vinyl epidermis of a naked mannequin. A freestanding work in progress, thought Margaret.
Her working undercover, she hoped, would help loosen Francis’s tongue. That was also the opinion of her confidential informant, her street snitch, who steered her toward this particular body piercer. The snitch made Francis out to be the type of guy that was leery of the police but would turn in his brother if it meant saving his own ass. And that was exactly what Margaret was looking for: a turncoat.
Margaret quickly scanned the interior of the tawdry shop. Two movie posters, one for Crash and the other for Hellraiser III, adorned one wall. They stared down at three crushed velvet love seats arranged in a U shape. Freestanding lighted candles provided stark illumination while sandalwood sticks burned, perfuming the room. Margaret thought the grouping resembled a small altar. Photographs of pierced eyebrows, ears, noses, lips, and other body parts wallpapered the opposing wall, assaulting Margaret’s senses. The far wall boasted antique engravings of ancient Picts, Melanesians, Maori natives, and Australian aborigines pierced to the hilt. A life-sized statue of an African Ibo warrior, his body heavily illustrated and pierced, looked down at her.
“Can I help you?” The voice startled Margaret. A tall man wearing a black-leather vest, with tattooed arms and an exposed chest, smiled at her. Several silver hoops punctured his bushy eyebrows, while fishermen’s hooks pierced both ears.
“Tell me, where I should wear this?” she asked, producing Monique’s ring.
Francis examined it carefully.
“That’s a wedding band. Jade studs. Cool. You’ll want to wear it someplace special, no?”
“Is that one of your specialties? Implanting jewelry in special places?” she asked.
“Three times a week I’m asked to hook a ring like that onto one of several places on the body.”
“How ’bout a woman’s clitoris?”
“There too.”
“So that’s a common request?”
“Very.”
“Some people would call that surgery.”
“You bet it is.”
“You got a license to operate?”
“I need one?”
“Some would say you do.”
Francis shrugged.
“You could really hook a ring this size to a clit?” she asked.
“Piece of cake.”
“How do you do it?”
Francis leaned his pockmarked face into Margaret’s. “You leave that to me. A drop of medical magic, and you won’t feel a thing.”
“What if I wanna feel a thing?”
“No Novocaine for you, then.”
“You pull teeth, too?”
“If I find any down there,” he smirked.
She held back on the impulse to slap the man’s face.
“There’s a catch,” Margaret said, biting the tip of her tongue, containing her anger.
“Don’t tell me? You’re a hemophiliac.”
“No. I want two. One for my finger, and one for down there. And I want the rings to match.”
“No problem. But you gotta bring me the other ring.”
“Can’t you supply it?”
“That’s a specialty item. Handmade!”
“I thought you were a specialist.”
Francis stopped speaking and stared fixedly at Margaret, this woman who was asking so many questions. The markings of fear slowly carved themselves on his face. He sensed danger. “You’re in the wrong bodega, Miss. Hasta la vista.”
His stare drifted to the sheen of a police shield brandished by Margaret, its glint reflecting off of the room’s overhead lighting. “C’mon, where’s your sense of humor?” he said with a sheepish grin.
“Is this your handiwork?” she said, producing the forensic team’s photograph of Monique’s genitalia, which displayed the inserted ring.
“That’s not one of mine.”
“Then whose is i
t?”
Anger and defiance replaced his fear. He grabbed a tattered Yellow Pages directory. “Here! Body Piercing! There’s four pages. Take your pick.”
Margaret’s hands grabbed his forearms like a vise, pressing them hard against the Formica counter.
“Don’t try fucking with me,” Margaret growled. “You need a medical degree to draw blood, and I can close you down faster than you can say health violation.” She flipped open her cellular phone. “You’re just seven digits away from an inspection by the Board of Health.”
“That’s police harassment.”
Margaret punched in a series of numbers.
“Oh shit,” he groaned as Margaret placed the handheld receiver close to Francis’s ear.
“You have reached the New York City Department of Health. If you are calling from a touch-tone phone, please press 1.”
Margaret’s finger complied.
“If this is an emergency, please press 2…If you are reporting a violation of health code, please press 3…If you are calling to speak to someone in our AIDS Awareness Center, please—”
“I think 3 is the one we want, don’t you?”
“Turn that thing off.”
“You gonna tell me what I want to know?”
Francis nodded.
Margaret hit the disconnect button and folded the cellular phone.
“You know what they do to whistle-blowers in my line of work?” Francis whined.
“I don’t give a fuck. I want to know who made the ring, and who did this piercing.”
“He’ll string me up by my balls!”
“Don’t make me hit redial.”
“OK, OK, OK. But you gotta forget what I look like.”
“I got a short memory. Now give me his name.”
“But—”
“Name! Now!”
“Jack the Ripster. He’s known for his jade studs.”
“Where would I find this pillar of society?”
Francis sighed. “Last I heard, the Ripster was operating out of a trailer on Houston Street.”
“What’s his real name?”
“Lester Gallows.”
Margaret exited the shop and felt the immediate need for a shower. It wasn’t the smell of sandalwood incense that she was looking to expunge, it was the entire sordid experience. The lingering vision of Francis’s pockmarked face filled her head. Was it the fact that this man pierced the genitalia of so many women that filled her with contempt, or was she simply amazed by the number of women who found it fashionable to submit to such a piercing? She had always considered herself to be a modern-day thinker, but the vision of an ornamented clitoris was, to her, a complete turnoff. But she was not paid to pass judgment on what she considered vulgar. As she headed back to the TARU van, she was reminded of why she had come to Francis’s body piercing shop in the first place. She was tracking a vicious killer and she hoped the information she had extracted from Francis would lead her to the man that brutally slaughtered Monique Beauford and Deirdre McCabe.
Chapter 16
It was a sunny autumnal Saturday in New York, but city parks were filled with few revelers. The populace of the city was in panic mode after learning about the latest slaying. It was the lead story on all the local network newscasts, and the city’s newspapers were heralding the shocking details as well. The headline in the Daily News read “Second Victim Butchered in Rockaway,” while the New York Post led with “NYPD Fears Serial Murderer on the Loose.”
But the newspapers and the networks were also lending a hand in the investigation. They were running Monique Beauford’s photograph, the one depicted on her New York State driver’s license. The public was also given the force’s tip line number and was asked to call the Task Force if anyone had any information regarding the crime.
Detective Steve Samuels, a member of Driscoll’s newly formed team, had been given the assignment to check out the address on the victim’s driver’s license and show the dead woman’s photograph around. It was the only address the Department of Motor Vehicles had on record, but it was now a boarded-up tenement in North Brooklyn. Most of the adjoining buildings were boarded up as well. There were only four families living on the block. One of those families, an older woman and her two adult sons, remembered Monique. She was a loner, they had reported. Never seen in the company of anyone else. She had moved from the now-condemned building years ago. They didn’t know to where. Samuels canvassed the neighboring streets, where a bodega, a soda distributor, and a dry-cleaning shop were still open for business. No one there recognized Monique’s photo. And no calls regarding Monique were ever received by the Task Force.
Chapter 17
The static chatter emanating from Driscoll’s police radio filled the Chevy’s interior as Driscoll and Margaret made their way down the East River Drive, heading for Lester Gallows’s trailer on Houston Street. They had just left the Command Center, where Driscoll had been called upstairs and lambasted by his superior, Captain Eddie Barrows. The Lieutenant was being put to the test. He knew he’d be directing traffic in Brooklyn if he didn’t soon turn up a lead.
“Don’t ever aspire to head up a Task Force, Margaret. When things turn sour, the heat is on like a pizza oven,” said Driscoll, his eyes riveted on the road ahead.
“Barrows must be in the crosshairs, too. No?”
“I’d say so. The flack is flying from the Mayor’s office on down. I’ll bet you at least three people will be reassigned before this is all over. I’m just praying I’m not one of them.”
“Say a little prayer for me, will ya?”
“You’re insulated. I’ll be their number-one target.”
“The Mayor losing ground in the polls sure as hell doesn’t help matters, does it?”
“The pressure’s always relentless when politics is involved. But it’s not politics that’s gonna catch this guy. We are. This psycho is bound to slip up. They all do. And when he does, we’ll be there to nab him.”
“The son of a bitch.”
“So much for business. What’s going on in Margaret’s world?”
“I started a new yoga class.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. You ought to try it. It’s great for stress relief.”
“Does it come in pill form?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know when it does. Extended-release capsules would be even better.”
“Really. It wouldn’t hurt to consider it.”
“Between the job and Colette, I don’t have much time for anything extracurricular.”
Margaret felt as though she had detonated a land mine. “Has there been any change in Colette’s condition?”
“None.”
Driscoll hated that word. None. It was so final. So hopeless. Yet he knew it was the one word that succinctly summed up the chance of his wife ever regaining consciousness. Goddamn it! What he hated even more was his inability to do anything about it. He missed his wife terribly; the sound of her voice, her crooked little smile, the tilt of her head when she was in a seductive mood. Hell, speaking of none, he hadn’t had sex since the week before his wife’s accident. He remembered the mood of that night as though it were yesterday. He had worked a twelve to eight, and on his way home had stopped off at Hudson’s wine shop for a bottle of Mondavi Merlot, her favorite wine. It made her frisky, she told him. They dined on steak au poive, listened to Francis Albert Sinatra, and moved from the dining room into the bedroom, where they made ravenous love while Old Blue Eyes’s voice tiptoed in from the adjacent room, adding to the magic of their lovemaking. After the subtlety of murmurs and whispers, the pair fell asleep in each other’s arms. On awakening, Driscoll found himself alone in his bed. The smell of strong coffee filled the bungalow. He lumbered into the kitchen, where he found his wife preparing a breakfast of toast and eggs. What he would do to recapture that moment, to turn back time, to set things right, if only to say goodbye.
The sound of a horn honking brought Driscoll back to t
he present. The Chevy inched forward in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The silence that had settled between Margaret and him was broken by Driscoll, attempting to close the door on his shattered dreams and slip back into the minutiae of life, hoping it would dispel his despair.
“I don’t mean to downplay the yoga classes,” he said. “I’m sure they do wonders for you. But, if I had the time, working out in a gym would be more my style.”
“I tried that. Too many Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabes in sweat-stained polyester. A total turnoff for me.”
“Tattoos on a woman.”
“Tattoos on a woman?”
“Yeah, tattoos on a woman. My total turnoff.”
“C’mon. An intimately placed miniature tattoo wouldn’t do it for you?”
“OK. I stand corrected. In just the right spot, a tiny rose or a miniature heart might.”
“Thank God! The man’s alive.”
A smile creased Driscoll’s face.
“So, which is it?” she asked.
“Which is what?”
“A rose or a heart?”
Driscoll’s smile broadened. “It would depend on how discreet the placement.”
“I have a tattoo,” said Margaret, with the grin of a Cheshire cat.
“Lemme guess. The rose. And judging from the blush that colors your cheeks, you’ve picked one helluva place to hide it.”
“Damn it. You really know how to take the fun out of flirting.”
Silence returned to the pair. This time it was Margaret who broke it. Margaret, whose attempts at a love life always ended in disaster. So why was it she was suddenly attracted to her boss, of all people? Margaret was one tough cop, but when it came to relationships she felt totally inept. She thought of herself as a pre-adolescent neophyte. Relationships were to be avoided. But still, the attraction was there. That was unmistakable. She decided she’d have a go at it and hope for the best.
“Tell me. Would you ever consider seeing a woman again? I mean as a friend, that is.”
“I thought that’s what we were. Friends.”
“We’re good friends.” Did she want more? The thought frightened her, yet filled her with exhilaration at the same time. Goddamn it! What the hell was going on in that psyche of hers? She couldn’t deny it. She was becoming attracted to all the little things he did and how he did them. He’s married, for God’s sake! As in taken. Still, the curious attraction continued. “I just thought we could go out. We don’t have to call it a date. Just two friends going out. That’s all.”
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