“Her fear is what attracts her to me?”
“You are the way out of her nightmare. In you, she’s seeking a father imago.”
“You mean some sort of replacement father figure?”
“No. An imago. It’s a clinical term. Suffice it to say, Margaret, the little girl, is looking to you for protection, all on an unconscious level, of course. Margaret the adult then translates that urgent need into something else. Something more grown-up, the best example being a relationship. It’s what two adults have when they’re attracted to each other, for whatever the reason. That’s how her conscious mind reconciles her feelings toward you.”
“So her feelings aren’t real.”
“There as real as these four walls, but they stem from her childhood. Her unconscious primal fear.”
Driscoll’s eyes widened. He then shook his head.
“You gotta be right, Elizabeth. I’ve been working with her for four years, but she’s only shown an interest in me since the onset of this investigation.”
“She can’t help herself. It’s a form of self-preservation rooted deep within her psyche.”
“So, the child in her is looking to me for protection and the adult is looking for a relationship.”
“You got it.”
“But I’m a married man!”
“You really like to beat that drum, don’t you? Tell me something. Do you honestly believe Colette would want you to spend the rest of your life alone?”
Driscoll looked plaintively at Fahey. He always felt like he was doing something wrong when asked to consider what Colette’s wishes might have been.
“The other night with Margaret, she had on this Johnny Mathis song, “Chances Are.” Was she trying to tell me something?”
“You’re the detective. What do you think?”
“Could be.”
“Could be? Does she have to wave a checkered flag?”
“But I shouldn’t even be in the race.”
“You, or the Irish Catholic altar boy that lives inside you?”
“Come on.”
Fahey hummed “Chances Are.”
Driscoll crossed his arms as though he had made a decision. “Checkered flag or no checkered flag, Margaret’s gonna be real disappointed.”
“Like she isn’t already?”
Driscoll sighed heavily.
“You know, Elizabeth, I can only admit this to you, but sometimes I wish Colette had died in that terrible accident. Does that make me a bad person?”
“No, John. It makes you human.”
Driscoll toyed with his wedding band and remembered the notion he had of it being a hangman’s noose. He had to admit that the feelings he had for Margaret were as real as the feelings he had for Colette. That truth was undeniable and inescapable. Sure, the feelings were different. Hell, the women were different. Though he wished he could, he couldn’t turn back the hands of time. He had crossed the line. He had acted on his feelings. Should he face the gallows for such an offense? All he did was kiss another woman. But it wasn’t just another woman, it was clearly a woman he had feelings for. While still married to Colette! He knew Elizabeth was right. This was all about guilt.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to change the subject,” he said.
“Does it have to do with the case you’re working on?”
“There you go, reading my mind again.”
“You want a therapist’s view on what makes him tick. No?”
“Exactly. Like I explained briefly on the phone, the guy is dissecting them and stealing their bones. What I didn’t say is that he’s taking their heads, hands, and feet, too. I wanna know why.”
“How does he leave what’s left of the bodies?”
“He nailed one to a boardwalk in Rockaway Beach. Another we found in an abandoned boathouse in Prospect Park. The third we recovered from the Canarsie Sanitation Dump. The last victim had been eviscerated and stuffed in a trash bag.”
“Why do I get the feeling your guy’s just warming up?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Your guy despises flesh. Feminine flesh. I’d say his crimes are not sexually motivated, not in the usual sense. He’s collecting something he needs and wants, and in each woman he goes for something hard and imperishable in their softness. Their bones. He’s a skilled cutter?”
“The guy knows his anatomy. Whadya figure his motive to be?”
“Did Genghis Khan need a motive to build mountains from human skulls? What you could have here is a display of an archaic war rite, where women are his quarry. He guts them and takes their skeletons as hostages. What he does with the head, hands, and feet puzzles me. But there’s a good possibility this savage has a war room, an intimate museum filled with the souvenirs of his expeditions. That’s where he’d store his human medals. You’ve got to find that treasure chamber, that gallery where he showcases his loot.”
“This sounds like Anthropology 101.”
“Sure it does. He’s got the mores of his Neanderthal ancestors.”
“So I should be looking for some guy covered in animal skin, wielding a stone ax?”
“More chance he’ll be wearing Armani.”
“Then I’ll have to strike at the beast behind the broad lapel.”
“Make it a sure strike.”
“Is he curable?”
“The prognosis is not in his favor.”
“Then I have no choice. I’ll have to take him down.”
“That’d be my advice.”
Driscoll looked haunted. “Is my hour up?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Thanks for the extra time,” he said as he stood up. “As always, I feel better after seeing you.”
“Give some more thought to what I suggested about Colette’s wishes. The doctors are unanimous about her condition, aren’t they? She’s never coming out of the coma.”
Driscoll’s eyes were fixed in a blank stare.
Elizabeth continued, “But you don’t believe them, do you?”
“What are you getting at?”
“You haven’t given up on that fantasy, have you? You think she’s gonna get up from that bed and brew you some French Roast coffee. Tell me the truth. You’re just waiting for that day, aren’t you?”
“You don’t give up. Do you?” Driscoll said, smiling harshly.
“What kind of a therapist would I be if I did?”
Chapter 38
Margaret and Driscoll were once again seated before the NYPD computer monitors inside Driscoll’s office at the Command Center. They were going through the motions of searching the Internet, but their thoughts were elsewhere. And so were their voices. Their awkward silence was interrupted only by the pecking of keys.
Thomlinson entered. A glaring look from Margaret told him he’d stepped into a minefield.
“Catch you guys later,” he said, ducking out the door.
Margaret lifted her fingers from the keyboard and did a one-eighty in her swivel chair. “I think we need to talk about it,” she said. “Ignoring it isn’t gonna make it go away.”
“You’re right. We do need to talk about it.”
“I’m not sorry it happened. Are you?” Please say you’re not.
“I can’t say that I’m sorry. But I gotta be honest with you, I am filled with guilt.”
“That’s a good sign. It means you have a conscience. But you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. You were only acting on true feelings. Right?”
“Yes, I was acting on true feelings, but I shouldn’t have had those feelings. I’m a married man.”
That she didn’t need to be reminded of. “Feelings are feelings. They’re neither good nor bad. They’re just feelings. You shouldn’t beat yourself up over having them.”
Driscoll fingered his wedding band. “It’s one thing to have the feelings. But it’s a whole other ball game when you act on them.”
Time to muster some courage, she thought as her heart pounded inside h
er chest. “I’m about to say something, John, that’ll have you thinking.”
“Go ahead.”
“Colette would understand.”
A quizzical look filled Driscoll’s face. “You’re the second female inside of two days to say that.”
“Well, I’m not gonna ask who the other bright visionary is, but take it from me, given the circumstances, your wife would understand.”
“Part of me is beginning to believe that, but the larger part is calling for harsh punishment.”
“Penance? You want penance? You’re being much too hard on yourself.”
“I need some space, an emotional rest so I can sort things out. For now, let’s just try to get on with our lives and focus our energies back on the case.”
“OK, we will. But, you don’t have to beat yourself up. Trust me. I know I’m right about how Colette would feel.” At least I hope so, her inner voice said as her mind raced.
“Space. Just a little space. OK?”
“You got it.”
The telephone chimed and the Lieutenant answered it. “Driscoll here.”
“I gotta talk to you.” Moira’s voice was filled with apprehension.
“So, talk.”
“Not on the phone. I don’t trust AT&T.”
“Moira, you caught me at a bad time.”
“They make an awesome bacon cheeseburger at the Empress Diner.”
“What is it you want?”
“I told you, I won’t discuss it on the phone.”
“Then come to my office.”
“Your office is like Grand Central Station at rush hour. It’s no place for conversation.”
“E-mail me.” Driscoll cradled the phone under his chin and threw both hands in the air.
“Just give me ten minutes. The Empress Diner.”
“You’ve got five. And it better be worth it.”
Chapter 39
The waitress sneered at Driscoll as he slid into the booth across from the teenage girl.
She really did resemble Nicole. The more he saw of the girl, the more he was reminded of his daughter. The likeness was uncanny. “Here I am,” he said. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”
“I know,” she whispered, sipping a cherry coke.
“You know what?”
“I know how he picks them.”
“You know how who picks them?”
“The killer. I designed a program and analyzed the data.”
“What data?”
“From your files.”
“Goddamn it, Moira! Those files are police property!”
“Did you know all of your victims were members of an online service?”
“Yeah. So what? So is half the country.”
“I think your guy is luring the women through the Internet,” she said, knowing the gurgling sound of her straw irritated him. “I could hook up with him.”
“Hook up with him! Moira, if you’re right and he is luring his victims through the Internet, do you really think hooking up with him would be a wise thing to do? Hell, I wouldn’t send my best undercover into that lion’s den without plenty of backup.”
“I take my assignment seriously. I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Assignment! What assignment?”
“Unofficial agent investigating case number 29AW16.”
“Oh, brother.”
“Maybe he flirts with them in a chat room, but I doubt it. My guess is, he’s planted some goody on a bulletin board. He’d have thousands of chicks, worldwide, checking him out.”
“A global serial killer? That would be a stretch. I think you’re getting in a little too deep.”
“Since the killings are local, we can start with city ads. My program’ll sniff out the ferret. I’ve narrowed the list of ads down to 1,876. That’s where you come in.”
“How’s that?”
“You can have the Task Force continue the search.”
The girl might be on to something. It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal used the Internet as his playing field. And if Moira was right, it would be a very deadly field. This was no place for a fourteen-year-old. Driscoll knew what he needed to do. He needed to protect the girl. “Moira, I want you off this case.”
“You’re not gonna make Captain without me.”
“I’ll look into the possibilities your theory raises. But we’re dealing with a vicious murderer. The last thing I want you to do is to try and hook up with him. If he turns out to be our killer, you’d be putting yourself in grave danger.”
“I know the highways and byways of the Internet better than anyone. I’m tellin’ ya, I can hook up with him.”
“And I forbid it. It’d be no place for a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“That’s it. Isn’t it?
“What’s it?”
“You don’t trust me just ’cause I’m a kid. You grownups are all alike. Afraid to admit that a kid might know more than they do.”
“Granted, you dazzle me with your computer expertise. But I can’t allow you to put yourself at risk.”
“I’m sure I’m right about this one. All the dead women were members of an online service.”
“But not the same online service.”
“That wouldn’t matter. They’d all have access to the World Wide Web.”
“I promise you, I’ll look into it. But, while I’m doing that, I want you to steer clear of any inclination you have to hook up with the guy.”
“OK,” she said begrudgingly, sliding out of the booth.
“And Moira.”
“Yes?”
“Stay out of those police files. If I catch you nosing around in there again, I’ll lock you up.”
The Lieutenant sat back in the empty booth and thought about the exchange. Could Moira be right? He grabbed his cellular and punched in the number to his office. When Margaret answered, he said, “Find out what you can about each victim’s online service.”
“Is this you talking, Lieutenant? Or the whiz kid?”
“Moira thinks our killer may be luring his victims through the Internet.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. You think she’s on to something?”
“She raised the possibility. We’d be foolish to ignore it.”
“I’ll get on it right away.”
Chapter 40
Driscoll eyed the wooden crucifix that was affixed to the far wall inside the dimly lit parlor of St. Mary’s Star of the Sea rectory. His palms were sweating, and he thought he could hear his heart beating. But Elizabeth Fahey was right. What was weighing heavily on his mind was guilt. Irish Catholic guilt. And who better to speak to about such guilt than an Irish Catholic priest? That being the case, Driscoll had asked around. Liz Butler lived in Rockaway. She was a devout Catholic and had told Driscoll her pastor was a with-it kind of guy. Driscoll had placed a call to her church’s rectory and arranged a meeting with Father Sean McMahon.
The Lieutenant stood up as the priest entered the room. McMahon was a young priest with a ruddy complexion that suited his round Irish face. Driscoll figured him to be somewhere in his thirties.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant. Welcome to St. Mary’s,” Father McMahon said, motioning for Driscoll to take a seat beside an ornately carved mahogany desk.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I gotta tell ya, Father, it’s been ages since I’ve been inside a rectory, and years since I’ve been to church.”
McMahon smiled. “I’m glad you’ve returned.”
“I’d like to get right to the point, if you’ll let me. I feel like my insides are about to explode.”
“Our cleaning lady wouldn’t like that.”
Driscoll liked that the man had a sense of humor. “I wanna talk to you about certain feelings of guilt I’m having. My wife, Colette, was involved in an automobile accident six years ago. Our daughter, Nicole, was killed in the accident, and my wife was left comatose. Acco
rding to her doctors she’ll never regain consciousness.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I’ve remained faithful to my wife, Father. That is, up until recently.” Driscoll studied the priest’s face for any sign of condemnation. Finding none, he continued. “I’ve become friendly with a woman that I work with. Her name is Margaret. She’s a good woman who understands my circumstances. The thing is, I have feelings for her. Romantic feelings. The other night we had dinner together at her place. One thing led to another, and I found myself in her arms, kissing her. I haven’t kissed a woman in six years. I gotta tell ya Father, I liked it.”
“Were you raised Catholic, Lieutenant?”
“Yes. Catholic grammar school. Catholic high school. I even did a stint as an altar boy for four years. Back in those days, the Mass was in Latin.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Father, I guess I’m here for absolution. Absolution for a sin I’m yet to commit. Does that make sense?”
“And what sin is that?”
“Breaking my wedding vows. Cheating on my wife.”
“You’ve already made up your mind you’re going to pursue this relationship?”
“That’s where the guilt comes in. I realize that Colette is never coming back to life, life as we know it, but a voice inside me is demanding that I stay faithful to her, regardless of her physical condition.”
“You said before her doctors all agree that she will never regain consciousness. Right?”
“Right.”
“Aside from how you perceive the Catholic Church would look at your circumstances, what advice would your wife give you, if she could?”
“Colette was my best friend. I’m beginning to believe she would understand. Am I just looking to sidestep my vows here?”
“I think the answer to that question lies within you. You’ve got to live with yourself. But, let me say this. Jesus Christ, who walked this earth as a human being, chose twelve apostles, not one. And his love for each one of them was immeasurable.”
“Are you condoning a relationship with this other woman?”
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