“Brandy!” she hollered. “Brandy, please!” she cried.
The dog reappeared in the midst of the blood-soaked birds. The jogger fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around the Labrador. That’s when she spotted it. Clenched firmly in the dog’s white canines was a trove her pet had looted from the gulls.
“Drop it, girl. Drop it,” she commanded.
The obedient dog let go of the trophy. The jogger suddenly recognized what it was the dog was carrying. It was a freshly torn human breast, its nipple adorned with a tiny ring of glittering gold. The jogger screamed. Grabbing hold of the dog’s collar, she pulled her pet out from under the boards and let loose another scream. But both screams were lost to the clamor of the hysterical gulls.
Chapter 11
As he glanced at himself in the Impala’s rearview mirror, Driscoll realized he needed a shave. He unlatched the glove compartment, picked up the Braun cordless razor, and prayed the batteries weren’t dead. They were.
He tossed the razor back in the glove box and proceeded to the boardwalk at Beach Sixty-seventh Street in Rockaway where, he feared, victim number two had been found. As he crossed the Marine Parkway Bridge, thoughts tumbled inside his head. It was the same MO as the McCabe woman, and the victim’s head, hands, and feet were missing. That particular aspect of the first crime had been held back from the news media, so it ruled out a copycat killing. These two atrocities were the work of one man. New York had a serial killer on the loose. Driscoll was certain of it. And he knew it was his job to find him before he struck again.
Arriving at the boardwalk, he got out of the Chevy and walked briskly toward the wooden staircase that led to the beach. He made his way toward the area cordoned off by yellow-and-black crime-scene tape. A small crowd of onlookers had clustered around the site.
“What have we got?” Driscoll asked Medical Examiner Larry Pearsol.
“Your boy thinks he’s an artist. He filleted this one and nailed her remains to the underside of the boardwalk.” Pearsol pointed to the hollow where two uniformed officers from the 100^th Precinct stood sentry. “It took a small battalion of policemen in riot gear to roust the goddamn gulls out from under there. They were feeding on the rotting corpse.”
“Time of death?”
“I’ll know more when I get her up on the slab. I’m guessing she’s been under there for at least seventy-two hours.”
Driscoll glared at the flock of gulls that had perched themselves on the sand some twenty feet away.
“Oh! And Lieutenant, there’s a slight twist to this one. Crime Scene says she was killed here.”
“They finished processing the site?”
“That they are. Here comes Hobbs now.”
Driscoll took a ninety-degree turn and was greeted by Walter Hobbs, the Commanding Officer of the Crime Scene Investigating Unit.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.”
“Talk to me, Walt. Tell me you found something.”
“Well, we know he killed her here. That much is for sure. The blood tells us that. The sand is saturated with it, there’s blood spatter everywhere, and there’s no trail of it in or out. He boned her. Just like the woman in the park. Even left the driver’s license. Monique Beauford. She was nineteen. Your boy’s got a knack for carving, John, and just like the first victim, he took the head, hands, and feet. What he does with them is anybody’s guess. He left us with what remains of the torso and the upper and lower extremities. A good portion of the body was pecked away by the gulls.
“He used three-inch flooring nails to fasten her to the boards. Nothing particularly uncommon about the nails. You can get them at any Home Depot. Judging from the indentures surrounding each nail, we figure he used a ball-peen hammer or something close to it. Blowfly maggots feeding off the flesh mean she’s been in there for at least three days. Any tracks your guy left, he was quick to cover. Sand is terrible for footprint casting anyway. We found what may be trace evidence. Some fibers. Cotton, I’d guess. Probably clothing. Let’s hope we catch a break and they lead us somewhere. The lab boys will tell us if he left any of his DNA on her. We found no trace of semen.
“Now blood. That’s a whole other ball game. With all that slicin’ and dicin’ he may have nicked himself in the process. We’ll be looking for any blood that wasn’t the victim’s. We’ll also run her blood through toxicology. She was probably drugged like the McCabe woman. It’s not likely she walked under the boardwalk willingly. It’s hard to tell if she put up a fight, considering the condition of the body. Larry’ll search for any defensive wounds during the autopsy. I sure would like to know what he’s doing with the head, hands, and feet.”
“You and me both.”
“Like I said, we’ll know more after the autopsy. I’ll contact you with the toxicology results and with anything else the evidence points us toward. We’re gonna keep the wooden planking intact until we get her back to the lab. Who knows? Maybe he slipped up, and we’ll find a print on one of the boards or on one of the nails.” Hobbs turned his back on Driscoll and began to walk away. Stopping in midstride, he turned and faced the Lieutenant. “Oh, yeah. There’s one other thing. Your vic was fond of jewelry.”
“How so?”
“You’ll see.”
Plainclothes detective Ramon Ramirez approached Driscoll. He had a haggard look about him, and walked with a limp. He was the 100^th Precinct’s homicide detective who caught the squeal when it was called in earlier in the day.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” said Ramirez, who had met Driscoll only once. “I guess I’ll be handing this one over to you.”
“You catch the call?”
“Six-thirty-five in the A.M. A woman called 911 from a cell phone. The emergency operator got a no-hit on the number she was calling from. The caller remained anonymous, as well. She reported finding part of a dead body under the boardwalk at Beach Sixty-seventh Street and hung up. That was it. Part of a dead body. Nothing more. The precinct dispatched a patrol car and me. When I got here, a cluster of crazed gulls were ripping apart what looked like a woman’s tit. I swear to God. A woman’s tit! When I approached them, one of the suckers flew off with it. Well, what was left of it. By that time, it was the size of a tennis ball. A tennis ball with a nipple. The strangest thing you’ve ever seen. The rest of the gulls, dozens of them, were shrieking and flying wildly in and out from under the boardwalk. I called Emergency Services. They dispatched a team of officers to clear out the birds.” He gazed over Driscoll’s shoulder at the gulls. “Tough motherfuckers, those birds. Anyway, I went under the boardwalk. You can stand a little hunched over for eight feet or so, but after that you need to crouch down. I’m tellin’ ya, you’ve got one hell of a dead body under there. I called in Forensics right away. Larry Pearsol and company were here in fifteen minutes. And now you’re here.”
“And now I’m here,” said Driscoll as he eyed the desolate surroundings.
“I’ll tell ya Lieutenant, I don’t envy your job. I know this is victim number two. That means the heat’s gonna be on real quick.”
“You’ve got that right. You know, I think it’s time for me to take that walk under the boards. It looks like everyone’s been there but me.”
Driscoll headed for the cavernous hollow directly below the boardwalk, where he was greeted by two uniformed officers. “Sir, you may want to use these,” one of them said, offering Driscoll a jar of Vick’s VapoRub and a flashlight.
Driscoll applied a dab of the ointment under each nostril and slipped on a pair of surgical gloves, then crept his way under the wooden expanse. Despite the Vick’s, the stench of rancid flesh made him gag. He decided to inhale through his mouth.
Ten feet in, he found what the birds were feasting on. The mutilated remains of a human body had been nailed to the boardwalk’s planking. Muscles oozed greenish brine, hosting feeding maggots. Flesh glistened, effervescent under the flashlight’s beam. Something metallic caught Driscoll’s eye. A gold ring. It pierced the center of a piece o
f hanging flesh. That must have been her hand, he thought. But that can’t be. The killer absconded with the hands.
“Son of a bitch,” Driscoll groaned. It was her clitoris, pierced by a gold ring. Why did the killer leave it there, exposing it the way he did? Was it by accident? An act of negligence committed by a distracted murderer? Or, was there a message in his not removing the ring? A message between the unknown suspect and the investigator? With a gloved hand, Driscoll discreetly fingered the ring. Was the killer a body artist, a flesh piercer that had once punctured the tender membranes of this girl’s privates and inserted this metal loop? Chemical analysis would reveal the alloys that composed it. The killer had to know the police would find the ornament’s manufacturer. And so the flesh artist, possibly the killer, would be found as well. Was he taunting the police? Was this a game?
Driscoll picked up the New York State driver’s license that was lying in the sand just below the remains. Monique Beauford. Age nineteen. This killer may be an exhibitionist, he thought. He leaves his handiwork behind as though it were a work of art, and uses the driver’s license to identify his kill. The McCabe woman was found in a public park, and now this victim is discovered at a public beach. Was there a message in that?
Driscoll looked into the face of the picture displayed on the driver’s license. A young, brassy blonde returned his stare. “He may have slipped, you know. Unwittingly, he may have slipped,” he said. There was now a thread of commonality to these murders, not only in how the two women were butchered, but in where the killer chose to leave them: in public recreational sites, knowing they would be found.
Driscoll removed a plastic evidence pouch from his breast pocket and placed Monique’s driver’s license in it. He then examined the nails the killer used, and prayed the wounds were postmortem.
“I’ll catch this son of a bitch. That I promise,” he vowed as he turned his back on the victim and headed back to the beach.
Chapter 12
Cedric Thomlinson checked his watch and turned off the engine of his Dodge Intrepid. He was five minutes late for his meeting. He walked solemnly toward the heavy oak door that led to Saint Rose of Lima’s community room, and slipped inside. There was a large crowd, a mix of men and women, all of them police personnel, and all with the same purpose: to garner the strength to keep from drinking.
Thomlinson was greeted by Father Liam O’Connor, a Jesuit priest, a bulk of a man, sixty-five years of age, with a shock of white hair streaking otherwise gray. He was a Certified Alcohol and Substance Abuse Counselor and had run the Police Department’s Confidential Alcohol and Drug Abuse Program for thirty years. His successes recovered, regained their lives, and went on to become productive police officers. His failures didn’t. Some of them ended their careers by ending their lives. It wasn’t uncommon for a despondent police officer to put the barrel of his service revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger.
“Hello, Cedric. How are you tonight?” asked Father O’Connor.
“Doing fine, Father. And you?”
“Aside from a touch of arthritis, I’m doing fine myself. Thanks for asking.”
Thomlinson smiled and meandered over to his assigned seat within a circle of chairs. He glanced around him. The faces remained the same, some revealing hope; some, despair. Every once in a while a new inductee. The Department averaged two a month.
“How ya doin?” Thomlinson muttered to the rookie police officer to his right.
There were far too many young officers in the room caught up in the four-to-four lifestyle. These were officers who started out doing steady four-to-twelve shifts, then continued on to the bars until they closed at four A.M. Hence the classification: four to four. Most of the rest of the crowd were whiskey faced veterans holding on until retirement. At forty-two, Thomlinson felt caught somewhere between the two. “Caught” being the operative word.
The muted chatter that filled the small room ceased as Father O’Connor took his seat and began his invocation: “Almighty Father…”
That was all Thomlinson heard, for at that point his mind drifted back to the events that led him here in the first place.
He and his partner, Harold Young, were undercover working Narcotics. They had set up Jamal Hinsdale, an insidious drug dealer, for a medium-sized buy, and had entered a dimly lit hallway with marked money. There were to be no arrests that afternoon, just a controlled buy. Jamal stepped out of the shadows and approached them.
“Everythin’ cool, my man?” said Jamal.
“Yeah, mon. Everything’s cool,” said Thomlinson, despite the fact that he was very hungover from a night of binge drinking, and his view of the world was a blur.
That’s why Thomlinson never saw where Jamal’s gun came from. Shots exploded in slow motion, the first one catching Thomlinson just above the right shoulder blade and knocking him down. There were several more shots in rapid fire, followed by an eerie silence. When the smoke cleared, both Harold Young and Jamal Hinsdale were dead, and the stench of gunpowder and spilled blood filled the air. Thomlinson called for the Ghost, his backup team. They were already on their way. He heard the sound of sirens approaching, and the sound of tenants in the building opening their windows to look out. When the backup team finally reached him, all hell broke loose. Police radios crackled, a host of uniformed and plainclothes officers came running, and the sergeant in charge barked orders. As they put Thomlinson in the ambulance he heard very clearly what that sergeant said. And that was that Thomlinson still had his gun in his holster.
The official report stated that Thomlinson was situated behind Detective Young and therefore could not fire without hitting his partner. The Mayor and the Police Commissioner settled for what they got: a dead hero cop, a wounded hero cop, and a dead drug dealer. Young’s funeral made front-page news. Another hero lost in the war on crime. But, in two years’ time, only the people who knew him well would remember his name. Thomlinson would never forget him, and would never forget the gun battle and the true circumstances surrounding it. For it was Thomlinson’s binge drinking that helped bring down a fellow police officer. His partner, no less.
For his part in it, Thomlinson was awarded the Department’s second-highest medal, the Combat Cross. He was then transferred to the elite Homicide Squad, headed up by Lieutenant John Driscoll. It was every detective’s dream assignment.
But the street cops believed a story closer to the truth. Every time he walked in their midst, conversations stopped. Looks of disapproval surrounded him. He knew what was said about him as soon as he left the room. His partner was killed, and he had never even pulled his gun. That was tantamount to being incompetent or a coward, two things a cop could never be. Everywhere he went within the department, he was known as the cop who never pulled his gun.
His drinking became heavier after that, but since he could no longer hang out in cop bars, he turned to drinking alone. Many a morning, he woke up at the kitchen table with an empty bottle and a loaded 9 mm staring him in the face.
He began to duck work, often missing his first or last tour of duty, too drunk to make it in. When on duty, he would make excuses to go to his car, where he kept his stash: a sealed bottle of Jamaican rum. Other times, he simply disappeared for hours, returning with a mouthful of breath mints or some gum.
Driscoll was no fool, and after a few weeks he took the hardest step a police commander ever had to take. He called the representative from the Detectives’ Union and had Thomlinson “farmed.” Driscoll knew he was ruining Thomlinson’s career, but he hoped he was saving his life.
“The Farm,” as it was called, was an old retreat house located so deep in Delaware County that the nearest town was twenty-five miles away.
Thomlinson was stripped of his gun and shield and whisked away. He was given a choice. He could complete the program, or be fired. Those were his only options. The program, administered by a group of Certified Alcohol and Substance Abuse Counselors, consisted of six weeks of alcohol counseling that included regularly
conducted one-on-one therapy sessions, and group therapy with past and present alcoholic police officers. It was interspersed with religious encounters as well. Lights-out and lockdown was at eight P.M. each night, and there were guards at every door.
Once you completed the program, you were sent back to Command without your gun or your shield, and were required to attend the self-help program run by Father O’Connor. At the end of one year, if the Department psychiatrist deemed you fit, you were returned to active duty. Your gun and your shield were returned, and supposedly your personnel record never reflected any of it. Of course, everyone knew better. There were few secrets in this man’s department.
It had been twenty-nine months since Thomlinson graduated from the Farm. He was now 868 days sober. His gun and shield had been returned to him, and he was eternally grateful to his commander and true friend, Lieutenant John W. Driscoll.
“Cedric, do you have anything to share with us this evening?” Father O’Connor’s question rocketed Thomlinson back to the present.
Thomlinson stood up and repeated his usual routine about how he had taken up drinking because his partner had been killed in front of him. He knew it was a lie, the priest knew it was a lie, and everyone else in the room knew it was a lie. But no one challenged him, so he sat back down.
As the meeting was drawing to a close, Thomlinson’s cell phone rang. He stepped outside to take the call.
It was Driscoll. He had sobering news. They had found victim number two.
Chapter 13
Margaret poked her head inside Driscoll’s office. “Lieutenant, there’s a call for you on line two. You’re not gonna like who’s calling. It’s from the office of the Chief of Detectives,” she said.
Here it starts, thought Driscoll. From this day forward, every higher-echelon moron with a star on his shoulder would be looking to get into the act. He picked up the phone and hit line two.
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