“Who’s gonna break the news to him about Ms. Stockard?”
“Damn it! I forgot about that. Well, wait till his alibi checks out, and then have Liz do it. Tell her to be gentle.” Driscoll headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going home. I need to recharge. We just took our best shot out there, and we crashed and burned. I need to think, I need to sleep, and I need to get the hell away from here. What about you?”
“I’ll stick around and see that McGowan gets processed.”
“OK, thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being there. See you tomorrow.”
With Margaret’s eyes on him, Driscoll walked down the hallway and disappeared through the Command Center’s door, leaving the case and his task force behind him.
Chapter 30
Driscoll pulled into the precinct parking lot the next day just before the sun came up. He had slept well the night before, and he felt invigorated. The disappointment he had experienced the day before had passed. He parked the cruiser, walked in through the back door, waved hello to the Sergeant on the desk, and bounded up the back staircase. He put the key in the lock and pulled the door open. It was just past six o’clock, and the Command Center was empty. It was a time he enjoyed. He surveyed the room and relaxed. All was quiet. Two hours from now the room would be humming with activity, and bedlam would be the order of the day. He cleaned out the coffeepot and carefully poured cool tap water into it. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee soon filled the air and added to the pleasure of his solitude.
He walked over to the sign-in log and saw a note that Margaret had left him. He signed in at 0600 hours and picked up her note. The coffee was ready. He filled a cup, sat down at his desk, and began to read. There was something sensual about her handwriting, and he caught himself thinking about more than policework. He allowed himself the indulgence of picturing her making love to him, and the fantasy engulfed him. She was quite a woman. He took another sip of coffee and turned his attention to the note:
John,
McFeely and Johnson interviewed McPartland and the Stockard woman’s cleaning lady. They struck out with both, adding nothing further to the investigation other than the fact that the Stockard woman was discreet. Mike McGowan’s alibi checked out. I sent Dyer and Romanelli out to East Hampton, and at least a dozen people put McGowan there for the last few days. Seems he was a fixture at several beach bars and social events. I had Santos take the collar and book him on the drug possession. Liz broke the news about the Stockard woman, and he took it pretty hard. He didn’t know she was pregnant. Apparently, they had met at a club in Manhattan and hit it off. He introduced her to Ecstasy, and they became lovers. Funny thing about the men’s cologne. McGowan says that Stockard was so paranoid about being busted that she bought the cologne because she had read somewhere that the smell of cologne confused drug-sniffing dogs. Whenever they went out, she would wrap the pills in a cologne-soaked handkerchief and stuff it inside her purse.
We finished up at 5 A.M., so I told Butler and Vittaggio to come in for the 4 to 12. Cedric will be in at 8 to field any questions. I’ll shoot for a 2 to 10 but I am pretty beat, and may not make it in till 4. See you then…Margaret
PS. Here’s something that’ll make your day. Bellevue Hospital called. They’re holding a homeless man there who claims to have seen some goings-on under the boardwalk in Rockaway. Looks like God closed one window while opening a door. M
Chapter 31
The derelict was wearing Bellevue’s vomit-green hospital gown, which flapped open in the rear, revealing a bruised and lacerated patch of skin on his right buttock. His hair was matted, and his beard looked weedy and abandoned. As two old codgers played cards at a table near the nurse’s station, the derelict watched the goings-on through the wire-meshed window of his cramped room.
“I gotta go pee,” he muttered, venturing out into the corridor, heading for the communal lavatory across the hall. Just as the old-timer was pulling open the bathroom door, he heard his name spoken.
“Mr. Heath.”
“I gotta go pee,” he grumbled.
“I am Lieutenant Driscoll. We need to talk.”
“Look fella, I got a quart of Glenlivet in my gut. I gotta flush it out.”
“Glenlivet? That’s fifty dollars a bottle!”
“I hit it big in Keno last night,” the vagrant replied, smiling through missing teeth. “Can I go pee now?”
“All right. But make it quick.” Driscoll leaned against the tiled wall and waited for the man.
The derelict reappeared. “Whoever cut these gowns got it all wrong. The fly belongs up front,” he muttered.
“We’ll use the office down the hall,” said Driscoll. The Lieutenant ushered the derelict into a small room with a metal desk and two brown swivel chairs. Driscoll motioned for the man to take a seat. “Are you James Heath?” he asked.
“If you say so.”
“Well, are you?”
“I’m told I am.”
“Who tells you?”
“Everybody.”
“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Heath?”
“No. Do you?”
“I ask the questions.”
“You’ll like my answers better if I get just a wee bit of Chivas.”
“They don’t serve alcohol here.”
“Plum wine, perhaps?”
“That’s alcohol.”
“I’m awful thirsty.”
“How about some mineral water?”
“I’ll pass. Why’m I here?”
“That’s what I asked you, Mr. Heath.”
“I remember the ambulance. Those guys in the ambulance brought me here.”
“You make your home under the boardwalk, is that correct?”
“What of it?”
“We found a blue-and-green plaid blanket under there. It belongs to you, right?”
“And I better get it back.”
“You were screaming when they found you, Mr. Heath.”
“I had…I had a bad dream,” he mumbled through quivering lips.
“Tell me about your dream.”
“It’s personal.” His face was now disfigured by dread.
“Mr. Heath, the ambulance attendant’s report states that you were at the scene of a murder, one that was committed less than thirty feet away from where you were huddled.”
“I didn’t see nothin’!”
“What you saw could be important to the police.”
“I was dreaming… Wasn’t I?”
“No, you were screaming when the police found you. It’s possible that you saw something, something that scared the hell out of you.”
“I wanna go! Now!” Heath yelled.
“Lower your voice. You don’t want to spend the night in the lockup, do you?”
“Let me outta here!” Heath produced a corkscrew and pointed it menacingly at Driscoll.
“Put that thing down!”
“Open the fuckin’ door!”
Exasperated, Driscoll leaned over the desk and forcibly grabbed the derelict by his throat. “Put it down on the desk, now.”
The derelict growled.
“Now, I said.” Driscoll applied more pressure to his hold.
Heath dropped the weapon.
“Tell me what you remember seeing that night,” Driscoll ordered, picking up the corkscrew and placing it in his pocket.
“Why do we hafta go back there?”
“The sooner you talk, the sooner they let you out of here.”
Heath’s eyes bulged. His lips began to quiver again as he spoke. “He was down on his knees, the whole time. Like he was doin’ somethin’ holy. First he cut up the girl’s body. I think she was already dead. Then he nailed her to the boardwalk. He kept hitting her with a ball-peen hammer, again, and again, and again.”
“Who was the girl? How did she get there?”
“I couldn’t help her, I really couldn’t. He hit her s
o hard.”
“Did you see the man’s face? Can you describe him for me?”
“It may have been the dead of night, but living under the boards gives ya the eyes of a cat. I’m tellin’ ya, I saw the guy.”
“Could you identify him?”
“He was goin’ at it real slow. Like he really got off on it.”
“Did the killer see you?”
“No way.”
The door opened, and a police sketch artist stepped into the room.
“I got here as soon as I could, Lieutenant. There was a tie-up on the Brooklyn Bridge. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“Your timing is excellent, Kelly. Mr. Heath here is about to describe our killer.”
“I am?”
“Do you know what this is?” Driscoll asked, pointing to the artist’s chalk in Officer Kelly Gilmore’s fingers.
“I know nothin’.”
“C’mon, you musta been a kid once. You musta played with crayons and colored chalk.”
“I was born old.”
“All kids enjoy playing with chalk, even old ones.”
“So?”
“So, this nice lady came all the way in from Brooklyn to draw us a portrait on this here sketch pad. Why don’t you just sit in this chair and start remembering?”
“She’s a cutie,” Heath snickered.
“That she is. And now she has some questions for you.”
“But I ain’t got nothin’ more to say.”
“How ’bout his hair?” Gilmore asked. “Was it curly? Straight? Long? Short?”
“Hair is hair. It was on top of his head.”
“You gotta help me draw it. I wasn’t there.”
“I was there, lady, but it was dark.”
“You mean his hair?”
“C’mon, lady. It was dark as a witch’s ass.”
Driscoll was growing impatient. He figured he’d try a different approach. “Drop it, Gilmore! This witness is a waste. We’ve got better things to do than stand around and listen to his arrogance. The guy didn’t see anything. He’s as blind as a maggot and even smells like one.”
“Watch your tongue, Irishman,” Heath sneered, casting a glare at Driscoll.
“I’m outa here!” Driscoll growled.
“Wait for me,” Gilmore echoed, packing up her charcoal.
“Ba dhuthchas riamh d’ar gcine chaidh gan iompail siar o imirt air!” Heath shouted in Old Irish.
“What’s he raving about?” asked Gilmore as she made her exit with Driscoll.
“Something from Ireland’s national anthem,” Driscoll answered, his voice carrying back into the room.
“Hey! I’m not done yet!” Heath bellowed. “Your guy is one of us!”
Was Driscoll being baited by an alcoholic vagrant, or did the man really have something to offer? The Lieutenant stepped back inside the room. “You better not be pullin’ my chain,” he warned.
“He’s one of us,” Heath sighed. “Shame on him. A man of Erin.”
“What makes you so sure he’s an Irishman?”
“I sure didn’t see the blue of his eyes,” Heath muttered, “but I can tell you by his Gaelic tongue that the fiend was born and bred in Sligo.”
“Alcohol plays tricks on the mind, you know.”
“My mind works just fine. I, too, was born and bred in Sligo.”
In a flash, Driscoll realized he had stumbled upon his first substantial lead. Here in the confines of a psychiatric ward he had found the first witness to a psychotic killing. “Whadya friend from Sligo say?” he asked, cautiously.
“He was praying. Just kneeling there, praying.”
“A priest?” Gilmore asked.
“Hell, no! He was prayin’ in Old Irish over his kill.”
“Heath, can you remember the prayer?” Driscoll urged.
“That I’ll never forget.”
The drunk assumed the killer’s stance and moving slowly, as though he too enjoyed it, began hacking away at his invisible victim. “Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga!” he intoned.
Chapter 32
“Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga,” Seamus Tiernan, Chairman of Columbia University’s Department of Celtic Studies, read. “To the sun and the moon and the stars, Lieutenant.”
Busts of Celts and Britons, with shields and battle axes, stood vigil over the scholarly office.
“Druidic, fifth century A.D., a ceremonial incantation. Probably used for a sacrifice,” Tiernan explained.
“Sheep and goats?” Driscoll asked.
“Roosters…and infants. True pagans. They believed they owned their children and could sacrifice them at will. Yes, Lieutenant, those were the dying gasps of heathenism in Northern Europe. Christianity saw that it didn’t last much longer.”
“Getting nostalgic?” Driscoll asked, an eyebrow raised.
“You’ve missed your calling, Lieutenant. It might have been the priesthood instead of the precinct.”
Driscoll recognized the tone in his voice. He had heard it many times before. It was the tone of someone who believed the police were a necessary evil. Someone to call when your car radio was stolen. It was a common affliction among the northeastern intelligentsia.
“Professor Tiernan, I have a few more questions.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I have papers to grade.”
“Tell me, Professor, in your world are papers more important than human life?”
“That’s your job Lieutenant, not mine.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think you could help me.”
“All right, then. Fire away.”
“Are these Druids still practicing? Perhaps in the tristate area?”
Tiernan reached for his pipe and filled it with an aromatic mixture. A flame gushed from his Flaminaire as he fired the pipe’s chimney. “They may be,” Tiernan said cautiously.
“Maybe doesn’t cut it. Are they or not?”
“I really do have work to do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Driscoll reached in his pocket and pulled out several Polaroid crime-scene photos. “No. I won’t excuse you,” he barked. He threw the photos on Tiernan’s desk. “There, Professor. That’s his handiwork. Now, are you gonna help me?”
All of Tiernan’s attitude abandoned him. He seemed to shrink before Driscoll’s eyes. “Oh my God,” he kept repeating. “Oh my God!”
“Well, Professor?”
“There is a secret society. They meet in a small town called Fremont Center in upstate New York. I visited them once in my fanatic days. Druids, with genealogy back to the Old Sod. But, I’m not sure if the society still exists.” Tiernan was stammering.
“When was the last time you were there?”
“Christmas Day 1988. The winter equinox. Not since.”
“Can you get me in?”
“I don’t think so. Ever since I baptized my children, the society has shunned me.”
An awkward silence settled between the pair.
“Lieutenant?” Tiernan managed, eyes fixed on the photos.
“Yes, Professor?”
“I’m not feeling well right now. Perhaps we can continue this discussion at another time. Say, dinner, at my house on Saturday?”
“Thank you, Professor,” Driscoll said, wondering why Tiernan had made such a gesture. “I’d like to bring along a fellow detective. If that’s OK with you.”
“Please do. If you’re wondering why the invite, my wife fancies herself a mystery writer. She would love to meet a pair of true-to-life homicide detectives.”
“Then, Saturday it is,” said Driscoll.
“May I ask one favor of you, Lieutenant?”
“Sure, Professor. What is it?”
“Leave the pictures at home.”
Chapter 33
“Fate steps in, you know,” Margaret managed as she sat in the passenger seat of Driscoll’s Chevy. The pair were on their way to Professor Tiernan’s house for dinner.
�
��And how’s that?” said Driscoll.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I recall, the last time we were together in this car we were talking about going out on a date.” There. She’d said it. An inner voice whispered she was taking a risk, but that same inner voice was insisting she disregard all caution flags and put herself out there, regardless of how vulnerable it made her feel.
“So?”
“So? What is it we’re doing right now?”
“I suggest you look at your watch. Our tour of duty began two hours ago. This ‘date,’ as you would have me call it, is part of an ongoing police investigation.”
Had he made a mistake by inviting her to dinner? It was police business, but shouldn’t he have known that Margaret would draw the wrong conclusion? And what was his own part in this? Was he unconsciously responding to Margaret’s advances? And if so, was he being unfaithful to his wife? The thought tormented him. He had vowed to be true to Colette, through good times and bad, through sickness and good health. It was one thing to indulge in the fantasy of infidelity, but quite another to dance perilously close to the rim of its hedonistic lure. And that’s what he was doing.
“You could have gone alone,” Margaret said.
“True. I could have gone alone.” Hell! I should have gone alone.
“But, you decided to ask me.” Margaret twisted nervously in her seat. “And that makes it a date.”
There was truth in what Margaret was saying, and Driscoll knew it. He had asked Margaret to accompany him to dinner because he had feelings for her. It being part of a police investigation helped Driscoll deal with his guilt. But his feelings for Margaret were genuine. Was he ready to share that with Margaret, or anyone else, for that matter? Hell, no! For now, he’d suffer in silence.
He stopped for a light on Bay Ridge Avenue and turned to face her. “We are two police officers investigating a series of brutal murders. We have been invited to dinner at the home of someone who may help us in our investigation. Whatever else you think this might be is in your very fertile imagination.”
“Listen, I know you’re my boss, and you’re a married man. I know all of that. But I can’t put aside these feelings I have for you as though they don’t exist, and I know deep in your heart, neither can you.”
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