“Right.”
“So can we put those feelings aside for a moment and get down to the business of catching this bastard?”
“You bet. But I’ll need a little help getting started. I’m not that computer savvy.”
“All right, then,” Driscoll said, flexing his fingers over the keyboard. “Here at the Command Center we use Netscape as our Internet browser. That’s that little icon on the screen with the ship’s steering wheel. I’m clicking on it, see? Now we got search instruments: Lycos, Yahoo, Gopher, and lots more. We’re gonna use them to look up everything we can find on every detail of the case. Now, type ‘bones’ in the search line…OK, now click ‘Search’…That’s it…There’s your list of everything on the Internet dealing with bones. Just click the mouse on those topics you want to know more about. Keep going down the list. You find something that may be a lead, give me a holler. I’ll be doing the same thing over here with ‘Gaelic’…Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Then let’s start surfing.”
Hours later they had downloaded volumes of data on bones, Gaelic, torture, sadism, and abductions, had printed reams of pages, and had amassed vast quantities of information. None of it pointed to any one suspect or in any particular direction. Their search was a strain on both the head and back.
Margaret pushed back her chair and glanced at the wall clock. It was 1:48 A.M.
“Jesus, I’m starving,” she grumbled. “How ’bout Indonesian?”
Driscoll’s stomach rebelled. “You want me to eat food where they load everything with chunky peanut butter? That’s not for me. I’ll pass.”
“What then?” Margaret said, arms outstretched, caught in midyawn.
“You’re the one who’s hungry.”
“Yeah. And you ain’t helpin’. You’re supposed to suggest the place.” Margaret’s head was cradled in her palms, her elbows on her knees. Her body signaled exhaustion.
“How ’bout my house? There’s a new dish I’ve been dabbling with, and I’ve almost got it right.” The notion brought a smile to Driscoll’s face.
“You cook?” Margaret’s blue eyes were riveted to his, and Driscoll wasn’t immune to what those eyes conveyed. Her gaze spoke volumes, and those volumes begged for a romantic relationship with him. Driscoll wasn’t blind to that, and he certainly wasn’t blind to the woman’s beauty and charm. There was no question about it. Margaret was a very desirable woman. This would be so much easier if he were single. He knew Colette would never awaken from her coma, so it could be argued that he was already single. The man trembled at the thought. Reason took hold. He was a married man. He’d have to maintain a platonic relationship with Margaret. But every instinct he had said he couldn’t. What was he to do?
“I’m married to a French girl,” he said lamely. “It was she who taught me to cook.”
“I’m beginning to feel like the other woman.”
“That’s not fair. To me or to you.”
He imagined his wedding band being fitted around his neck and tightened like a hangman’s noose. His situation seemed hopeless.
“I’m too tired and too hungry to worry about what’s fair. Tell me about this dish,” Margaret said.
“Saumon au vin blanc,” Driscoll said.
“I love the sound of that. Tell you what, there’s an all-night Food Emporium near my apartment with a great seafood selection. What say we raid the joint and head for my place, not yours?”
His imagined noose just got tighter.
“But it’s almost 2:00 A.M.,” he said.
“Whadya got against missing a little sleep?”
Driscoll hesitated, eyes fixed on Margaret.
“So what’ll it be?” She reached for her purse and nervously withdrew her compact. The sheen of her lipstick had faded. On the verge of trembling, she applied a fresh layer.
“Why the hell not? Let’s go.”
Chapter 36
Pineapple Street was lined with quaint brownstones, with impatiens and geraniums adorning stoops and windows. The street was silent except for the whine of a stray cat.
Inside 124 Pineapple, the pair climbed the oak staircase to Apartment 2A. It was Driscoll’s first visit to Margaret’s place.
A clap of Margaret’s hands turned on a ceiling-high row of track lighting that illuminated a fair-sized living room. Driscoll smiled, for he knew Margaret found solace in this living space, where a modular sofa encircled a traditional fireplace. In the center of the circle, a coffee table in glass and chrome stood on an earth-colored Oriental carpet. Driscoll eyed the high-tech entertainment center that supported a JVC stereo system, a Sony nineteen-inch color TV, and a stack of assorted CDs. Adorning the wall opposite the fireplace was an abstract painting in blue and green. Margaret had good taste. That was evident, and what was comforting was that the furnishings made Driscoll feel at ease.
The dining room was adjacent to the living room, and boasted an oval-shaped white pine table with four American Colonial chairs. In the center of the table, a crystal vase held a bouquet of blue irises. Again, a very comfortable room.
“Welcome to my place.”
“I like it. It suits you.”
“I think the living room could use some dressing up.”
“Looks fine to me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, that just saved me $1,400 for the Henredon wall unit I had my eye on.”
“You have quite the eye for interior design.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“It’s funny you should say that. Before I decided on police work, I took a couple of courses at Parsons.”
“It shows.”
“Let me have your topcoat,” she said, helping Driscoll out of his Burberry. “Can I offer the chef a drink?”
“Scotch.”
Driscoll stepped into the kitchen while still carrying the shopping bag crammed with food. A Jenn-Air gas range, set in a tiled island, took up the center of the room. Against the wall stood a Viking refrigerator with full-length steel doors. A battery of copper pots Driscoll recognized as Bourgeat hung from an overhead rack. Depression-era glass filled the windows of oak cabinets.
“Very impressive,” he said, accepting a tumbler filled with whiskey.
“I had the place redone a couple of months ago. I’m glad you like it.”
“I do.”
When Driscoll entered the dining room, steaming dish in hand, Margaret had changed into a simple black dress, and her hair had been pulled back into a chignon. The table had been set for two, with Noritake china and Georg Jensen flatware. Two elongated candles were burning in Lalique holders.
“Now this is what I call two cops eating out,” said Driscoll.
“I forgot the wine.” Margaret hurried to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Mondavi Fume Blanc.
Driscoll uncorked it and poured a generous portion into her glass. They ate and drank.
“How ’bout some music?” Margaret asked hesitantly when they had finished.
“Can’t see the harm in that.”
Johnny Mathis’s “Chances Are” filled the room.
“Dance with me,” she heard herself say. Was it her talking, or the wine?
Driscoll looked at her, startled.
“What’s the matter? Something wrong with two cops dancing to a little mood music?” Margaret felt as though she were stuttering.
A soft breeze blew, extinguishing one of the candles as Mathis crooned.
Driscoll found himself in Margaret’s arms, swaying languorously to the vocalist’s lyrics, enjoying the intimate company of a woman, a vivacious, fun-loving woman. The scent of her perfume enveloped the pair as they danced. It was the scent of early spring, and Driscoll found it to be subtle and intoxicating. His heart was beating rhythmically. He felt electrified, thrilled to be alive. As he closed his eyes, he felt Margaret’s warm cheek brush against his. It was pure delight.
Anothe
r gust of wind extinguished the remaining candle. The starry night’s sky illuminated the room through an overhead skylight. Their two shadows melted into one.
“Maybe it’s time to clap your hands again,” said Driscoll.
“Let’s not.”
Their dancing continued. She felt warm in his arms.
“I’m going to kiss you,” she breathed. And then, pressing her lips against his, she lingered at the edge of his tongue.
He did not resist. Her tongue was inviting, her lips moist. He withdrew slowly. Her lips found his again. This time she was more daring, more exploratory.
“What say we sit this one out,” she murmured.
“It’s getting awfully late.”
“Please. Just sit with me.”
A lassitude enveloped him. It had been years since he’d been kissed so ardently. For years he had not felt the alchemy of intertwining tongues. When she offered him her lips for the third time, he surrendered.
A ringing in the darkness interrupted them. He froze.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“My cellular. It’s in my coat.”
“Don’t, John. Don’t.”
Driscoll rushed to the closet, grabbed his phone, and flipped it open.
“Yes, Lucinda…Have you called 911?…I’ll be right there!”
“What is it?” Margaret asked, alarmed.
“It’s my wife. She stopped breathing.”
Chapter 37
“She stopped breathing,” Driscoll sighed, “but the CPR unit brought her back. They got there just before I did. I could have lost her, Elizabeth. The call arrived when I was kissing my assistant. Imagine that. I’m kissing Margaret, feeling emotions I forgot I had, and the cellular starts ringing. It was three o’clock in the morning! I should have been home in bed, not out getting it on with another woman.”
“Is three o’clock after your curfew?”
Doctor Elizabeth Fahey was Driscoll’s psychotherapist. She had nursed Driscoll’s soul through his near collapse at the loss of his daughter and the onset of his wife’s coma.
“Curfew. What curfew? I’m not a teenager, for Christ’s sake!”
“Well, you’re the one out necking at three o’clock in the morning.”
“She stopped breathing. I’m out gallivanting, and she stops breathing.”
“Let’s not even think about the shape you’d be in if the two of you had had sex.”
Driscoll looked at her. “You’re really off to the races now.”
“Tell me you don’t see the message here.”
“So, this is all about guilt?”
“Irish Catholic guilt.”
Driscoll slouched back in his chair. “I know I’m gonna sound like a broken record, but I still don’t think you understand how much I miss my wife. She was my first love, remember, the first woman in my life. I adored her. Everything about her. I still carry her in my thoughts everywhere I go. Just the other day the phone rang. This woman with a French accent was looking for some guy named Claude. A wrong number. It sounded just like her. I hung up the phone and cried. Then I remembered she’s not dead. She’s just in the other room.”
His eyes moistened. “Like we discussed from the onset, it’s like I’m married, but I’m not married. I have Colette at home, but I live alone. I see her every day, but she doesn’t see me. She doesn’t even know I’m there! We both know this is not grounds for an annulment. Not if you’re a Catholic. Married for life am I. Do I like it? Can’t say that I do. Can I do anything about it? Damned if I can. What’s down the road for me is one lonely day after another. There certainly can’t be any future with Margaret.”
“There’s not even a present. Tell me more about this woman.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“And you’re a handsome man. That can account for the physical attraction. But tell me more. What’s she all about?”
“She comes from an Italian-American background. Her father, the bastard, was a cop. She followed in his footsteps.”
“Why did you call him a bastard?”
Driscoll sat back in his chair, thoughtful. His eyes drifted toward the floor.
“Margaret didn’t exactly have what you’d call a happy childhood,” he said.
“Who does?” Tell me about hers.”
Driscoll felt a pang of guilt. Should he reveal a confidence that Margaret admitted to him over a couple of beers? He scanned Fahey’s face. This was his therapist, for God’s sake.
“She was sexually abused as a child.”
“By whom? The bastard father?”
Driscoll nodded. “Then when Margaret was seventeen, the son of a bitch drank himself into a stupor and took his head off with his service revolver. If you ask me, the parasite had it coming.”
“Well, that explains a lot of things. Is she in therapy?”
“She was when she was a teen. I don’t think that continued, though.”
“The human mind is a very protective device. Often victims like Margaret are able to block out the memory of their abuse, or at least the emotions she was feeling at the time of her abuse. But what she’d likely to be left with is an anxiety disorder with both an attraction and a distrust of men, on an unconscious level, of course. Her father killing himself doesn’t help. It raises abandonment issues. How long have you two been working together?”
“Four years.”
“I’m willing to bet this is the first time you two are tracking down a serial killer of women.”
“It is.”
“Whether they block out their emotions or not, incest victims never fully recover. The earlier the age, the more severe the psychological trauma. A trauma that unconsciously determines their every move. Right on through adulthood. It’s probably why she became a cop.”
“What’s this serial killer got to do with it?”
“This isn’t your run-of-the-mill serial killer. He’s not using a shotgun to take out his victims. He’s boning them, dissecting their flesh. This is a very intimate method of murder. The intimate slaughter of women. Much like her own intimate slaughter.”
“So you’re saying there’s a connection.”
“Absolutely. She relives her destruction at every crime scene. Unconsciously, what resonates in her is fear. A child’s fear. Remember, it’s why she became a cop. And to this frightened cop, you represent the knight that is out to slay the dragon, this butcher of women. And in so doing, you’d be avenging her own desecration.”
“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?”
Bone Thief jd-1 Page 12
