Bone Thief by Thomas O' Callaghan Page B

pop back out. It didn’t.
    â€œCheck the coil,” said Driscoll.
    Thomlinson did. It was cold to the touch. “Got any matches?” Thomlinson asked.
    â€œThere should be some in the glove box.”
    Thomlinson rummaged through the clutter in the glove compartment and produced a book of matches with the name of SULLIVAN’S TAVERN embossed on its cover. He struck a match and fired his Macanudo.
    â€œI gotta tell ya, Cedric, there was something very haunting about that cadaver under the boardwalk. The killer’s obviously staging his victims. It’s up to us to decipher his message.”
    â€œThe guy’s a psychotic exhibitionist,” said Thomlinson, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from his cigar.
    Driscoll wouldn’t argue that. He asked Thomlinson, “Tell me something, why do you suppose he’s so hell bent on IDing his victims?”
    â€œWe’ll need to get inside his head to answer that one.”
    Inside his head , thought Driscoll. Now there’s a one-way ticket to the Twilight Zone .
    The Lieutenant turned right off of Centre Street at East Houston and then made a left onto First Avenue.
    335 First Avenue, the City Morgue, loomed in the distance.
    â€œOur guy’s a collector,” Driscoll remarked, as he pulled the Chevy into a parking space and turned down his visor, revealing the NYPD’s “ OFFICIAL BUSINESS ” placard. “He must be taking the bones as souvenirs from his kill.”
    â€œMaybe the guy’s a movie buff. Remember that Predator flick, where the alien comes to earth on a hunting spree? After each kill, it collected the victim’s skeleton and hung it on a tree. What’s the chances this guy’s got his own relic garden?”
    â€œHe’s gotta be putting his trophies somewhere.”
    Once inside the building, the pair rode the elevator to the sixth floor and marched down the long corridor toward the double-glass doors marked “ CITY MORGUE .”
    The main room of the morgue was spacious, with white-tiled walls and a high ceiling. High-wattage halogen bulbs illuminated eight naked cadavers lying atop stainless-steel gurneys. Two corpses, their chests and abdominal sections gaping, were attended by a team of morgue assistants busily dissecting and weighing the individual organs.
    On a separate gurney, unidentifiable rotting flesh was being meticulously examined by Larry Pearsol, the Medical Examiner, and Jasper Eliot, a coroner’s assistant.
    â€œWelcome, Lieutenant. Good to see you again, Cedric,” said Pearsol. “This one’s yours,” he gestured with open arms. “We’ve got the internal organs out of the way, and I was just about to record my findings.”
    Driscoll winced at the remains. He saw shreds of boneless flesh, and slivers of odorous skin and muscle.
    â€œYou get Crime Scene’s report?” Pearsol asked.
    â€œYes. They came up with zilch. All the blood was from the victim. The cotton fibers could have come from any one of a thousand sources, and they found no trace of any other forensic evidence on the body or at the site. It’s almost as if a ghost is performing these murders.”
    The ME depressed the button activating the Uher recorder and spoke:
    â€œItem C296B21. Arrival date, October 19, 2005. Monique Beauford, tentatively identified by New York State driver’s license. Remains consist of a female torso with partial extremities attached. Examination reveals multiple beak lacerations, and absence of a skeleton and a right breast. Internal organs are torn. Further micro-analysis is required, with DNA and pathology examination to follow. Victim’s bones have been surgically removed after evisceration. First cut measures 26.5 centimeters, beginning at the base of the abdomen and ending at the labia majora.” Pearsol turned off the recorder and gestured to Driscoll. “He gutted her like a fish.”
    â€œYour guy likes to