Bone Thief (10 page)

As Driscoll walked back to his car, he was torn as to what to do. If he called Santangelo, that meant press, and nothing but interference from the top. If he didn't call, it would probably be the end of his career. As he reached for the door handle to the Chevy, in which Liz Butler and the suspect were seated, he decided he would rather go out a winner than to have that glory seeker foul things up and perhaps ruin the case.

He opened the cruiser's door, and Liz Butler stepped out of the car.

“I don't think he's our guy.”

Driscoll had learned over the years that Butler's instincts were good, and he took her opinions seriously. “Why not?”

“He just doesn't feel right. He keeps insisting that it's his girlfriend's phone, and that all we have to do is call her. I don't think he even knows she's dead.”

Driscoll could feel his prior exhilaration slipping away.

Margaret walked over to them. “He's got a bag full of Ecstasy, some dirty clothes, and two cans of beer in that sack,” she said.

“Ecstasy?” said Driscoll.

“Yeah. You know, the clubgoers' sex drug. All the rage among the metrosexuals.”

Driscoll scowled. “Liz, you and Luigi meet me back at the house. Margaret, you drive.”

Driscoll knew that one of the best detective tricks was simply the employment of a long drive back to the squad room. People, even people in handcuffs, naturally wanted to talk during a long excursion. It always seemed more like a conversation than an interrogation.

As the car pulled onto Sunrise Highway, Driscoll spoke. “What's your name, son?”

“McGowan, Officer. Mike McGowan. Please call Amelia. It's her phone. I know I shouldn't have taken it, but I didn't think she'd call the cops on me. I only meant to borrow it. I was gonna bring it back.”

“Why do you think she called us, Mike?”

“We had a fight. I wanted to go to the Hamptons for this major party, and she wouldn't go with me. I got mad and took the phone. I needed it to, you know, to keep in touch. I didn't think she'd flip out like this on me.”

Driscoll could tell that Butler was right. This guy was no killer. He didn't have the hatred inside him to do what had been done to Amelia Stockard.

“What's with the pills, Mike?”

McGowan swallowed hard. “Look, I'm not going to lie to you. They're Ecstasy. I went to the Hamptons to score them. Amelia and I use them. They make you feel like you're flyin' while you're standing still. I had a chance to grab a hundred, and I did. That's why I needed the phone. You know, to make the connection. I'm sorry, but that's the truth. I'm very, very sorry.” McGowan began to cry.

Margaret looked at Driscoll and shook her head. They both knew that Mike McGowan was no killer, and that their nightmare was far from over.

Driscoll reached for his cell phone and dialed the Command Center's number. Cedric Thomlinson came on the line. “Hey, Lieutenant. What's going on? Liz and Luigi just walked in, and they're not talking. We get him?”

“Nope. False alarm. Any press around?”

“A swarm of them. As usual, they're camped outside.”

“OK. Here's what I want you to do. Get a couple of guys into one of the cars with the tinted windows. Have them pull up to the front door and put on a show. Have one of them sit in the backseat with his hands behind his back. When the press rush over to the car, I'll drive up to the rear door. Have Liz and Luigi meet me there. Call me on the cell when you're ready.”

“You got it.”

Margaret and Driscoll sat in silence, waiting for Cedric's call. Driscoll thought back to what an older detective had once told him.
Never get too high or too low on the job. Stay on an even keel. That way it can never get to you.

The phone jingled. It was Thomlinson. “It's all set up,” he said.

“Showtime, Cedric! Hit it.”

The plan worked to perfection, and Butler and Vittaggio hustled the still-weeping Mike McGowan up the back stairs and into the Command Center.

Driscoll and Margaret walked into the Lieutenant's office and looked wearily at each other. “Thought we had him,” she said.

“So did I.”

“Now what?”

“Have Butler and Vittaggio take his statement. Take a couple of Polaroids of him, and have two guys drive out to the Hamptons and check out his alibi. If it checks out, have somebody useless around here process his arrest for the pills.”

“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.

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:

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 so 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.