Bone Thief (23 page)

“Cedric, hold the fort,” Driscoll said into his car phone as he drove along Interstate 91. “I just left Fremont Center, where Professor Tiernan last encountered his secret Druidic society. But they've closed up shop. No one there has heard from them in years. Another dead end. If anyone's looking for me, I'm heading for Vermont. That's where Pierce received his first license to drive. And get this. It's the first record of any kind for the guy. It's almost as though he didn't exist until he received his driver's license. The address on the license put him in Windsor County, in a town called Hortonville. I'm heading there now to speak to a Cyrus Karp. He's the town's sheriff.”

 

Later, when Driscoll and Karp met, Karp got down to business quickly. He asked, “Lieutenant, did you say 1172 Mackmore Lane?”

“That's the address I got from Vermont's Department of Motor Vehicles, Sheriff.”

“Please call me Cyrus. Folks looking to spend the night in jail can call me Sheriff.”

“OK, Cyrus, why did the woman at Motor Vehicles suggest I call you?”

“Why, you were plumb lucky, son. You see, that woman is Emma Machleit. And when she heard some big-city police detective was asking about a license that had as its address the old place on Mackmore, she thought it best to refer you to me.”

“Is the house haunted?” Driscoll asked curiously.

“It ought to be. 'Cept there ain't no house to haunt.”

“You mean, the address is a phony?”

“Nope. The address is for real, only the house that used to be there, ain't. What year did you say that driver's license was from?”

“1984,” answered Driscoll.

“Well, the last house that had that address burned down in '68. A young girl and her parents burned to death in the blaze. C'mon, I'll take ya there.”

Karp and Driscoll walked to what once was 1172 Mackmore Lane. The vacant lot, stretching between two Victorian homes, was a field of weeds.

“The townies, they won't go near it,” said Karp. “They swear the lot's haunted.”

“Did you know the residents?” asked Driscoll.

“No. Only the stories.”

“And what do they say?”

“That the occupants of that house were into pain,” Karp said, his eyes fixed just above the tufts of wild weeds. “Lots and lots of pain.”

“You said a young girl and her parents were lost in the fire. Were there any survivors?”

“A young boy.”

“What became of him?”

“Last I heard, he was adopted by the well-to-do Pierce family in Manchester.”

“I don't mean any disrespect, Cyrus, but, how is it you know that?”

“Cause Hortonville's a small town, where everybody knows everyone else's business.”

Driscoll veered the Chevy into the driveway of Edgar and Charlotte Pierce's estate in Manchester. Japanese pine trees dotted the lawn. Sculptured bushes bordered fields of red calla lilies in flamboyant bloom. Two bronze Siamese lions stood guard in front of a portal of carved wood.

“You must be Lieutenant Driscoll.” A Chinese valet ushered Driscoll into a vast reception room. “May I offer you some green tea?” he asked.

“Coffee, please.”

The valet vanished, leaving Driscoll alone. He felt as though he had entered a gallery in some museum. On one wall, a painted Japanese screen depicted soldiers in armor, brandishing swords, decapitating a row of human heads emerging from the sand. Many heads had already been severed, their blood dyeing the earth. The spectacle was watched by a bearded man in pink robes who reclined on a sedan chair.
That must be the Emperor
, Driscoll surmised, and wondered why he had ordered such a bloodbath.

“There sits Zheng, a passionate sort of fellow,” said a voice behind him.

He turned to find a silverhaired woman in a long, fluid dress sashaying toward him. “The chap beheaded thousands of freethinkers.”

“Your interior decorator has some sense of the macabre,” said Driscoll, shaking her hand.

“Oh, no, Lieutenant. My decorator, Gustave D'Ambroise, protested at first, but how could I resist Premier Lin Piao? He insisted I display it. Regrettably, we women are at the mercy of powerful men. Well, in any event, I'm Charlotte. You said on the phone you wanted to talk about Colm.”

“That's right. I do.”

Charlotte Pierce motioned for Driscoll to take a seat on an upholstered sofa.

“Shall we start with when we adopted him?” she asked, seating herself on a high-backed chair.

“That'd be fine”

“We couldn't legally adopt him until he left Wellmore.”

“Wellmore? A boarding school?”

“Oh no. It's sort of a rest home for children, an enchanting place. My husband contributed largely to its continuance.”

“A psychiatric residence.”

“Yes, a child's amusement park, if you will.”

“Why was Colm committed there?”

“You haven't read the police report?”

“I didn't know there was one.”

“He played with matches, the poor boy. He was fascinated with fire. Torched his house, I'm afraid. But he wasn't known as Colm Pierce then. I can understand why you weren't aware of the police report.”

“What was he known as?”

“Colm O'Dwyer.”

Driscoll made a note of the name. He now understood why he could find no records of Pierce before he received his driver's license.

“Were there any casualties?” Driscoll asked.

“His parents, and possibly a sister. It still isn't clear what happened to her. Colm managed to escape the flames by burrowing himself in the cellar.”

“Did he ever confess to his crime?”

“He was…catatonic. I believe that's what they call it. Doctor Hudson, the neurologist at Wellmore, was quite certain the fire's excessive heat brought on the condition. But a year later, he was back to normal, having recovered most of his memory. The fire was not part of his recollections, though. He went on to redeem himself marvelously during his stay at Wellmore, putting all the errors of his youth behind him. We're very proud of his cure. He was released to our custody ten years later because of his admirable behavior and a true sense of moral conscience.”

“Why did you adopt him?”

“On Tuesdays, back then, I volunteered my services at Wellmore, helping the nursing staff. I just fell in love with the child.”

“Did your husband share your love?”

“Absolutely. Edgar and I had lost a son, so Colm was welcomed in our home. Edgar spoiled him lavishly. It was my husband who introduced him to the finer things in life.”

“I'd like to meet your husband.”

“I'm afraid Edgar can't receive you. He suffers from Alzheimer's.”

“I'm very sorry.”

“Edgar has lost his ability to speak intelligently, but there is one word that he voices repeatedly, and that's ‘Colm.'”

The valet entered with coffee service.

“Will you stay for lunch, Lieutenant?”

“Certainly, and after that I thought I'd visit Wellmore.”

“I'm afraid it's past visiting hours.”

“In the middle of the day?”

She ignored the question. Instead, she reached for Driscoll's hand and squeezed it tightly. “This house feels like a mausoleum at times. I do crave companionship, and I appreciate your visit, but for the life of me I can't figure out why it is you're here.”

Driscoll searched her face. It was sharp and angular and full of power. It expressed a tenacity he had rarely witnessed in a woman. He wondered what secrets she was hiding. Being mother to the boy, she must have known his every inclination.

“A patient died under your son's care,” he said flatly, watching her every move.

“If this is about malpractice, we will compensate generously.”

A supportive mother? Or was there something else behind the gesture? “It's about homicide.”

“And you think my son is involved in such an affair?”

“That's what I'm trying to rule out.”

“Thank goodness! And are you any closer to finding the culprit?”

“We're clueless,” he lied.

“I find your sincerity jarring. Who was it that was murdered?”

“A young girl.”

Charlotte reached for a cigarette from an antique box and lit it. Her face showed no emotion.

“Her parents have influence,” said Driscoll.

“Obviously.”

As the two proceeded down the long corridor to lunch, Charlotte Pierce, her arm entwined in Driscoll's, whispered, “Be on your guard, the patients aren't the only crazies at Wellmore. If I were you, I'd avoid the place.”

“Your concern is noted,” said Driscoll.

Driscoll thought Wellmore looked more like a golf resort than a psychiatric facility. A guard escorted him to the administrator's office, where he was greeted by a man casually dressed in Levi's and a Hawaiian shirt. A mane of blonde hair cascaded down to his shoulders.

“Are you Courtney's dad?” the man asked.

“No.”

“Strange. You look just like Courtney.”

The door opened and a jovial woman entered, wheeling a computer monitor atop a utility table.

“May I help you?”

“I'm Lieutenant Driscoll.”

“Ah, yes, from New York. I'm Sarah Abbott. I see you've met Gunther Etteridge. He's one of our residents.”

“Why don't you read him my goddamn file, while you're telling him everything about me?” said Etteridge.

“I do apologize,” said Ms. Abbott. “I'll get Mr. Lazarus, Lieutenant.”

 

The facility's administrator was a man with a massive bald head and a Prussian mustache. “What is it I can do for you?” he asked.

“I have some questions regarding one of your former patients, one Colm Pierce.”

“Ah! Young Colm, our star graduate.”

“I'd like to have a look at his records.”

The two men eyed each other. “Tell me Lieutenant, why the curiosity in young Colm?”

“We're questioning a casualty at his hospital.”

“Malpractice is an insurance matter.”

“When it involves the daughter of a city official, everybody gets involved. I was hoping I could count on your cooperation.”

“How so?”

“I'd appreciate a tour of the place, and a look at Pierce's records.”

“Out of the question.” Lazarus crossed his arms across his chest. “You must be familiar with doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“What is it you're trying to conceal?”

Driscoll took an instant dislike to the man. He didn't appreciate his obstinance. Was Lazarus intentionally withholding information that would shed some light on the investigation? That would be a criminal act in itself. Or was the man simply being contrary? Driven by a larger-than-life ego, perhaps.

“Shattered lives and broken spirits crouch behind these walls, Lieutenant. Souls injured by the world you come from.”

“I'm only trying to conduct a routine inquiry.”

“Well, if you drove all the way from New York seeking a psychological profile of young Colm, I hope you took the scenic route.”

“You're telling me I'm not gonna get a look at those records?”

“You know the rules…We psychiatrists are like priests, we swear an oath of confidentiality. Only a court order will pry open those files.”

“I'd hate to have to use a political pass key,” Driscoll countered, realizing he didn't have sufficient grounds for a warrant.

Lazarus responded with a grin, as though he realized Driscoll was bluffing. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Lieutenant,” was all he said as he turned and left the room.

Driscoll had anticipated the outcome, but his exchange with Lazarus had enhanced his own intuition concerning the mental state of Doctor Pierce.

He strolled the grounds of the palatial estate, sensing answers shielded behind its walls. A winding path led to a miniature lake carpeted with water lilies. It was an enchanting spot, a painting by Monet come to life, and he sat on a bench to enjoy it. He felt a presence behind him. He turned around and saw it was Gunther Etteridge.

“I used to come here with Colm,” Etteridge said. “Did you know dragonflies have to molt five times in their lifetime, or they'll die?”

The man seemed harmless, a simpleton of sorts. He sported a tight-lipped smile that hid crooked teeth. Driscoll guessed him to be about the same age as Pierce, and that realization caused him to wonder why the man was still a patient in a children's psychiatric facility.

“Where did you learn that?” Driscoll asked.

“Colm! He knew everything about insects. Near the end of his stay we had a mosquito problem at this pond. Real bad. Lazarus wanted to spray DDT, but Colm said it would kill the songbirds and other beneficial insects. He ordered a batch of dragonfly eggs, a variety from South America. Those dragonflies, they were like tigers! Each one gobbled up nine hundred mosquitoes a day. In a month, the mosquito problem was licked. That was Colm for you.”

“Quite a guy.”

“Yeah. Nobody else like him.”

Etteridge's face grew somber. He became silent, staring into the darkness of the pond.

“Tell me, Mr. Etteridge, do you like it here?”

“They let me make the coffee.” His face beamed. “It was Colm who showed me how to work the dispenser. He knew everything about the stuff. Did you know coffee was discovered in Ethiopia?”

“You learned that from Colm?”

“He talked about coffee all the time. Mr. Pierce, senior, was a coffee importer and a great dad to Colm.”

“Did you know him?”

“Not too well, but I know Colm was close to his dad.”

“Did his dad visit often?”

“He practically lived here. And Miss Langley was always pleased to see him.”

“Who's Miss Langley?”

“Colm's nurse. It was Miss Langley that encouraged Colm to become a doctor. It sure made his dad happy. Boy, I sure miss her and those visits to her house.”

“You went to her house?” This man was a wealth of information. Screw Lazarus and his obstinance. Driscoll's prayers had been answered.

“His dad would take us there. Miss Langley would make French pastries. We'd all sit at the kitchen table and eat them with hot chocolate, and then Colm and I would play Scrabble for the rest of the evening.”

“And Colm's dad and Miss Langley?”

“They'd go into the bedroom and watch Ed Sullivan.”

“I sure would like to have a talk with her. Does she still live in the same house?”

“I think so.”

“Could you give me directions?”

Etteridge did.