Bone Thief by Thomas O' Callaghan Read Free Book Online

distracted murderer? Or, was there a message in his not removing the ring? A message between the unknown suspect and the investigator? With a gloved hand, Driscoll discreetly fingered the ring. Was the killer a body artist, a flesh piercer that had once punctured the tender membranes of this girl’s privates and inserted this metal loop? Chemical analysis would reveal the alloys that composed it. The killer had to know the police would find the ornament’s manufacturer. And so the flesh artist, possibly the killer, would be found as well. Was he taunting the police? Was this a game?
    Driscoll picked up the New York State driver’s license that was lying in the sand just below the remains. Monique Beauford. Age nineteen. This killer may be an exhibitionist , he thought. He leaves his handiwork behind as though it were a work of art, and uses the driver’s license to identify his kill. The McCabe woman was found in a public park, and now this victim is discovered at a public beach. Was there a message in that?
    Driscoll looked into the face of the picture displayed on the driver’s license. A young, brassy blonde returned his stare. “He may have slipped, you know. Unwittingly, he may have slipped,” he said. There was now a thread of commonality to these murders, not only in how the two women were butchered, but in where the killer chose to leave them: in public recreational sites, knowing they would be found.
    Driscoll removed a plastic evidence pouch from his breast pocket and placed Monique’s driver’s license in it. He then examined the nails the killer used, and prayed the wounds were postmortem.
    â€œI’ll catch this son of a bitch. That I promise,” he vowed as he turned his back on the victim and headed back to the beach.

Chapter 12
    Cedric Thomlinson checked his watch and turned off the engine of his Dodge Intrepid. He was five minutes late for his meeting. He walked solemnly toward the heavy oak door that led to Saint Rose of Lima’s community room, and slipped inside. There was a large crowd, a mix of men and women, all of them police personnel, and all with the same purpose: to garner the strength to keep from drinking.
    Thomlinson was greeted by Father Liam O’Connor, a Jesuit priest, a bulk of a man, sixty-five years of age, with a shock of white hair streaking otherwise gray. He was a Certified Alcohol and Substance Abuse Counselor and had run the Police Department’s Confidential Alcohol and Drug Abuse Program for thirty years. His successes recovered, regained their lives, and went on to become productive police officers. His failures didn’t. Some of them ended their careers by ending their lives. It wasn’t uncommon for a despondent police officer to put the barrel of his service revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger.
    â€œHello, Cedric. How are you tonight?” asked Father O’Connor.
    â€œDoing fine, Father. And you?”
    â€œAside from a touch of arthritis, I’m doing fine myself. Thanks for asking.”
    Thomlinson smiled and meandered over to his assigned seat within a circle of chairs. He glanced around him. The faces remained the same, some revealing hope; some, despair. Every once in a while a new inductee. The Department averaged two a month.
    â€œHow ya doin?” Thomlinson muttered to the rookie police officer to his right.
    There were far too many young officers in the room caught up in the four-to-four lifestyle. These were officers who started out doing steady four-to-twelve shifts, then continued on to the bars until they closed at four A.M . Hence the classification: four to four. Most of the rest of the crowd were whiskey faced veterans holding on until retirement. At forty-two, Thomlinson felt caught somewhere between the two. “Caught” being the operative word.
    The muted chatter that filled the small room ceased as Father O’Connor took his seat and began his invocation: