As the Lieutenant continued north on Centre Street, he glanced over at Thomlinson and could tell his friend’s anxieties were getting the best of him. He knew that Thomlinson was craving a drink. Driscoll watched as his newly ordained house mouse reached in his vest pocket and produced a Macanudo. That was always a sign. When he wanted to drink, Thomlinson would settle for the taste of tobacco over the taste of booze. Driscoll noted how anxiously he peeled away the cigar’s cellophane wrapper, pressed the Chevy’s cigarette lighter, and waited patiently for it to pop back out. It didn’t.
“Check the coil,” said Driscoll.
Thomlinson did. It was cold to the touch. “Got any matches?” Thomlinson asked.
“There 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.
“I 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.”
“The 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?”
“We’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.
“Our 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.”
“Maybe 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?”
“He’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.
“Welcome, 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.
“You get Crime Scene’s report?” Pearsol asked.
“Yes. 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:
“Item 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.”
“Your guy likes to slash and carry,” said Jasper Eliot.
Pearsol hit the on button and continued: “The second and third cuts are lateral incisions to both thighs, allowing extrication of the bones from the upper legs. The incisions measure 29 and 30 centimeters, respectively. The victim’s patella, fibula, and tibia are missing, as well as externus and internus malleolus.”
“The gulls got some of the choice parts,” Jasper Eliot whispered to Driscoll. “What’s he want with the bones?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. Larry, kill the recorder for a minute and talk to me.”
“You got it.” The ME hit the switch and turned to face Driscoll. “What we have are the remains of an undernourished Caucasian female, possibly anorexic. She dyed her pubic hair blonde. Nestled within it is an old tattoo of a faded heart. Kinky. About five-eight, five-ten, weighing between 105 and 110 pounds. My initial examination of her genitalia shows no indication of a recent assault or violation. In the flesh of her shoulders I found circular wounds, half a centimeter in diameter, eight in all, probably postmortem, left by three-inch nails.”
“That’s how he hung her on the boards, by the shoulders. Tell me about the piercing.”
“An abundance of scar tissue surrounds the perforation.”
“Does that tell you when she got it done?”
Pearsol unscrewed the top to an aluminum canister and emptied its contents. The ring made a clinking sound as it hit the base of a glass dish.
“Judging from the scar tissue, I’d say she’s been wearing it for a couple of months, give or take a few days,” he surmised.
Driscoll stared at the ornament, a gold band with jade studs. “I’d like to know the composition of the ring as soon as possible.”
“One step ahead of you, Lieutenant.” Jasper Eliot handed Driscoll a computerized printout detailing the chemical analysis of the ring: “11.1 milligrams gold, 26.2 milligrams copper, 2.6 lead, 2.3 tin, 8.7 steel and 3.7 resins. Studs: imitation jade. Estimated worth: $16.32.”
“Larry, what about the body piercer?” Driscoll asked, scanning Eliot’s report.
“Well, he’s a perfectionist. The guy knows his flesh. No nail gun used here. These suture marks are perfectly symmetrical. Impeccable work. You’re thinking, maybe the body piercer and your perp are the same guy?”
“Can’t overlook it.” Driscoll punched in a number on his cell phone.
Margaret answered on the third ring.
“I want a list of body piercers,” Driscoll said. “Start with the tristate area.”
“Aren’t earrings against Department regulation?”
“Very funny. It may be a lead.”