“I think she wanted out, but her Romeo wasn’t willing to call it quits.”
“So he mutilates her?” said Driscoll. “He took her bones, goddamn it! That doesn’t fit the profile of a jilted lover.”
“You guys ever hear the story of the thief of hearts?” Thomlinson asked.
Driscoll and Margaret shook their heads.
“In the summer of 1976, in Trinidad, several women were murdered. Their hearts had been plucked out. A big investigation followed. Bodies kept piling up. Beautiful girls. No hearts. Suddenly the murders stopped. Three years later, the mayor of this little tourist town shoots himself. He had written a letter before pulling the trigger. In it, he admitted that he was the one who had killed the eight women he had once loved. They had all betrayed him with other men. If he couldn’t have their hearts, no one would.”
“But our ghoul takes bones,” said Driscoll, his finger pressing hard on the hanging 8-x-10 glossy of the mutilated corpse. “And this ghoul has no regard for human life. The McCabe woman weighed 116 pounds and stood five-feet-two. My Nicole had ten pounds on this woman, and three inches. We’re talking a frail target. It must have been easy to overtake her. For all we know, the poor woman might have died from fright before being slaughtered. And that would have been a blessing.”
Driscoll picked up a wooden pointer and tapped its tip on the red pennant inside Prospect Park.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this murder,” he said. “I have a hunch we’re looking at victim number one. What we must do, and do now, is get inside the mind of this crazed killer. What sets him off? What drives him to commit such a vicious crime? The key, as I see it, is in understanding what the bones mean to him. He’s got a real good reason for taking them, and our job is to find out what it is.”
Chapter 8
The rain that pelted the city for the past three days had finally stopped. Driscoll pulled the Chevy into an open parking space just outside the video store where Deirdre McCabe had last been seen alive. The “after view,” as he liked to call it, seemed surreal. The present passivity of the crime scene disturbed him. It seemed like any other slice of America, not the place where demons danced. He thought of the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn and the stretch of roadway that serves as a service road for the westbound Belt Parkway. On that particular roadway David Berkowitz, better known as the Son of Sam, staged his last bloody assault on an unsuspecting couple who were parked in, what was for them, a lover’s lane. Are there any signs to indicate that an abominable act had taken place there? No. That “after view” has taken on the embodiment of a quiet and cozy lover’s lane once again, and the tranquillity of life goes on around it.
Driscoll got out of the cruiser to better scan the area, the same area that the crime-scene crew had scoured, producing no tangible evidence, and he counted eight parked cars and one utility vehicle, a Ford Bronco. None were occupied. The space where McCabe’s Volvo had been parked was now empty. It was a good thirty feet from the video store. Had the killer been waiting in the dark? Watching her? If so, from where? Did the victim know her assailant? Had this been a tryst gone bad? There were no apparent signs here that a murder or an abduction had taken place. But, given the fact that the Volvo was left behind, the abduction, more than likely, had taken place in the parking lot.
What bait had he used to lure her to his vehicle? Serial killer Ted Bundy liked to wear a false plaster cast on his arm and wrist and pretend he couldn’t lift a parcel into his Volkswagen. Time and again, his soon-to-be victims would come to his aid, helping him load the bulky item. Or had the McCabe woman met the killer in the shop and gone willingly to his vehicle? Or had he simply overpowered her, an unsuspecting and frail woman returning from a quick visit to a local retailer? In any case, the killer probably had his own auto.
With more questions than answers, Driscoll headed for the store.
“Hi! Welcome to Video-Rama,” a cheerful voice sounded. “May I help you with your selection?” The clerk, a young girl of high-school age with tawny blond hair in a ponytail, had gentle blue eyes that crinkled when she spoke.
“I’m Detective Driscoll,” the Lieutenant announced. “I was hoping to speak to the manager, Ms. Clairborne.”
“I’m sorry, but Ms. Clairborne works the evening shift. She won’t be here for another fifteen minutes.”
Driscoll checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. He’d kill the time browsing the racks of videos.
Below the advertisements for Coca-Cola and microwavable popcorn, Driscoll saw that the shop’s walls were lined with rack upon rack of current releases. The center of the store, he noted, was devoted to celluloid treasures of years gone by. Driscoll meandered to a kiosk displaying a collection entitled Film Classics. Gone With the Wind, My Fair Lady, On the Town, and an entire collection of Hitchcock favorites stared back at him. The beautiful face of Grace Kelly in the arms of a young and debonair Jimmy Stewart caught Driscoll’s attention. He picked up Rear Window, returned the gaze of leading lady Kelly, and remembered Colette.
On a bright, sunny April day early in their courtship he and his date were picnicking on the rolling hills of the Sheep Meadow inside Prospect Park. Prospect Park, he thought. How ironic to have such a remembrance while investigating the death of a woman whose body had been discovered in that park. Perhaps his unconscious was at work trying to obliterate the horrendous find. Good transcending evil, he thought. His eyes were drawn back to the smiling face of Grace Kelly, but his mind was now littered with thoughts of the terrible homicide. The spell had been broken. He took one last look into the gleaming eyes of Grace Kelly and smiled sadly.
“May I help you?” a voice sounded.
“Quite a film,” he said, returning the video to its appropriate slot in the display.
“Yes, it is,” replied Ms. Clairborne with a smile. “I understand you have some questions regarding Mrs. McCabe, the poor soul. Supposing we go inside my office, shall we?”
The woman stood about six feet tall. Her blue and gray business suit hugged her lean frame. Driscoll was reminded of Mrs. Haggerty, a grade-school teacher not well liked by her students, but admired by him since she seemed strict but fair.
Once inside the office, Ms. Clairborne motioned for Driscoll to have a seat, and then sat down behind a desk cluttered with trade magazines and big-screen paraphernalia.
“How can I help you, Lieutenant Driscoll?” she asked.
“I understand you were working last Friday evening. The night Mrs. McCabe came into the store.”
“Yes, I was. I always work Friday evenings. It’s our busiest night.”
“Do you remember seeing Mrs. McCabe?”
“Yes. In fact, I waited on her myself. She returned two videos, and rented one. It’s a Wonderful Life. I remember because Jimmy Stewart is a favorite of mine.”
“Was she with anyone?”
“No. She was alone. She always came in by herself.”
“Did she seem nervous or edgy, or act as if she were meeting someone?”
“No. She was her usual pleasant self.”
“Did you notice if she spoke to anyone in the store? Anyone at all?”
“Not that I noticed. But I couldn’t swear to it.”
“What kind of person was Mrs. McCabe?”
“Why, she was a lovely person. Very polite.”
“Was anyone else in the store at the same time as Mrs. McCabe?”
“Mr. Thornwood was here with his two teenage granddaughters. They were in the New Release section, which is on the opposite side of the store from where Mrs. McCabe was. She was in the section where we feature the Classics.”
“So they didn’t interact?”
“No, I don’t think they even saw each other.”
“Anyone else?”
“Yes, two OTs who browsed the racks and then left without renting anything.”
“OTs”?
“Out of Towners. People who don’t have an account with us. These OTs were two women.”