Bone Thief (24 page)

The gingerbread cottage seemed more like the residence of an elf from Tolkien than a nurse in retirement. Driscoll found the doorbell. It was carved ivory, etched in the shape of a musical note. He depressed it. Chimes echoed, but his call went unanswered.

“Lookin' for old lady Langley?” a voice sounded.

Driscoll turned to find a small boy, no more than five or six. He was crouched on the slate steps of the house next door, sharing his lollipop with a Brittany spaniel.

“Is this her house?”

“Sure is.”

“You think she'll be back soon?”

The youngster pointed to a small cemetery on a double-sized lot at the end of the block. “That's her over there, feedin' the birds.”

Driscoll walked briskly toward the cemetery and Miss Langley. Blue jays, sparrows, pigeons, white tailed doves, two mallard ducks, and four Canadian geese fluttered about the woman, screeching for crumbs.

“Saint Therese of the Birds,” Driscoll exclaimed.

Silence was his reply and he realized he was intruding on a mysterious and private ceremony. He'd wait until her service was completed.

The crumb distribution ended, yet the birds lingered, insatiable and rude. The woman opened an instrument case and produced a silver flute, which she began to play. Pastoral and rustic was the melody. As if in a trance, the birds listened.

The melody stopped and the birds flew away, perching themselves on the branches of the surrounding elms and oaks.

“Bravo!” Driscoll cheered. “Those are some lucky birds. Not only lunch, but a concert.”

The woman stared at him. “Quiet!” Kneeling, she whispered:

 

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae, semper Virgini, beato Michaeli archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus sanctis, et tibi, Pater, quia pecavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

 

Then she rose and faced Driscoll. “These grounds are my confessional,” she said. “Where do you go to ask for forgiveness?”

“The barroom at Sullivan's.”

“Another soiled soul. Well, it wasn't my music, nor my transgressions, you came to hear. I saw you ringing my bell a moment ago.”

“If I knew I'd hear a masterful flute solo, I'd have come here first.”

“Thank you. I used to teach musicology at Juilliard, but then my son took ill and I had to change careers.” The woman smiled. “And you are?”

“My name is Driscoll. Police Lieutenant John Driscoll.”

“Wait a minute. You have that big-town aroma about you. Let me guess, Chicago…no, Philadelphia.”

“New York.”

The woman showed surprise. “A little out of your jurisdiction, aren't you?”

“I'm conducting an investigation into the death of a young girl as a result of an automobile accident.”

“I'm at a loss,” the woman said. “If she died as a result of a car accident, what's there to investigate?”

“Doctor Colm Pierce was at her bedside when she died.”

Understanding registered. “Sweet Lord! What are you saying? Are you accusing Colm?”

“Not at all. I just have a few questions.”

“It was at my knees he learned the catechism, Lieutenant. Colm was taught to confess his sins before he committed them. What is it you're after?”

“I understand you were Colm's nurse at Wellmore.”

“My care for the boy was ages ago. What does that have to do with anything happening now?”

“We're doing a background search of all the physicians on call that afternoon. Routine investigation. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

“But how did you find me?”

It was the question Driscoll had hoped she would not ask. “On my visit to Wellmore I met Gunther Etteridge, and he sent me to you.”

“I see. How is dear Gunther?”

“He misses Colm.”

The response brought a smile to Langley's lips. “Well, let's get on with the questioning.”

“I want to know more about Doctor Pierce. How is it such an accomplished radiologist got his start in a psychiatric facility for children?”

“The dear boy's early years were an abomination. A regular horror show. And then there was the fire that burned down his family's home, and all that happened there. Colm O'Dwyer, that was Colm's true name. He became a ward of the state in some squalid institution until Wellmore took him in on a philanthropic scholarship funded by the Pierce estate. That's when Edgar Pierce entered the picture. He took a liking to the boy. In a strange way, the boy resembled Edgar and could have passed for his legitimate son. The jet-black hair, those aquamarine eyes, the cleft in his chin. You could say, as soon as Edgar saw him, he saw himself. And in some ways, emotionally, he had already adopted him.”

A regular horror show
, thought Driscoll. What was it Sheriff Karp had said? The occupants of the boy's house were into pain. Lots and lots of pain. That meant the boy was brought up in an abusive environment. So abusive that he torched his house and killed his family only to end up in squalor as a ward of the state. Any Behavioral Studies graduate from Quantico would tell an inquirer that he was witnessing the birth of a psychopath.

“Driscoll. That name has its roots in the Old Sod. Do you speak the language, Lieutenant?”

“Some.”

“Colm loved the water.
An loch ag crithlonraigh ina ciuineas glaoighean se ar go leor croi uaigneach,
” Langley recited. The lake shimmering in its stillness calls to many a lonely heart.

“That's beautiful. You write poetry?”

“Not I. But Colm the Bard did. At sixteen the boy won a national poetry contest.”

“He wrote in Gaelic?”

“He was fluent. Still is.”

From psychopath to serial killer
, thought Driscoll. “Regarding Wellmore, how is it you fit in?” he asked.

“Edgar wanted it that way.”

“Why you?”

“Edgar promoted me to Director of Children's Services, with a special responsibility to act as surrogate mother to Colm. We had something in common, Edgar and me. We both had lost a son. That's what brought us closer together. On a cruise to the Galapagos Islands, Edgar was restless, not his usual jovial self. I found out what was troubling him. He confessed that he had fallen in love with me. From there on, he was part of my life. He never wanted to discuss his home life, and that was fine with me. I was like a second wife to him, and he was a dream husband. It was an idyllic time, filled with wonder. And then Alzheimer's came between us. He would forget appointments. Miss meetings he had called for. And then one day he woke up and didn't know why he was in my bed. He got dressed and left. I never saw him again.” She sighed. “But you're not here to do research for a romance novel, are you?”

“No.”

“This is more than just idle curiosity, isn't it?”

“Miss Langley, like I said, I'm investigating this patient's death—”

“I realize that,” she said with a smile. “But Colm's temper was never directed at children. He would never harm a child.”

“Would he harm an adult?”

“You know Lieutenant, I think Alzheimer's might just be a little contagious.” The woman had just slammed another door in Driscoll's face.

“As a nurse, Miss Langley, you may be doing an injured man a great deal of harm.”

“The afternoon was lovely, Lieutenant. Thanks for the company.” She then turned on Driscoll and walked away.

Driscoll stood alone in the cemetery, collecting his thoughts. From his conversation with Miss Langley he had discovered Pierce's mastery of the Gaelic tongue, and that he had a fascination for bodies of water. Was it not Gaelic that the derelict had heard? And was it coincidence that Monique, Deirdre, and Sarah's bodies were found near water? He had also learned that Pierce had been reared in an abusive home. So abusive that he had probably snapped and killed his family. And the man had a temper. That information came directly from his surrogate mother. Who better to know him? He thought of Margaret. A chill ran through his body. He unpocketed his cellular and called his office. Cedric Thomlinson answered the call.

“Where's Margaret?” Driscoll blurted.

“She's with Pierce. He invited her to his home.”

The mansion stood at the apex of a circular driveway. Margaret had seen photographs of similar structures in the pages of
Architectural Digest,
but had never imagined she'd ever be inside one.

“A place like this usually charges admission,” she said. “Does it come with a tour guide?”

Pierce grinned.

“I gave him the day off.” He approached the door. “I'm home!”

“You didn't tell me about the kids,” Margaret teased.

“Heaven forbid! The door opens on voice command.”

A marble-tiled vestibule welcomed the pair. Pierce ushered Margaret into a living room filled with plush sofas, soft leather armchairs and Louis XVI highbacks arranged on Tabris carpets. Armor adorned the walls.

Margaret felt uneasy. Was it simply because she had never visited such luxurious lodgings? Or was something else at play?

“It's not much…but it's home,” said Pierce.

“Yeah, right!”

“May I offer you something to drink?”

“I'll pass.”

“Come, then. I want to show you my collectibles.”

Collectibles?
Margaret's mind raced.

The level below them contained a large chamber with many glass cages showcasing bird skeletons and illuminated by halogen spotlights. Margaret found the display to be ghastly.

“That hummingbird is a
Calypte anna,
native to Rhodesia.” Pierce pointed to the far corner of a glass cubicle.

“You mean, hummingbird bones.”

“Stay perfectly still. You'll be able to hear the vibration of its wings.”

Margaret couldn't hear the vibration of its wings. She heard only the sound of her own rapid heartbeat. This was way too weird. “I won't budge an inch,” she managed.

The pair stood frozen, eyes fixed on the suspended assemblage of bones. “What in heaven's name is that?” she asked, breaking their trance.

“Lanius ludoviscianus,
” Pierce said, sidling up next to her. “The butcherbird. That guy impales his prey on thorns and barbed-wire fencing.”

“Well, he's got the right name.” Margaret felt a rush of adrenaline course through her veins as Pierce continued to gush over his collection. This was just too much. The thought struck her: what other collectibles might he have?

“The
Lanius
has to eat, too,” he said.

Margaret let the remark go unanswered.

“After a particularly difficult week at the hospital, I'm drawn here just to gaze at the birds. It's like meditation. Muscles, skin, and feathers once swaddled these skeletons. But now this is all that's left of these beautiful creatures. You might say I've become a caretaker of their bones. A curator, if you will. But it got me into trouble last month. A water main broke a couple of houses down. The town dispatched a bulldozer with an enormous jackhammer to tear up the asphalt. Despite the solidity of my home, one of my Peregrine falcons fell and shattered because of the vibration. I called the Department of Environmental Protection and lodged a formal complaint. They couldn't have cared less. I was forced to take matters into my own hands. I scuttled the damn bulldozer with a sixteen-ounce bottle of maple syrup. Someone must have seen me and reported the incident to the police because shortly after that, I was arrested and charged with destruction of town property. You think the butcherbird is ferocious? You haven't met Griffith, my lawyer.”

Was that a preemptive strike? Margaret wondered. Had he anticipated her curiosity about his arrest? The Lieutenant was right. Pierce was a man to keep on a short leash.

“What is it, Margaret? You look as though you've seen a ghost.”

“Do I?”

“Your face has lost its color.”

“I guess I wasn't prepared to view your collection of bones.”

Pierce's gaze fell back on his exhibit. He grew silent. Margaret watched as his eyes closed down to tiny slits. The only sound that could be heard was the thumping noise her heart was making as it continued to pound forcefully inside her chest.

“But you know all about my arrest already. Don't you?” he said eyeing her with what Margaret read as contempt. He turned his attention back to his exhibit. “This is the twenty-first century. A girl would be reckless not to want to know about the guy she's dating. How were you to know I wasn't another Ted Bundy? Tell me, what did your search reveal?”

“The bulldozer incident, and nothing more.”

“I lead a very boring life, as you can see.”

“Why the fascination with bones?” she asked.

“It's the nature of my profession.”

Margaret reasoned that not every radiologist had such a collection. A thought nagged at her. Since he had gone through the tedious task of assembling the skeleton of each tiny bird, she was sure he'd be capable of doing the same with human bones.

“The end!” Pierce announced, flicking a switch and leaving the pair in near darkness.

Margaret rummaged through her purse and released the safety on her Walther PPK firearm.

“The birds prefer the darkness,” Pierce whispered. “It feeds their hungry souls.”

“But I'm a fluorescent light kinda gal, Colm. Would you mind putting the lights back on?”

Pierce hit the toggle switch again, bathing the room in incandescent light.

“What say you and I go upstairs to the dining room for some lunch?” he suggested.

“Fine. Just as long as you're not serving chicken-salad sandwiches.”

“Heavens, no! I'll be serving duck.”