Shade of Pale Page 9

  “I told you, it’s art.”

  “Yeah, right. Art.”

  “Remember, a bonus for seven days.”

  Harley filled out the custom order form, O’Connor signed it using his alias, “Charlie O’Malley,” and they shook on it. He paid cash. “A done deal?” O’Connor asked.

  “A done deal. Pick it up at the end of the week.”

  After O’Connor left, Spinks studied the drawing and wondered what the hell he was going to make.

  It looked like a large cylinder, about twenty inches across. There was a ridge for brackets around each end. The customer wanted the thing to be polished both inside and out.

  O’Connor drove back into the city. He followed hand-written directions to a shop in Greenwich Village with the curious, yet descriptive, name the Bone Room. The tiny store had a rather specialized clientele; it sold only bones, from animal to human.

  There was a display case full of skulls, some human, and another with various skeletal appendages—paws, claws, wings, tails, hands, and feet. Against one wall stood a collection of complete skeletons, all real. A sign over the door said as much. The Bone Room prided itself on having only the finest legal bones money could buy.

  The atmosphere was bizarre. Having all those skulls grinning at you would have given some people the creeps, but not O’Connor. He wondered if he knew any of those poor souls who constituted the former owners of those human frames, now displayed like so much produce.

  He browsed for a few minutes, examining a rattlesnake skull and the complete mounted skeleton of a wolf.

  “May I help you?” asked a cadaverous man wearing a bow tie and too much cologne. His face was as gaunt and colorless as the skulls he sold. He wore a white lab coat that gave him the vague appearance of being some kind of medical technician.

  “Yes. I’m looking for a certain type of human bone.”

  The salesman nodded, and O’Connor could see the top of his head. A few greasy gray strands of hair stuck to his scalp like spaghetti. “We have an extensive inventory of human bones, all perfectly legal and processed. May I ask what bone it is you’re looking for?”

  O’Connor smiled. He would make an effort to remember everything, so he could tell the story of this place later, to his friends at the pub. He stopped smiling when he realized that both Dolan and the pub were gone.

  O’Connor didn’t really know the name of the bone he wanted, not having a background in anatomy. The only exposure to bones Padraic O’Connor ever had was breaking them. At that he was an expert. “Well, I think it’s a leg bone, about this long.” O’Connor spoke with his deep Irish brogue. He held his hands up, indicating about twenty inches in length. The gaunt man in the lab coat nodded.

  “I see. It looks like what you want is a femur, judging by the size you’ve indicated. Tell me, sir, what do want it for? I mean, what purpose do you have in mind?”

  O’Connor was surprised by the question; usually people in New York took your money and asked nothing. He hadn’t given it much thought, but O’Connor was a pro at dealing with people and answering difficult questions. He could think on his feet. “It’s a gift,” he said simply.

  The gaunt man smiled. O’Connor could see that the answer made complete sense to him. He led O’Connor to the end of the counter and brought out a box containing an assortment of different-sized femurs. “We have some beautiful specimens here that would make lovely gifts.”

  O’Connor picked up a few of the larger bones, feeling the weight on his hand, testing the solidness of them. He smacked each one against the palm of his hand.

  The gaunt man raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ll find these femurs to be of exceptional quality. We sell no chipped or cracked merchandise here.”

  “Yes, I see. These are just fine.” He selected two and put them off to the side. The gaunt man waited patiently. Apparently bone buyers were a picky lot, O’Connor decided. The man had to have unlimited tolerance for eccentric people with time to burn. O’Connor’s choice took only a few minutes, lightning-fast in the world of bone sales.

  “An excellent selection,” the salesman said. “Will that be cash or charge?”

  “Cash.”

  “Will that be all today? Could I show you something else? Maybe something in a metacarpal? A nice tibia?”

  O’Connor shook his head, aware that he was smiling again. He realized that he was enjoying himself immensely and made a mental note to come back here someday and buy more. A grinning skull would look good on his mantel, leering at his guests.

  “I could gift wrap these if you wish.”

  “Just a box will suffice.” He handed over the money, surprised at how pricey bones could be. Of course, only in New York could you find such a shop, certainly not in Northern Ireland. The only bones there were shattered by gunfire and moldering in the ground, not like these perfect bleached-out beauties.

  The gaunt man wrapped the femurs and placed them in a long cardboard box that looked like it might have been used for flowers. He handed it to O’Connor and smiled. “I hope you’ll think of us for all your bone needs. Thank you and come again.”

  Padraic O’Connor walked out into the streets of New York with two twenty-inch human femurs in a box under his arm.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The atmosphere of the precinct building always seemed to be the same: desperate and depressing. Detective Jones walked through it like a holy man walked on hot coals, which is to say he rose above it.

  “It’s all in the mind,” he said so often it became a cliché. “I don’t let it get to me.” Of course, on some days it did. As impossible as it was to completely tune out all the madness that swirled around him, George did his best to focus on the task at hand.

  His office door did little to block out the noise and pandemonium. He took solace in the ubiquitous cup of coffee. Now on his fifth cup of the day, he was sitting down studying the police reports on Declan Loomis when the door opened and Police Captain Owen Smoller walked in.

  George looked up, surprised.

  “Jones, I want to talk to you.”

  “Sure, Captain. Here, sit down. Want some coffee?”

  Smoller frowned. “That shit you drink? No thanks; that stuff is toxic. Don’t you know it’s bad for your heart?”

  George nodded. “Yeah, they say it’ll take ten years off my life, but you want to know something? It’s the last ten years, the years when I’ll probably be sittin’ around in an old age home, waitin’ for somebody to come and change my diapers. I say it’s no contest. So, drink up.”

  The captain said, “Jones, you’re so full of shit you don’t know which end to squeeze. If you want to rise up in the department, you’ve got to show some class. Quit eating at hot dog stands and drinking rotgut coffee; it makes you look like some kind of loser.”

  Jones just stared at him, his lips pressed together, the mug of hot coffee between his bearlike paws. For a moment he daydreamed of throwing the hot coffee in Smoller’s face, Dirty Harry style, then punching the asshole out. Nobody should talk to George Jones like that.

  Nobody should, but some still did. George let people know when they pissed him off. None escaped his wrath. None but Smoller, that is.

  “And tie your tie, for Christ sake.”

  George smiled sweetly. “Is that what you came down here to talk to me about?”

  Smoller snorted. George noticed that he had some papers in his hand. The man sat down on one of the scarred wooden chairs and put the papers on George’s desk. George looked at them but didn’t make a move. He knew the unwritten department etiquette regarding files—you picked one up at the wrong time and presto, it magically became your file.

  “People pass the buck around here so much it’s damn near created a breeze,” George said.

  Smoller glared at him for a moment, then softened slightly and assumed a diplomatic tone. “Take the file, Jones,” he said. “You’ll see that it’s marked SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR. That’s you.”

  Jones picked up
the folder and looked at the contents. “This the strangler?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m gonna have to bring you in. The fuckin’ commission hasn’t done a thing, and the two boobs they put on it are just for show. There’s been no progress and now they want you. I tried to talk sense to ’em, but you know City Hall.”

  “What about Loomis?”

  “It’s not going anywhere. You can take a heavier caseload, in my opinion. I’ll give you an extra man. This strangler stuff is like dynamite; the investigation’s a mess. I want a fresh mind on this. Start from the beginning; do whatever you have to do.

  “The newspapers are already whipping everybody into a frenzy. But that’s not the worst part.”

  “It’s not?”

  Smoller shook his head. “The mayor wants you to answer questions.”

  George waved his hands. “No way in Hell.”

  “That’s what I told him. I said you couldn’t break cover, I said you had death threats—believe me, I used every trick in the book—but it didn’t fly. I don’t want you doing this any more than you do. You’re liable to punch out another reporter.”

  “That was years ago, and he was resisting arrest.”

  “Whatever. Point is, you’re a loose cannon. But … Hizzoner insisted. He wants everybody to see that you’re on the case. You’re the serial killer man. He wants the press to know he’s brought in his big gun.”

  George threw up his hands. “Aw, shit. I gotta go on TV?”

  Smoller could’ve nodded, like a normal person, but he didn’t. He was a conversational minimalist. “I’m afraid so. We’ll keep it brief, but you gotta keep your mouth shut. Got that? Just give ’em the party line and play like Humble Harv.”

  Smoller leveled his gaze at George. He had the ability to look serious at all times.

  “Don’t fuck it up. I’m takin’ you over there at noon for the press conference.”

  George let the papers drop back to the desk. He made a sour face. “I can’t get involved in this kinda shit. I’ll do the case, but I’m not gonna, be the fuckin’ mayor’s monkey.”

  The captain was ready for that. “Look; there’s nothing more to say. You got your assignment, Jones. That’s it; I’m sorry. Don’t give me a hard time. You want to screw up your retirement, that’s your business. I’m just doing my job. Now you gotta do yours.”

  George felt the coffee turn to acid in his stomach.

  The mayor seemed to enjoy himself at the news conference, unlike George, who was overheard by at least one reporter saying he thought it was a “cringe-a-thon.”

  The mayor’s voice boomed in the marble hallway. “I’d like to announce that as of noon today, serial killer specialist George Jones, a detective of the New York City Police Department, is in charge of the case. Detective Jones brings a wealth of experience to the table, and an uncanny ability to understand the mind of the killer.

  “He’ll be heading up a team of New York’s finest, and I’ve ordered every resource in this great city at his disposal.”

  Inevitably, the moment came when George had to talk. He stammered through a few generic phrases, then braced himself for questions from the media.

  “Detective Jones, is it true that the killer mutilates his victims, possibly even eats them?”

  George rolled his eyes. “No, that is not true.”

  Another voice called out a question. “Are you going to use your psychic powers to—”

  “I don’t have any psychic powers!” George shouted back angrily.

  The same voice persisted. “But the media has reported that you seemingly make connections that other cops can’t make, that you find leads that others miss.”

  The mayor, sensing a shift in momentum, stepped in to answer for George. “That’s just good police work. Detective Jones has been on many investigations and he knows the value of detailed planning.”

  George looked at the mayor. Detailed planning? What the fuck is this guy talking about?

  “So you’re saying that Detective Jones is not a psychic?”

  George spoke before the mayor could react. “No, I’m not a psychic. I don’t believe in that crap.”

  The mayor bristled, clearly not pleased with George’s demeanor. “I think what Detective Jones is saying is that nonscientific methods have no place in police work.”

  That answer seemed to placate the reporters.

  George and the mayor glared at each other. Together they fielded another set of inane questions before Captain Smoller pulled the plug.

  Backstage, the mayor confronted George. “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

  George snorted. He turned to Smoller and said, “I told you this was bullshit. I hate these things.”

  The mayor shouted, “I give the orders around here! Jones, you made a mockery of the whole proceedings. I should have your badge for that.”

  “You don’t like me? Get somebody else.”

  Smoller stepped between the two men. “OK, let’s break it up. George, why don’t you apologize right now and we’ll get out of here.”

  “You can kiss my ass,” George said bluntly.

  “What? What did you say?” the mayor demanded.

  Smoller jumped in. “He said, ‘You got a lot of class.’”

  Once they were outside, away from the microphones and cameras, George said, “Did you feed ’em all that psychic bullshit? Was that you?”

  Smoller smiled sheepishly. “Well … you know how the press is; they jump on stuff like that.”

  George shook his head. “You’re fuckin’ this whole thing up, Captain. The killer was probably out there watching and having a good laugh. You want me to catch this guy or play twenty questions with these idiots?”

  “You didn’t have to insult the mayor.”

  “I didn’t vote for him.”

  Smoller threw up his hands. “It’s politics, Jones, just politics. You play ball, they write the checks.”

  “Exactly. He’s nothin’ but a damn politician. His whole job is to lie, straight-faced, to the cameras. I don’t think he really cares about catching the killer, as long as he looks good.”

  O’Connor switched off his TV set.

  He’d watched the press conference with a smile, studying George’s face and listening to the answers. These Americans are fools, he thought. They have no idea what they’re up against.

  Later that day, the parents of Dolly Devane came into the precinct station. Smoller took them into his office and closed the door.

  When they emerged a half hour later, the woman was crying. The man had the same stoic expression on his face as when he arrived, only now his brow had more lines on it and his jaw was clenched even tighter.

  George watched as Smoller led them to the same desk he’d thrown the file on earlier in the day.

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Devane of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. They are the parents of—”

  “Oh, yes. I know.”

  George had already read the report and knew who they were. He looked into Mr. Devane’s eyes as he would look into the depths of the ocean from a fishing pier. He saw the bottomless sorrow of a parent with a dead child. He’d probably just found out that she’d been a whore on the streets of New York City, George thought. Nice hello.

  Mrs. Devane cried the whole time. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and sniffed continuously.

  Mr. Devane stepped forward and shook George’s hand. “Captain Smoller tells me you’re the best man on the force. Listen; I realize you must hear this all the time, but … I … I want this man caught. I want him punished for what he did to my daughter. My God, she was such a gentle girl, so kind and loving … and …”

  Mr. Devane began to shake. George could see that he was close to breaking down. His thin veneer of composure was cracking like an eggshell.

  George couldn’t help but think back to when he’d heard his own bad news, that both his parents were dead and he was all alone in the world. He’d been eighteen.

  Crying wa
s something George Jones never wanted to do again. It hurt too damn much.

  Watching Mr. Devane hold back his tears hurt George as much as memory allowed.

  “I understand,” George said. “I’ll do everything in my power to bring the man in; believe me. I’m very sorry.”

  “If Detective Jones can’t find him, he can’t be found,” Smoller blurted out.

  Mrs. Devane looked horrified.

  “What I mean to say is Detective Jones is an expert in the field. I’m sure he’ll find whoever’s responsible.”

  Cut the crap, Smoller, George thought. These poor people just got the shock of their lives. Let’s just let them go back to their hotel or wherever they came from and forget about it.

  “Don’t worry; I’ll do my best. Now, I’m sure you two have seen enough of the police station, so why don’t you just go back and get some rest and let me see what I can turn up, OK?”

  Mrs. Devane nodded. Mr. Devane led her tenderly toward the door. At the last second he turned and went back in. He came up to George and whispered, “Get this guy. Take him out of commission. Don’t let him do this to someone else’s daughter.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Smoller looked back and saw them talking. As soon as he did, he directed Mrs. Devane’s attention away from the two men. He knew what they were saying.

  “Detective Jones? One other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Was she really like they say?”

  George didn’t want to answer. He could feel the probing eyes of the grieving father on his face like a lead weight. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied.

  “Don’t play coy with me; I’m her father, for Christ sake! Was my daughter …” His voice trailed off.

  George lifted his tired eyes from the floor. They met Mr. Devane’s eyes and held. There was no getting away from it. He finished the sentence for the grieving father the only way he knew how, with the truth.

  “You want to know, was she a prostitute?”

  Devane nodded, blinking.

  “I’m afraid so, Mr. Devane.”