“Sure.” The door opens. She climbs out in her skinny jeans and snug Sugar Babies tee. “I was speeding, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“I had a glass of champagne, but that was, like, two or three hours ago.”
“Why the big rush?” asks Ceepak, who has come around the front of Gail’s car.
She shrugs. “Just need to get home. You want me to take a Breathalyzer test or something?”
Actually, we use an Alco Tester, but everybody still calls it a Breathalyzer. Now I notice something on her neck. An oval bruise.
A hickey?
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Thanks, Danny.”
“Is that dentist still giving you grief?”
“Dr. Hausler?”
“I heard him at the gym Sunday morning.”
“Don’t worry. I can handle Marvin Hausler.”
I turn to Ceepak. “You want to run an SFST?”
That’s a Standardized Field Sobriety Test.
Ceepak nods and runs her through the three tests. He makes her follow a pen as he moves it back and forth to check her horizontal-gaze nystagmus—that being a weird word to describe the involuntary jerking of the eyeballs as they gaze side to side. When you’re drunk, the nystagmus is more pronounced. So are a lot of things, come to think of it. Like how funny you think you are.
Next comes the walk and turn, followed by the one-leg stand with its accompanying balancing and counting routine.
Gail passes all three tests with flying colors.
So we write up a warning, citing her doing fifty in a fifteen zone. If she gets pulled over again for the same reason, then she’ll get a ticket and a pretty hefty fine.
Gail says, “Thanks, guys.” She folds up the warning and slides it down into the back pocket of her extremely tight jeans.
On Friday morning, Ceepak and I head over to Our Lady of the Seas Roman Catholic church for Mrs. O’Malley’s funeral.
I’m inside because I knew the family.
Ceepak is out in the intersection directing traffic because, it seems, almost everybody on the island knew somebody in the family. I think Ceepak used to direct tank traffic rolling into Baghdad. I think this is worse.
I’m wearing my khaki pants and blue sports coat because I don’t own a suit. Like I said, I’m twenty-five. Sam has a black dress that buttons up to her neck and covers her knees. The nuns I had in elementary school would be pleased. I keep expecting her to whip out a lacy veil to cover her head.
I, myself, haven’t been to mass in a couple of years. My Saturday night activities seemed to impair my ability to wake up before noon on Sunday. Back in the day, I was an altar boy here. Some of the other guys in the altar boy corps were always daring me to swipe a few swigs from the communion wine when we filled the carafes before services.
No way. I had smelled that stuff. Franzia Sunset Blush. It came out of a box with a plastic tap. It stank like the sickly sweet juice at the bottom of a can of peaches. I think Franzia Sunset Blush is why I’m still a beer man and will forever pass on dipping my wafer into the wine chalice.
Sam and I take seats about six rows back. I remember to genuflect in the center aisle when we reach our pew. Hey, you can take the boy out of the Catholic church, but you can’t take the Catholic out of the boy.
Mrs. O’Malley’s coffin, draped in white, is sitting in front of the altar. Candles flicker. Soft organ music plays in the background. People are sniffling.
The front pews of the church resemble the front cars of the Rolling Thunder last Saturday, only Peter O’Malley was invited to this event. His boyfriend in the black leather vest and nipple rings, however, was not.
I see the nurse, dressed in a crisp white uniform, dabbing at the corners of Mary’s mouth with a tissue she licks with her tongue, moistening it to wipe the dry white flecks off Mary’s face. I almost hurl. My mom used to do that. Getting your face cleaned with a saliva-soaked Kleenex is worse than clipping curled toenails.
The O’Malleys are on the left-hand side of the church. In the front row on the right, I see another Irish clan. The red-headed woman with the aisle seat—who looks to be fifty-ish and angry—swirls around to address the white-haired lady sitting in the pew behind her.
“She was our sister before she was his goddamn wife!” The white-haired lady makes a quick sign of the cross, probably asking God to forgive the redneck for cursing inside his house.
Funerals are a little like weddings, only with sadder music and no kissing at the end. I’m guessing Sam and I are seated on the deceased’s side of the church and that the folks in the front pews are Mrs. O’Malley’s family.
Over on the widower’s side, I see Mayor Sinclair, Bruno Mazzilli (with his wife and kids, not his girlfriend), Chief Baines, and most of the merchants on the island. Over here on the right, we’ve got Mrs. O’Malley’s family, the neutral observers like me and Sam, and, sitting next to us, some folks in windbreakers with dog-and-cat patches on their sleeves from the South Shore Animal Shelter where Mrs. O’Malley must’ve been one of their top volunteers.
Bells jingle and Father Ed Steiner comes in. The altar boys carry a golden pot of holy water with a palm branch sprinkler sticking out. Father Steiner takes it and starts blessing the casket.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit …”
I don’t get to hear much else.
Ceepak is tapping me on the shoulder.
He head-gestures for me to exit with him.
I turn to Sam. “I gotta go.”
“Danny?” she whispers, in a way that lets me know I’m being extremely rude, ducking out early. Then she sees Ceepak. “Oh.”
I step into the aisle. Remember to genuflect again. Follow Ceepak out into the blazingly bright sun.
“We have a situation,” he says when we hit the sidewalk.
“What’s up?”
“Someone dumped a dismembered body outside a home on Tangerine Street.”
“Jeez.”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Gail Baker. They found our warning ticket tucked inside the back pocket of her jeans.”
13
HERE’S WHAT CEEPAK DIDN’T TELL ME RIGHT AWAY: GAIL’S jeans and lower body are stuffed inside a suitcase with her decapitated head.
Her torso and arms are in a second suitcase.
We’re on Tangerine Street, a block and a half from where it dead-ends at the sand dunes.
My buddy Joey Thalken, who works with the Sea Haven Sanitation Department, is leaning against the back of his white garbage truck. Joey’s the one who found the two rolling suitcases. He unzipped one to see why it was so heavy. Then he hurled.
I did the same thing the first time I saw a dead body. And mine hadn’t been taken apart like a mannequin headed to storage.
“It’s horrible, man,” Joey says when Ceepak and I join him at the back of his truck. “I’ve never seen any … who could … what … did you see her, Danny?”
I nod.
“Sick.…” Joey barely spits out the word. “Some seriously sick dude did that, man.”
Two of our guys, Dominic Santucci and Dylan Murray, have already crime-scene-taped the sand-and-pea-pebble parking pad in front of 145 Tangerine Street. The two suitcases—both about three feet tall—are sitting close to where Joe found them: leaning against a pressure-treated lumber enclosure built to corral six thirty-gallon garbage cans.
“You can’t put out household items or bulk trash on Fridays,” says Joey. “Just regular trash. No construction debris, no old furniture, no suitcases …”
No dismembered bodies.
“When did you discover the body?” asks Ceepak.
“An hour ago. Eleven. Hey, Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it Gail? From the Scupper?”
My turn to nod.
“Jeez-o, man,” s
ays Joey.
Joe Thalken, being a male with a pulse, had, no doubt, spent a few lunch hours ogling Gail Baker’s hot bod while wrestling with a leathery hamburger. Now he’s seen it broken apart like a Barbie doll after a temper tantrum.
“Is there anyone we can call for you?” Ceepak asks.
“I’ll be okay. Just need another minute.”
“Should we contact the Sanitation Department, have them send someone over to relieve you?”
“No. I need to finish my route.”
“No you don’t, Joe,” says Ceepak. “Not today.”
“Yeah. I do.”
Ceepak nods. He and I have worked with Joey T. on a couple of things in the past. We know he is a creature of habit, a Virgo who doesn’t like varying his routine. The routine gives him comfort. Maybe today, the same-old same-old will help him cope with the most extraordinarily horrible thing he’s ever seen in his life.
“Before you go back to work,” says Ceepak, “we need you to swing by the house. Sit down with Officer Forbus. She’ll take your statement.”
“Should I do that now?”
“Probably smart,” I say. “While it’s, you know, fresh.”
Bad choice of words. Joey puts a fist over his mouth. If his stomach wasn’t already empty, he’d be tossing more cookies into the back of his truck.
“We’ll ask Officer Forbus to come out,” says Ceepak. “She’ll escort you back to headquarters. Get you some water. Maybe a soft drink. Coca-Cola is excellent for a queasy stomach.”
Joey looks up at Ceepak. “You ever …?”
“All the time. I’d be worried if something like this didn’t make me feel sick to my stomach.”
“Thanks.”
“Hang here.”
Ceepak quickly radios Jen Forbus, who’s on duty today and is probably our top cop for doing interviews. She used to run a blog or something. Anyway, she knows how to ask the right questions, get people to relax, put it all down on paper. She’ll be on the scene in five. He asks her to get Denise Diego, our resident techie, to call Verizon. We need Gail Baker’s cell phone records. They’ll tell us who she talked to and where she was before some lunatic sliced her up into easy-to-pack pieces.
We move away from the garbage truck, study the taped-off crime scene.
That’s when Sergeant Santucci struts over.
“Why are you here, Ceepak?”
“Chief Baines asked me to head up our end of the homicide investigation.”
“Why? Murray and I caught the call.”
“You’d have to ask Chief Baines.”
“You really don’t need to be here.”
“The chief disagrees.”
Santucci mutters. Two summers ago, Dominic Santucci was single-handedly responsible for about a hundred thousand dollars worth of damages when he shot up Mama Shucker’s, a seafood shop about four blocks north of where we are now. Ever since, he’s not really been one of the chief’s favorites.
Now he waves a plastic bag under our noses. Inside is the warning ticket we issued Gail for speeding.
“I’m all over this thing. Already checked her pockets for ID. Found a wallet and this. Guess what?” He cracks his gum, pauses. “Her jeans weren’t on her legs or her ass. They were stuffed in on top.”
Ceepak’s eye twitches. “How much of the crime scene did you disturb, Dom?”
Dominic Santucci and John Ceepak? Oil and water. Chalk and cheese. Mayonnaise and hot dogs. They just don’t mix well.
“I did not disturb the crime scene. I ID’ed the body. What the hell have you two done?”
“Where is the wallet?”
“I stuffed it back in the pants for the CSI guys.”
“And where are Ms. Baker’s pants located?”
“Where I found ’em. Back in the suitcase on top of her legs and head.”
Okay. I’m thinking about joining Joey T. over at the rolling puke wagon.
“It is absolutely critical that we keep this area clean,” says Ceepak.
“We know that. Jesus, Ceepak. You think me and Murray are idiots?”
Ceepak doesn’t answer. His eyes are focused on the gritty mix of sand and pebbles surrounding the suitcases. “The MCU unit will want to examine this area for tire treads, footprints.”
The MCU is the New Jersey State Police Major Crimes Unit—detectives and CSI pros who assist state, county, and local authorities. The MCU has the kind of homicide investigation firepower a sleepy summer resort town like Sea Haven should never need.
I can see four miniature wheel tracks where the suitcases were rolled across the sand.
“No footprints,” I mumble out loud.
“Roger that,” says Ceepak, gesturing to the lines in the sand. “Note the parallel, striated furrows. Most likely the sand was raked.”
“But not with a leaf rake,” I add, because I think the grooves are too far apart, too deep.
“Good eye, Danny. Perhaps a gardening rake?”
Santucci snorts. “Jesus. You two. And what did they use to chop off her head? A Weed Whacker?”
I hear Dylan Murray’s radio crackle with an unintelligible burst of words. Poor Murray. He’s got the dubious distinction of being Dom Santucci’s partner this shift. He takes the mic off his shoulder board. “We’re at One forty-five Tangerine,” he says. “Continue south on Ocean Avenue. Take the left after Spruce. Ten–four.” He clips the mic back to his shoulder. “MCU. They’re about a mile away.”
“Thanks, Dylan,” says Ceepak.
“Why you tellin’ Ceepak about MCU?” snaps Santucci.
Dylan Murray shrugs. “I dunno.”
I do. Everybody on the job in Sea Haven, including Chief Buzz Baines, knows Ceepak is our best guy at this kind of stuff. Everybody except Santucci.
A third SHPD cruiser crunches around the corner.
“What are Forbus and Bonanni doing here?” Santucci’s seething now.
“I requested that they escort Mr. Thalken back to the house,” says Ceepak. “Take his statement.”
“Jen and Nikki? The girls?” Santucci sighs. Hikes up his pants. “This is a homicide, Ceepak.”
“I’m well aware of the magnitude of the crime to be investigated, sergeant.”
“But you call in Forbus and Bonanni, anyway? Jesus. I better bring ’em up to speed. Make sure they don’t blow this thing.”
He struts away.
“Jeez-o man,” I mumble. “What a douche.”
“Danny?”
“Yeah,” I say when I hear the reprimand in his voice. “Our energies are better spent studying the crime scene.”
“Correct. However, for what it’s worth, I concur.”
Wow. Ceepak just called Santucci a douche. Just took him more words than it took me.
Now he hunkers down and stares at the two suitcases.
“We’ll need to canvass the neighborhood for witnesses.”
“Yeah,” I say. “No telling when the bags were dumped.”
“Or why here.”
Good point.
I check out the block. It looks like all the others on this part of the island. Vinyl-sided colonial homes with dormers for upstairs bedrooms. Sun-faded shades of gray, blue, yellow. A few scruffylooking evergreen trees for barriers between lots. Not many cars parked in the street.
These are mostly rental properties. Three weeks from now, this place will be packed with minivans and SUVs loaded down with bicycle racks and luggage carriers. Today, all I see is a pickup truck way down the street near a house where they must be doing construction, because there’s a twenty-yard Roll-Off Dumpster sitting in the driveway.
“Huh,” I say.
“What?”
“See that long Dumpster? Why didn’t our doer toss his suitcases down there? The walls are high enough to hide everything inside. You do a gut job on a house, there’s all sorts of random junk that gets tossed in the Dumpster.”
“Like old luggage.”
“Exactly. We might not have found the body unt
il somebody smelled it.”
“Fascinating,” says Ceepak.
I love it when he says that. Means I thought of something he hadn’t thought of yet. Not that I’m keeping score.
“In some ways,” says Ceepak, “it fits with what we see here. The wheel tracks clearly visible. But the footprints were obliterated with the garden rake.”
“You think whoever did this wanted us to find the body?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Why? Is he sending some kind of message? Do you think the mob did this?”
Ceepak answers my question with one of his own: “How well did you know the victim, Danny?”
“We, you know, talked.”
“Were you ever romantically involved?”
“With Gail Baker? Nah. She was way out of my league. Although …”
“What?”
“She used to go out with Skippy O’Malley. Maybe I had a shot and didn’t even know it.”
“Any known enemies?”
“Gail? No. More like broken hearts. She was a serial dater. She’d hang with a guy for a while, then move on.”
I remember the dentist.
“We should talk to Marvin Hausler.”
“Who is he?”
“Dentist. I think he and Gail were hot and heavy for a weekend he’ll never get over; she got over it by Monday. He’s been kind of stalking her.”
“Come again?”
“Last weekend at the gym, he threw this big fit. And, at Big Kahuna’s Saturday night, he called her a bitch because she stood him up.”
Ceepak’s been jotting down notes in the spiral pad he keeps in the left hip pocket of his cargo pants. “Definitely worth a go-see,” he says.
“She also seemed to be flirting with this dude at the gym.”
“Dude?”
“One of the trainers. Last weekend, they were teasing each other. Talking about hooking up. But that was four or five days ago. By now, he could want to kill her for dumping him. Gail Baker went through guys the way I go through potato chips.”
“We should compile a list of these young men.”
“We could check with Bud, the bartender at Big Kahuna’s. He knows all the local dirt.”
Ceepak keeps staring at the two suitcases.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“Two things. On the handle, the remnant of a luggage tag.”
Rolling Thunder Page 7