Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Look,” says Ceepak. “This man in the clerical collar is leading a fully clothed girl out into the surf.” He's now in full analytical mode. “The man with the Bible is most likely a young Reverend Trumble.”

  He continues narrating the story as it unfolds across the panels. “Reverend Trumble holds up his arms in prayer. He dunks the girl under an incoming wave. She emerges from the water, jubilant. Everyone on the shoreline applauds….”

  “Verily, they rejoice,” someone croons smoothly behind us. “‘For what was lost, now is found.’”

  It's the Reverend Billy Trumble. I recognize the buttery voice from his radio show.

  “Of course,” he continues, “those photographs were taken many years ago. Before my hair turned white.”

  Ceepak extends his hand.

  “Reverend Trumble?”

  Trumble clasps Ceepak's hand with both of his.

  “That's right, brother. And you are?”

  “Officer John Ceepak. Sea Haven Police. This is my partner, Daniel Boyle.”

  “Danny,” I say and hold out my hand.

  Trumble gives me the double pump, too, and locks his eyes on mine. They're crystal blue and set off by a rich tan—the kind you can only get from a spray can.

  As we shake hands, the sky explodes with a roar of thunder that makes the windows rattle. I think Reverend Billy just read my mind and called in a retaliatory lightning strike. I look out the window. Fortunately, it's just raining buckets of water, not frogs or anything biblical. Droplets the size of quarters ping and splatter off car roofs.

  “Guess we better build an ark,” I joke.

  “No need, son. The next time God destroys the earth it shall be with fire, not water!”

  When he says “God,” it sounds like a three-syllable word: “Ga-uhuhd.” Why is it even New Jersey radio preachers sound like they grew up in North Carolina?

  “Second Peter. Chapter Three.” Trumble continues. “‘But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a mighty roar and the elements will be dissolved by fire, and the earth and everything done on it will be found out.’”

  I nod because I can't change the channel like I do when this guy invades my radio.

  “Now then, Officers—how may I be of assistance?”

  “We're looking for a girl,” says Ceepak.

  “Is she a lost soul?”

  “Perhaps. We have reason to believe she came here for breakfast this morning.”

  “Very likely. Many do. They come to seek sustenance. Physical and spiritual.”

  It's beginning to sound like Reverend Billy has some endless loop of sermon tapes spooling through his brain.

  “She had an orange sun stamped on her hand,” says Ceepak, unmoved by our host's holiness.

  Trumble lifts his hand to show us the sun mark on his own. “As do I. For we are all sinners, marked so with Adam's stain.”

  “She has orange hair, too,” says Ceepak.

  Trumble sits in the swivel chair behind his desk and smiles knowingly. He puts his hands together to form a steeple in front of his lips.

  “In Scripture, evildoers are often identified by red or orangish hair. Judas had red hair. Eve, as well.” He pauses. “Was this red-haired girl a runaway?” he suddenly asks.

  “We have no way of knowing at this juncture. We can assume, however, that it is a distinct possibility.”

  “I'm not surprised. So many of the children who flock to my table are runaways.” He shakes his head sadly. “Why do they choose to leave their homes? To flee loving parents?”

  I figure maybe they just listened to Springsteen's “Born to Run.” You know: “We gotta get out while we're young, ‘cause tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.”

  “There are several reasons,” says Ceepak, who knows a thing or two about loving parents. His own father was a drunk who smacked his mother around and picked on his little brother. I'm guessing that, in his teens, young John Ceepak considered running away from home but decided to stick around to do his duty and protect his mom and kid brother. “Often times the teenage runaway….”

  Reverend Trumble holds up his hand to silence Ceepak.

  “You gentlemen are sworn to uphold the laws of man. I, however, answer to a higher authority. A God who commands that all children honor their fathers and mothers—no matter what. Exodus 20:12.”

  Ceepak's back goes ramrod stiff. “‘And, ye fathers,’” he says, “‘provoke not your children to wrath.’ Ephesians 6:1–4.”

  I'm impressed. Something that happens on a daily basis when you work with John Ceepak.

  Trumble's hands reform the steeple below his nose, only this time the rafters are bent and wobbly because he's squeezing hard. I think he's used to having the last word.

  “Is there a number where I might call you gentlemen should a girl answering this description return to our table?”

  Ceepak pulls one of our cards out of his shirt pocket.

  Reverend Trumble takes it, studies it.

  “John Ceepak. Unusual name. Tell me, son—are you a Christian?”

  “Call us if anyone matching her description shows up.”

  “I certainly will.”

  “We'd appreciate it. We suspect she may be stealing money and credit cards from vacationers.”

  The Reverend sighs. Shakes his head. “Placing her soul in mortal jeopardy by defying the Eighth Commandment as well: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’”

  Ceepak nods.

  That one's part of his Code, too.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The clouds have parted and sunbeams pour down as Ceepak and I march out of the missionary's motel office.

  “Now where?” I ask.

  “We'll hit the house. Make a report. Advise all units to be on the lookout….”

  A beat-up old Toyota crunches into the parking lot. It's Rita. I recognize her clunker.

  “Hi, guys,” she says as she climbs out.

  Ceepak, always the gentleman, holds the door for her. It's a good thing, too—it looks ready to fall off its hinges.

  “What're you boys doing over here?” Rita asks. “I thought you were supposed to sit on the beach all day.”

  “Duty called,” says Ceepak. It's good to see him smile again. I think the silver-haired and -tongued preacher man hit too close to home with that pious little lecture about obeying your father and mother. Depends on the father and mother, if you ask me. I can tell Ceepak wants to kiss Rita but he won't—not while he's in uniform, not while he's on the job.

  “What happened?” Rita asks. “Nothing serious I hope.”

  “Routine run. Possible 10-92.”

  “That's a robbery, right?”

  “Roger that.”

  My god: Ceepak has his girlfriend memorizing police 10-codes. They are definitely getting serious.

  “Male or female?” she asks.

  “Female,” he answers. “We suspect she had breakfast here.”

  “Poor kid,” says Rita.

  That's Ceepak's lady in a nutshell. She's more worried about what drove a young girl to steal than what was stolen from somebody's beach bag. Rita hauls a pile of clothes out of the back seat of her car, clutches the bundle against her chest.

  Ceepak springs into action. “Need a hand?”

  “No, thanks. It's not heavy. I'm just dropping off some of T. J.'s old T-shirts and jeans. Stuff he's grown out of.”

  Clever move. Clean out the kid's closet while he's on vacation up in the city. I think that's how I lost my baseball card collection.

  “I thought maybe some of the boys here could use them.”

  “They have boys?” I wonder aloud. Thus far, all I've seen here are upright and courteous young girls. From the look of things, Reverend Billy could be running a mission for reformed cheerleaders.

  “Of course,” Rita laughs. “The food's free.”

  “How long have you known Reverend Trumble?” Ceepak now asks.

  Rita hesitates.
“A long time.”

  Ceepak doesn't push it—not in public.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Don't call me ma'am, John. Makes me sound old.”

  “Roger.”

  Her face warms. “Do you even know how to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

  “Negative.”

  She shakes her head. Laughs again. “I'll see you later.”

  We watch her carry her bundle up to the second floor.

  “She's a good lady,” says Ceepak as we head off. “An inspiration.”

  “Yeah.”

  With Ceepak and Rita, it's a case of likes, not opposites, attracting. If he's a goody-goody, she's a better-better. Last spring, she rescued this sea gull she found lying in the middle of Ocean Avenue. First, she had to dodge traffic to reach it. Then, she took it home, mended its broken wing, fed it with an eyedropper, and nursed it back to health. She even gave the gull a name: Jonathan Livingston—I forget why. In June, she set the bird free. She and T. J. and Ceepak went down to the beach and made sure the gimpy gull was able to swoop with its own kind. They took pictures.

  “Rita does enough good for both of us,” Ceepak once told me.

  The thing is, his own choices haven't always been easy ones. I've never asked him if he's killed anybody, but I've seen how he looks when other idiots do.

  “Did you kill anybody over there in Iraq?”

  They always whisper when they ask it.

  “What's it feel like?”

  Ceepak never answers. He usually just walks away.

  We're in the car, driving toward headquarters, when the radio squawks.

  “Unit Twelve, this is base.”

  Ceepak snatches up the microphone.

  “This is Twelve.”

  “That you, Ceepak?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Pender. Over.”

  “Chief Baines said to bounce this one out to you, seeing how you're in the neighborhood.”

  There's this long pause.

  “Go ahead,” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Don't know what to call this one. Tempted to say it's a 10-37.”

  That's a mental case.

  “What's the situation?”

  “You know that tiny museum up on Oyster Street?”

  “The Howland House?”

  “10-4. Woman just called, said she's the curator, sounded hysterical. Says some children found something ‘horrible’ but she wouldn't tell me what it was.”

  “We are 10-17. Out.”

  10-17 means we're en route.

  Ceepak hangs up and does a three-finger hand chop toward the horizon. “Oyster and Bayside. The Howland House Whaling Museum.”

  “Roger. Should I 10-39 it?”

  Ceepak looks at me. Hey, I memorized all these 10-codes for the final exam at the academy. I figure I need to use them or I might lose them like I've lost everything I memorized back in high school: atomic weights, the metric system, who did what to whom in 1066. It's all gone.

  “No need for lights or siren, Danny. Let's keep it 10-40.”

  “10-4.”

  He means keep it quiet.

  I mean okay.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Howland House is this two-story brick building that used to belong to a whaling ship captain named Jebediah Howland.

  About fifty years ago, a bunch of ladies, the “Daughters of the Sea,” got together and raised enough cash to buy the place before it was torn down to make room for another miniature golf course. Now it's a museum nobody goes to.

  I guess few vacationers want to walk around a dank house looking at dusty furniture during their week off from work. Sure, there are a couple of ship models in glass cases mounted on the walls. There are even three or four model ships in glass bottles. But mostly, it's moldy furniture and velvet drapes.

  The museum doesn't give tours or anything. In fact, nobody is ever there. Somebody comes by in the morning and unlocks the front door. They come back in the afternoon to lock up. There's a plexiglass box on a desk in the front hall with a hand-written sign: SUGGESTED DONATION $2.

  “Is that Norma?” Ceepak asks as we pull up to the curb on Oyster Street and see a figure on the porch.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  Norma Risley, a dignified Daughter of the Sea, is seventy-five years old and works part-time as a hostess at Morgan's Surf and Turf, the restaurant where Rita waitresses. When Norma leads you to your table, you have plenty of time to contemplate the daily specials. In fact, you have time to do your laundry.

  “Officer Ceepak!” She is waving hysterically. “Hurry! Please!”

  Ceepak speeds up the brick pathway. I'm right behind him.

  “Norma? Are you injured?”

  “No. No.” Her hand flutters near her chest.

  Ceepak reaches her in time to catch her when she faints.

  “Danny?”

  I grab an arm. We haul Norma inside, find a velvety chair in the foyer, and sit her down.

  About fifteen seconds later, she comes to.

  “Oh, my.”

  “Norma, do you need an ambulance?” Ceepak asks.

  She shakes her head. Lifts up an arm. Points down the hall.

  “What is it? Was something stolen?”

  Another head shake.

  “Take it slow. Tell us what happened.”

  She swallows. Nods. “I came by during the thunderstorm. Figured I might as well lock up early today. When I got here, I found a family inside, waiting for the rain to let up. The mother started screaming at me. ‘How dare you!’ she said. ‘How dare you put something like that on display in a museum?’ Her youngest, a little girl—oh, she was bawling her eyes out. Something had scared her, that's for sure.”

  “What was it?”

  She shakes her head. It's so atrocious, she can't even tell us. So, once again, she points up the hall. Her arm trembles.

  “The Scrimshaw Room.” She chokes out the words.”Bookcase. Top shelf. Two jars.”

  “Jars?”

  Norma nods. Breathes in deep.

  “Plastic jars with screw-on lids. Small.” She curls her knotted fingers to make a tiny fist.

  “Okay, Norma. You stay here. My partner and I will investigate….”

  Her hands fly up to her chest again. If she doesn't have a heart attack, she might give me one.

  “Danny?” Ceepak says. “Secure the front door. Use your evidence gloves.”

  I put on these lint-free gloves Ceepak insists I always carry so I won't contaminate potential evidence, such as fingerprints on a doorknob. Ceepak pulls on a pair, too.

  I close the front door.

  “We'll be right back, Norma,” says Ceepak.

  We head up the carpeted hallway.

  We reach the door to the Scrimshaw Room and Ceepak does this series of hand signals to indicate how we will enter.

  He'll lead. I'll follow.

  The room looks like it always looks. Dark bookcases. Overstuffed furniture. Framed oil painting of men in a boat harpooning a gigantic whale on one wall, carved figurehead of an Indian lady in a red headdress on another.

  We see them at the same time.

  On the top shelf of the bookcase on the far side of the room.

  Two small jars filled with clear liquid and something else—something pinkish and blobby with stringy bits floating in the fluid. It could be somebody's jellyfish collection or one of those pig fetuses in formaldehyde they give you to dissect in junior high biology class. There's writing on both jars. Labels. We move closer.

  Ceepak sucks in a deep chestful of oxygen.

  “They're ears,” he says. “Severed human ears.”

  I feel the sausage-and-pepper sandwich I had for lunch move an inch up my esophagus. I choke it back down and lean in for a closer look.

  The label on one jar reads: RUTH. SUMMER. 1985.

  The other jar doesn't have a name, just a date: SUMMER. 1983.

  No name because it doesn't need one.

  The ear lobe suspended in the sp
ecimen jar has an earring stuck through its pale flesh. It spells out a girl's name in sparkly letters.

  “Lisa,” Ceepak whispers.

  I guess he's thinking what I'm thinking: Lisa DeFranco might've lost more than a class ring that summer she visited Sea Haven.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ceepak called Rita on her cell phone.

  She swung by the museum and gave Norma a ride to the restaurant. Norma isn't supposed to be working the door there tonight, but she agreed with Ceepak and Rita: after all she'd seen today, better not to be home alone. Besides, Morgan's has a fully stocked bar and Norma could use a hot toddy or two, heavy on the rum.

  “Be sure you lock up, Officer Ceepak,” Norma called out as she and Rita drove away.

  “Will do,” Ceepak said. I think one day he may find himself an honorary Daughter of the Sea.

  “Danny? We need to investigate this crime scene.”

  “Right.”

  I knew that's what we'd be doing as soon as Norma was safe, secure, and gone. Ceepak loves a good Crime Scene Investigation— on the job or off. When he isn't working, he's usually at home watching all twenty different versions of CSI on CBS. Sometimes, he's told me, he watches with the sound switched off so the actors’ banter doesn't distract him from the clues.

  We've already radioed in and alerted the house as to what we found. Chief Baines agreed with Ceepak: we should gather what evidence we can and bring it in for further analysis. I suspect Chief Baines is most interested in removing the specimen jars from public view. Floating body parts are not the kind of attractions you want on display when you're running a resort town big on family fun in the sun. Pickled ears belong in a sideshow up in Seaside Heights, in the freak show tent with the bearded lady and the fire-eater—who, I think, are married to each other.

  Ceepak uses his forceps to remove the jars from the bookcase and place them in the evidence bag.

  “Doubtful that we'll find any fingerprints on either jar,” he says while placing them gingerly into the sack. “But it remains a remote possibility, and therefore, we must treat the evidence accordingly.”

  “Right,” I say, and experience another acid reflux episode as I watch the ears slosh around in slow motion.