“Right.”
I slow down. Shovel the sand into a little mound off to the left of the hole. When I get three feet down, there's sweat stinging my eyes and I hear the all-too-familiar sound of metal tapping plastic.
Ceepak motions for me to stop.
“Photograph.”
“Right.”
I take out the camera. Snap a shot.
“I'll continue the dig,” says Ceepak. “You record the evidence as we uncover it.”
“Right.”
He digs. I do the pictures. In about two minutes, we've unearthed yet another plastic bin. This one is more squarish. The sides are milky white. The top, black.
“Removing container from hole,” Ceepak narrates.
The plastic box is heavy. He sets it down near the hole's rim. I see him squint.
He doesn't want to open the lid just yet because he already knows what's inside.
So do I.
Ceepak takes a breath, finds an edge, and pries it open.
“Jesus,” I moan.
It's more of the same. Another skull, the flesh long gone, rotted away.
I have a feeling we're going to need more grocery sacks before this day is done. I wouldn't mind one of those airsickness bags, either.
• • •
“John, it's a cold case. Heck, it's so cold, it's frigid.”
Chief Baines has joined us inside our tarp fortress behind the green privacy screens.
We have most of the evidence from Hole Number Five lined up in a neat row in front of the sand crater. The skull. The newspaper wrapping. The baggie with the index card and treasure map. And something new: a twist the killer must've added when he got bored of doing the same-old, same-old on the first four holes.
Ceepak's holding the new stuff. Two snapshots we found taped to the bottom of the plastic box. Polaroids. Before and After pictures.
We haven't shown these to the chief yet.
“We should drop this thing for now,” he says. “You guys can pick it up again later. I'm thinking after Labor Day, when the tourist season is over.”
“That will be too late, sir,” says Ceepak.
“Too late? Come on, John. We're talking about crimes allegedly committed back in the 1980s. When was this one….” He searches for a good way to say it. “You know—decapitated?”
Ceepak doesn't need to look at the index card. He has it memorized.
“August 25. 1981. A Monday.”
“Okay. Good. That's what? Over twenty-five years ago? Nobody ever reported this girl missing, did they?”
“We don't know that. We should check with the CJIS.”
“Hmm?”
“The FBI's Criminal Justice Information Service.”
The chief just grunts.
“Her name is Esther,” says Ceepak. “She had auburn hair.”
Baines eyes the white skull baking in the sun. “You found a strand of hair?” he asks. “Where? In the bin? The baggie?”
“She had bangs that parted in the center and brushed across her eyebrows. Came to the beach in a polka-dot bikini.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got all that from this?” He points at the naked skull and empty plastic container
“No, sir.”
It's time to show the chief the first Polaroid.
The Before shot.
“That her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. I see. Attractive girl. That's how you knew about the hairdo and bikini.”
“Yes, sir. This is her as well.” Ceepak flips the Chief the second shot.
The After.
“Aw, Jesus, Ceepak.”
I hope the Chief doesn't puke. His shirt with the cuff links looks pretty expensive. Be a shame to stain it with regurgitated orange juice and waffles or whatever he had for breakfast.
The After shot shows Esther with her head halfway sawed off. It's heavy, so it droops to one side. You can see fleshy tubes worming their way through her neck meat. You can also see the buckets of blood that gushed out of her carotid artery and poured down her chest, making her bikini top lose its pink polka dots and go jet black. You can see the cardboard sign the killer hung around the sawed-off stub of guts that used to be a pretty girl's neck: WHORE.
At least she still has her ears and nose. The killer must've chopped those off later. Ceepak found more cut marks on either side of her skull and up near the nasal bone. He said the cuts were more precise than those detected on the first four skulls. Less nicking and chipping of bone matter.
The chief burps. Puts a fist to his sternum. Burps again. Now he smoothes out his shirt.
“Very dramatic, John. Nice. You almost made me hurl.”
“Not my intention, sir.”
The chief puts his hands on his hips.
“No? Okay, tell me—what exactly is it you want?”
“To call in the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Baines shakes his head. “No. I will not jeopardize every business on this island in a misguided quest to solve an ancient mystery.”
“At least let us keep following this trail until we find its end.”
Ceepak now shows the chief the two maps we found in Hole Number Five's baggie.
“Two maps?” the chief says.
“Roger that. One is a Resort Map. The streets and main tourist attractions in Sea Haven circa 1981.”
“That's when The Sand Bar was still called Poppa John Dory's,” I say, pointing to the intersection where it's situated today. A cartoon of a green fish holding a mug of beer and smoking an ash-tipped cigar indicates the old nightclub in the same location. When Ceepak and I work a case, I'm typically the one in charge of Sea Haven Watering Hole History.
“For whatever reason, for his next kill, our perpetrator was already planning on relocating his burial ground.” Ceepak taps a red-circled area on the Resort Map, down near the southern tip of the island.
“There's nothing but houses down there,” Baines says. “Expensive homes. Private beaches.”
“Not back then,” I say. “That's all new development. Beach Crest Heights didn't go in until 1990-something.”
Beach Crest Heights is the gold coast of our barrier island. The streets are paved with moola and named after the ones in Beverly Hills. We have our own Rodeo Drive.
The chief frowns. “So you want to go down to Beach Crest and dig up backyards? You want to rip out the gardens of this town's richest citizens?”
“Just this one,” says Ceepak. He shows the chief the second map. It's hand-drawn, with a spot marked by an X. If I have my bearings correct, the X would be on the beach just off a street now named Palm Drive.
Our fearless leader sighs.
“Okay, Ceepak. Tell me why this can't wait until sometime in October?”
“The ears and nose.”
“Excuse me?”
“The jars we found, sir. The killer is putting his trophies on display to taunt us. To let us know he's restless and ready to strike again. Are you familiar with the BTK serial killer in Kansas City?”
“Of course.”
Even I know this one. They called him BTK because he used to Bind, Torture, then Kill his victims. He teased the police. Sent them letters. His crimes, mostly committed in the 1970s, remained unsolved for nearly three decades.
“BTK kept silent for twenty-five years, sir,” Ceepak says. “The police assumed he had died or disappeared. Maybe he had just burned out. Then something snapped. He sent the police a new piece of evidence. He couldn't resist the urge to reclaim the limelight. I believe we are currently facing a similar situation with Ezekiel.”
The chief looks confused. “Ezekiel?”
“It is the handle I have given the Sea Haven Serial Killer,” Ceepak explains.
“On account of the Bible quote,” I chip in. “It comes from Ezekiel.”
The chief stares at me. Probably wonders when I all of a sudden became a Scripture scholar.
“
I believe,” says Ceepak, “that, by placing his cherished souvenirs where we were absolutely certain to find them, our killer is sending us a signal. I fear Ezekiel is poised to strike again.”
The chief stares at the two maps. I can see he's working his jaw, trying to find some moisture for his mouth.
“In fact,” Ceepak continues, “it is quite common for serial killers to go through a period of depression and dormancy then….”
There's a rustle of fabric. The tarp separating us from the Sand Castle site flaps open. It's Santucci.
“Chief?” he says, his voice sounding shaky. “One of the bulldozers over here, one of 'em just dug something up….”
“What is it, sergeant?” the chief snaps.
Santucci sort of points at Ceepak.
“Another of Ceepak's goddamn skulls.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mary Guarneri.
The girl who once wore a charm bracelet with a tiny church dangling off it. The girl who went to the World's Fair in New Orleans with her mother. The girl who ran away from Erie, Pennsylvania, then changed her name to Ruth when the Reverend Billy Trumble dunked her in the ocean and washed away all her sins.
That's whose head it looks like the backhoe just dug up.
“Her name was Ruth,” Santucci says. “Says so right here on the Polaroid. See? He wrote the name. ‘Ruth.’”
“It's Mary Guarneri,” Ceepak says softly.
“Sorry, Sherlock. You're wrong.”
Santucci waggles one of the photographs he and Malloy found in the bottom of another plastic salad bowl. I can see the picture over Ceepak's shoulder.
It's the After shot.
I recognize Mary's face from the side of that milk carton Cap'n Pete dug up. Only in the Polaroid there's no smile and her whole head is tilted to one side, like it toppled off the neck. The head is barely attached to the rest of the girl's body by a few stringy tendons. Her eyes are wide and wild with terror. The neck looks like a bloody stump someone tore through with a chain saw.
The chief is burping again. Trying to force down whatever it is that wants to sneak up.
Ceepak looks away from the Polaroid.
“Her name is Mary Guarneri.”
“Jesus, Ceepak,” Santucci scoffs. “What? You can't fucking read? Her name is Ruth!”
The chief finds his voice. “Stand down, Santucci. Ceepak? Do you know something about this girl? Why the hell do you keep calling her Mary?”
“Mary Guarneri changed her name to Ruth when she was baptized by the Reverend Billy Trumble.”
Santucci whips off his shades. “Says who?”
“Is this the girl who had the church charm on her bracelet?” the chief asks. “The girl from the milk carton?”
“Roger that.”
“I see. Okay. You should've said so. Okay. We're making connections. Filling in the missing pieces. When was she murdered?”
“Well, sir,” says Santucci, hiking up his belt, “my best guesstimate is sometime on or about July 3, 1985.” He points to the newspaper he found the skull bone wrapped up in. “Lots of Fourth of July ads and whatnot in the newspaper there. So, we figure, she had to be, you know, dead before the Fourth.”
Malloy muscles in with his two cents. “Also, sir—we picked up a pretty solid clue right here.” He holds up the other Polaroid. The Before.
Ceepak cringes. Not because the picture is gruesome. It isn't. It just shows a young girl in a lacy black bustier with a big crucifix dangling down between her breasts—the kind of stuff Madonna used to wear back in the ’80s when she was still singing on MTV about being a virgin.
No, Ceepak's cringing, I think, because our esteemed colleague is holding the evidence with his greasy, just-ate-a-melty-Snickers-bar fingers. No gloves. No evidence bag. Just his chocolate-covered thumb and forefinger.
“See there, Chief?” Malloy says. “The killer wrote a date on the Polaroid! July 3, 1985.”
Ceepak shakes his head.
“You got some problem with our detective work here, Officer Ceepak?” Santucci snarls.
“Yes, Sergeant Santucci. You've taken us out of sequence.”
“Come again?” says the chief.
“Danny and I were proceeding in an orderly, chronological fashion. The bowl containing the skull labeled DELILAH was, apparently, the killer's first. It was dated 1979. The map uncovered in that hole led us to another skull, dated 1980.”
Santucci sniggers. “Wait a second, Ceepak. How do you know there ain't a 1978 head buried someplace else? Hunh? How can you be certain this Delilah was the first?”
“We can't,” Ceepak admits.
“See? Jesus. I don't know why everybody says you're such hot shit.”
“All right, Santucci,” the chief says. “Enough. We're all on the same team here.”
“Yes, sir. But Malloy and I want to follow up this lead.”
Santucci waves what looks like another Resort Map in our collective face. Malloy pulls a second map out of his back pocket. It's the hand-drawn sketch, the one with the X marking the spot, and it's also smeared with chocolate from whatever he had for his mid-morning power snack.
“According to these maps,” says Santucci, “we'll find something buried up north near the lighthouse. Request permission to go dig it up, sir. Tray can handle things here.”
The chief looks confused. “Who the hell is Tray?”
“Summer cop. Tray can maintain security. Keep the looky-lous away from the skull holes. Maybe Officer Boyle can assist. He was pretty good helping old ladies cross the street last summer—before he hooked up with Ceepak.” Santucci shoots me a look that says I should still be working crossguard duty.
“I need Officer Boyle,” says Ceepak. “He knows the beaches on the South End.”
The chief shakes his head. “North End. South End. This guy is sending half the department off on a scavenger hunt….”
“One team will wind up back here,” says Ceepak. “Most likely Danny and I. We are following clues that predate the 1985 slaying of Mary a.k.a. Ruth. Of more importance, however, will be any evidence pertaining to killings which took place post-1985….”
Santucci jumps in. “Those are ours!”
Ceepak shakes his head. I know what he's thinking: we're trying to track down a serial killer. Santucci wants to play “first dibs.”
The chief plucks at his mustache. That's what he does whenever he's stressed.
“Ceepak?”
“Sir?”
“You and Boyle head south.”
Ceepak was in the military for fourteen years. He knows how to follow orders.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant Santucci?”
“Sir?” He says it louder than Ceepak did. Wants to look like an even better soldier.
“You and Malloy head north. Have your auxiliary officer maintain security here. Did you show the backhoe people what you found?”
Santucci blinks. Tries to think. Come up with the right answer.
“They, uh, unearthed it, so to speak. So, naturally, they were somewhat curious as to its contents.”
“So you showed them?”
“I wouldn't say we ‘showed’ them, sir.”
Malloy tries to help out. “It was more like they watched us, you know, pull the skull out of the bowl and all.”
The chief presses his clenched fist against his gassy gut again.
“Okay. I'll call in more personnel. Cancel vacations. We can't have rumors running up and down the beach. We need to lock this down. Fast. Swear everybody inside the tent to secrecy. If they don't cooperate, we'll react accordingly. Jesus. Today's what?”
Santucci answers fast because he wants more brownie points. “July 17, sir.”
The chief shakes his head some more.
“Well, at least we had half a summer of peace and quiet.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
We spent the next two hours racing up and down the island like we're one of the treasure-hunting tribes on Surviv
or, hoping we don't get voted off.
Down south, we found our sixth skull. We did it without attracting any attention. The rich people whose beach we dug up weren't home. It's only Tuesday, so I figure they're up in the city working to pay the mortgage on their mansion.
The skull was labeled ZEBUDAH. Probably not the name her parents gave her. Her decomposed head came complete with the whole kit. The Bible quote, the date, the Before and After headshots, the maps to guide us to the next location.
And so we took off for Cherry Street, back up toward the center of the island. Our next X marked a spot near the public pier, close to The Rusty Scupper, where Aubrey Hamilton—the girl I might date sometime this century, when work slows down—waitresses.
When we arrived on scene and marked off the paces indicated, we realized something: this seventh chest was buried underneath the dock.
Fortunately, it was near a piling sunk into the dirt on shore, not permanently underwater. I didn't bring a change of clothes to work today. We dug up a big, mucky plastic box, some kind of watertight storage tub like they sell at Home Depot to stow tools in. It had a rubber gasket around its lip to seal the latched lid and keep the contents dry.
All the evidence inside, another complete set, had survived high tides for over two decades.
“Hey, Ceepak. What you guys doin’ down there?”
Ceepak closes the box. We crabwalk out from under the dock.
It's Gus Davis. This is the pier where our retired desk sergeant parks his boat.
“Retrieving evidence.”
Ceepak and I climb up to the dock.
“What kind of freaking evidence you find down there? Barnacles?”
Ceepak flashes a smile.
“How are you, Gus?”
“Can't complain. You still looking for that runaway from back in 1980-whatever?”
“Not really,” says Ceepak. He doesn't add, “We already found her. Part of her, that is.” He just stands there, waits for Gus to say something.
Gus tugs on the brim of his fishing cap. “Good,” he says. “You know why?”
“No. Why?”
“You ain't gonna find her down there!” Gus wheezes a laugh.
I notice he's carrying a tackle box. I also notice that the tackle box looks a lot like the plastic container we just pulled out of the dirt underneath the dock. The one big difference? Ours is black, his is yellow.
Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 14