Whack A Mole jc-3

by Chris Grabenstein

  I wonder once again why Ralph works a job he hates so much. Why he's so annoyed with the mating dance that plays out nightly on the other side of his beer-stained bar or why he's stuck with it for close to thirty years.

  Ralph shakes his head as another group of tanned babes appears on the beach, their little navel rings flashing in the sun.

  “Shit, remember when there wasn't even a beach here?”

  “When was that?” asks Ceepak.

  “In the early ’80s. It was deserted over this way. Then they put in the fucking jetties. Stopped the erosion. Built the beach back up. That's when the sluts returned, too.”

  “Were you here then, sir?”

  “Fucking-a. Stuck behind that goddamn bar. Every goddamn summer since 1977. Maybe I shoulda gone back to college….”

  I hear sirens approaching. Our backup has finally arrived.

  “What's going down?” Ralph asks, using the lingo he's heard on too many cop shows.

  “Sand Castle Competition,” I say. “We're bringing in extra security. For the backhoes.”

  “Fucking sand castles. Whose fucking idea was that? Means we'll be super fucking crowded tonight.” He mutters while he works his way through five paper matches that sputter out before he can light up. “Fucking wind.” He slaps at the greenhead nipping at his neck. “Shit. Fucking flies. Catch you later, Danny Boy.”

  “Yeah. Later, Ralph.”

  Finally, he walks away. Up and over the dune, down to where the wind won't blow out the last of his paper matches.

  “Bitter man,” says Ceepak when Ralph is gone.

  “Yeah.”

  Ceepak pulls out his notebook and jots something down.

  I believe the belligerent bartender just made Ceepak's suspect list.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  We need to put up some screens. I want this whole area sealed off.”

  The first unit responding to our backup request?

  Santucci and Malloy.

  Santucci is all of a sudden acting like he's in charge because he has extra stripes on his sleeve. Ceepak, you have to understand, never bothered to take the sergeant's exam last winter. Santucci took it five years ago. Passed it two years later.

  “Where's Tray?” Santucci snaps.

  “Tray?” Malloy screams at this young kid in navy blue shorts and a baseball cap.

  “Here, sir.”

  Tray is Keith Barent Johnson III, the son of a local hotel owner. It's a nickname, something to with his being KBJ Number Three. Either that or he used to work in a cafeteria. Anyhow, Tray is a summer cop like I used to be. Only I worked with Ceepak. He's been dealt Santucci and Malloy.

  “Tray,” Santucci says, sounding a lot like one of those mean drill sergeants in military movies, “I want you working with the guys from the municipal garage.”

  “You got that, son?” echoes Malloy.

  “Yes, sir,” says Tray. He salutes, too. Either that or he can't see because the sun is in his eyes and he's using his hand as a makeshift visor.

  I see Ceepak checking his watch. Again. Still no word from Diego.

  Santucci points toward the competition site. “I want crash curtains everywhere. Establish the perimeter, then seal it off. Understood?”

  Malloy leans in, shouts in the kid's ear. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tray looks confused. “I mean, no. What are crash curtains, sir?’

  “Jesus,” growls Santucci. “Just how stupid are you?”

  “Answer the sergeant's question,” adds Malloy. “How stupid are you, son?”

  Now Tray looks like he might cry, which is never a good choice when you're on the job. Trust me. Nobody wants to see their law enforcement personnel being that sensitive. Kind of ruins the whole cop image if you're dressed in blue but boo-hooing like most guys only weep when they watch Brian's Song, or maybe Dead Poets Society (even though they'd never admit it).

  Ceepak steps forward, tries to get between the kid and his two tormentors.

  “Crash curtains are seven-foot-tall green tarpaulins that the State Police use to shield accident scenes from motorists in an attempt to reduce rubbernecking delays.”

  Tray straightens up. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Ceepak. I didn't know.”

  “Take it easy son,” says Ceepak. “It's all good.”

  Santucci turns to face Ceepak.

  “All good? All good? No, it is not. It isn't good at all. You're interfering here, Ceepak. Subverting the chain of command. Auxiliary Officer Johnson reports to me, not you. Is that clear?” Santucci's wearing his mirrored sunglasses, looking like Smoky or the Bandit- I forget which one of those two dorks wore the silver shades. “Do we understand each other?”

  Ceepak grins. “Completely, Sergeant.”

  Santucci works his gum. Snaps an air pocket between his molars. He leans in close so Ceepak can smell his fresh, minty breath.

  “You know, this used to be a quiet little town until you showed up.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Santucci points at the holes in the sand.

  “This skull crap. We didn't have problems like this until you joined the force.”

  “Actually,” says Ceepak, “according to the evidence recovered thus far, these particular incidents took place in the early 1980s. I was in junior high school at the time. In Ohio.”

  “Yeah? Well this is Jersey, okay? You got a problem with that?”

  I have no idea what Santucci's talking about. Maybe he's trying to invent his own Code. Either that or he's working on a new state slogan, something to put on the license plates, since nobody ever bought that whole “Garden State” deal.

  Santucci's partner, Malloy, is staring at the four holes Ceepak and I dug in the sand. He moves his head. Back and forth, back and forth. Real slow. It's hard for Malloy to shake his head because his neck muscles are so thick his noggin is basically a golf ball teed up on a stump.

  “Look at all these holes,” he says. “It looks like that Disney movie. You know-the one with all the holes in it. What was that one called?”

  “Holes?” I say.

  Santucci turns. I see my smiling face reflected back in his mirrored glasses. Yeah. He's right. I definitely look like a smart ass.

  The radio on Santucci's utility belt squawks. He whips down the hand mike clipped to the top of his left shoulder.

  “This is Sergeant Santucci. Go.”

  “Dom. Chief Baines. What's your 10–38?”

  “We are on-site, sir. Oak Beach. Situation is well in hand.”

  “Is Ceepak there?”

  “10-4.”

  “Good. I want you and Malloy to take over Sand Castle security. Ceepak should continue to gather evidence but should do so without drawing unwanted attention to his activities. Copy?”

  Ceepak nods. This means two things. The chief's still not calling the FBI or the State Police, and Ceepak and I are still in charge of excavating the treasure chests-but we have to do it in a way that doesn't let anybody on the beach know what we're digging up.

  “10-4, Chief,” says Santucci. “I'll give Ceepak his marching orders.”

  “I think I just did,” the chief snaps back. “I also gave you yours.”

  We don't do any more digging.

  As soon as Santucci, Malloy and Tray traipsed down to the contest site and started setting up stanchions for their crash curtains, Denise Diego radioed us with the results of her search.

  “I found it,” she says. “The book of Ezekiel. Chapter twenty-three.”

  “Read it back,” says Ceepak.

  “It's kind of a weird passage.”

  “Hold on.”

  We move away from the crowds. Walk further up the sloping sand, up to the sea grass and fencing again. Ceepak depresses the button on his handy-talkie. “Go ahead, Officer Diego.”

  “Okay, I'll cut to the chase. These are verses twenty-five to twenty-seven….”

  We hear her clear her throat. Take a deep breath. She starts reading from the Bible:
“‘And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee: they shall take away thy nose and thine ears; and thy remnant shall fall by the sword. They shall take thy sons and thy daughters; and thy residue shall be devoured by the fire. They shall also strip thee out of thy clothes, and take away thy fair jewels. Thus will I make thy lewdness to cease.’”

  They shall take away thy nose and thine ears.

  Nothing too bizarre here.

  Just some freaky psycho going around town doing exactly what God and Ezekiel told him to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Sea Haven's Department of Municipal Maintenance must have a ton of tarps.

  Santucci and his team have completely fenced in about ten thousand square feet. The whole First Annual Sand Castle Competition area, plus the plot where Ceepak and I found the skulls. Everybody on the beach-and there's thousands of them now-thinks the giant green screens are part of some mysterious big unveiling to take place Thursday afternoon when the sand sculpture exhibition is officially opened to the public. The current buzz is that the drapes will be majestically pulled down during a big ribbon cutting ceremony.

  Chief Baines looks pleased.

  He's on-site inspecting the situation: hands on hips, chest swelling with salty sea air. The chief doesn't wear a uniform anymore. These days he prefers a natty tailored suit. I think he buys them in bulk from the Men's Wearhouse. His gold badge shines on his hip, clipped over his belt. I think he might also have strapped on one of those ankle holsters. Either that or he's retaining water something fierce. His right ankle looks humongous, like it's wrapped with an Ace bandage over a sheet of bubble wrap.

  The chief and Santucci stare at the billowing sheets.

  “Excellent job, Dom.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Terrific response to the situation. Well done. I've talked to the mayor. The C of C. They're all on board. Think the tarps will help build suspense for the grand opening. Good job, guys.”

  “We're not postponing the event?” Ceepak asks.

  The chief gives him a tight, bright smile. “No way.”

  “But….”

  The chief walks away. Down to the beach to personally greet some of our “guests.” The paying visitors he doesn't want to scare off the island.

  Santucci stations himself in front of the entrance to the Sand Castle Kingdom. If any civilian sunbathers attempt to sneak a peak at what's going on behind the curtains, he'll most likely bayonet them away.

  Just kidding. But old Dom is standing tough. Looking fierce. Probably always wanted to be a bouncer when he grew up.

  The chief prowls the sand like a politician, moving among the sun umbrellas, stopping to greet families spread out on cheerful towels, surrounded by their brightly colored beach gear. He pumps hands and laughs and encourages everyone to “Have a Sunny, Funderful day.”

  That's the official slogan in Sea Haven, even though it officially sucks.

  Ceepak and I pull open a flap in the tarp surrounding our pockmarked section of sand. The fabric is hot and has that oily scent of a tent pitched in the sun too long. It's time to go back to work.

  Time to continue our treasure hunt.

  Ceepak goes to Hole Number Four. He takes a miniature compass out of his cargo pants and holds it flat in the palm of his hand.

  “Due east,” he says, and strides across the sand, heading toward the ocean. Only I can't see the sea-just the tarp wall separating our designated quadrant from the Sand Castle construction site. To my left, I see dancing shadows of kids flinging Frisbees. To my right, more shadows. A volleyball game. Ceepak and I are alone inside our walled-off little world. Alone except for whatever we find buried in Hole Number Five.

  Ceepak walks seven steps, kneels on the sand.

  “Danny?”

  I start digging.

  “Slow and steady,” says Ceepak.

  “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, ma
king 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?”