Whack A Mole

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.

“Unfortunately,” he grouses, “this museum's too small to utilize security cameras or guards. If someone broke in when no one was here, we'd see it on the tape.”

I could point out that no one is ever here, but I don't.

“Be that as it may,” Ceepak says, “we can still check the guest registry up front.”

“You think whoever did this signed in?”

“Doubtful. Unless they did so as a prank. But even that could prove fruitful. If they wrote down a false name we can still use it to work up a handwriting analysis.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe they signed in as Vincent van Gogh. I think he lopped off his own ear….”

“Indeed so,” says Ceepak. “And, legend has it, he then delivered it to a prostitute he knew at a nearby brothel.”

I remind myself never to play Trivial Pursuit with John Ceepak- unless, of course, we're on the same team.

He drops to his knees and examines the worn-down Oriental rug in front of the bookcase. He reaches into his right hip pocket and pulls out his magnifying glass.

“Hmmm.”

The glass goes back in and out comes a small roll of Scotch tape. Ceepak snaps off a piece, presses it down into the carpet, pulls it up, and stores the tape strip in a small envelope retrieved from his knee pocket.

“What was that?” I ask. “What'd you find?”

“Sand particles.”

“Cool! That should help. Right?”

“Unlikely. As you know, Danny, sand is quite common here in Sea Haven. Most people carry it around on their shoes, their socks, inside their pant cuffs. Difficult to distinguish one grain from another or to determine where it came from. There is, however, always the remote chance that it might offer us a clue, and so we collect it. Remind me to ask the museum staff when this rug was last vacuumed.”

I jot down a memo to myself. Ever since I put on the badge, I've been carrying my own small spiral notepad around. Usually, I use it to remind me of stuff. You know-pick up bologna, buy a new toothbrush, question career choice. Stuff like that.

“So, what've we got?” I ask. “Diddly or squat?”

“We've got the ears, Danny. I suspect they have been preserved in formaldehyde or a similar embalming fluid. Their DNA signatures, therefore, remain intact and could help us identify the two girls.”

“Do you think the ‘Lisa’ is our Lisa? Lisa DeFranco?”

“It's certainly one possibility. We should contact the girl's mother.”

I can just imagine how delighted the wicked witch of the A amp;P is going to be to hear from us again.

“Even if she can't provide us with a sample of her daughter's DNA, we could test hers. There would be a definite familial pattern.”

“Are those ears even real? Maybe they're just, you know, made out of rubber like the ones you can buy for Halloween. George W. Bush ears or Spock ears….”

“I'm quite certain they're real. I also fear they may point to picquerism.”

I'm afraid to ask but I do: “What's that?”

“The act of mutilating a victim beyond what is necessary to kill her. It is a common trait among serial killers.”

Jesus. Serial killers?

“So all of a sudden there's a serial killer on the loose in Sea Haven?” I ask.

“We cannot yet call our perpetrator a serial killer, Danny.”

“Good.”

“The FBI defines a serial killer as someone who has killed at least three victims.”

Oh. I see. Two down, one to go.

“And whether he is on the loose, as you say, is questionable. We can surmise from the dates on the jars that these mutilations took place in the 1980s.”

“Wait a minute,” I say. “We don't even know if these two girls are dead. What if, I don't know, what if both Ruth and Lisa were caught up in some kind of big kidnapping scheme where the kidnapper sends an ear with his ransom demands to prove he means business.”

“Then the ears wouldn't be here, would they? They'd be wherever the kidnapper sent them. And, again, remember the dates written so meticulously on the jar labels: Summer 1983. Summer 1985. Two kidnappings, two years apart? Both involving severed ears as proof of life? Again, highly unlikely.”

He's right. I'm clutching at straws. Rehashing plots from DVDs I've rented.

Ceepak frowns. “I suspect that what we've discovered here is evidence of the sixth phase of the typical serial killer cycle. The totem or trophy stage: the taking and keeping of souvenirs. It's an essential act for the serial killer because the souvenirs create the link between his fantasies and the reality of what he has actually accomplished.”

“So,” I say, “the ears in the jar are his version of the snow globe you bring home to remind you of all the good times you had on vacation?”

“Exactly.”

“Then why's he getting rid of his souvenirs? I mean he's had them for, what? Over twenty years? Why's he all of a sudden donating his stuff to a whaling museum?”

“That, Danny, is the question we must strive to answer. The sooner the better.”

The way he says it, I know he thinks something bad is about to happen.

“Maybe we should check that visitors book in the now,” I suggest. “Maybe we can find the family that was in here during the thunderstorm. They might have seen somebody or something….”

Ceepak nods. “Good idea.”

Feeling like I'm on a roll, I come up with what I think is another good one. “But first-we should check that glass for prints.” I point to the bookcase, which is one of those old-fashioned oak jobs where every shelf has its own window to keep out the dust.

“No need,” says Ceepak. “Whoever dropped off the jars wore gloves. See here? And here?”

He points to two smudged sections. The only two clean spots on the otherwise grimy glass. Even though it's the middle of July, I don't think the Daughters of the Sea have gotten around to their spring cleaning. The two areas, about eighteen inches apart, were wiped clean when our guy pressed his gloved hands against the glass.

Ceepak re-pockets his gear. “Let's go check out that guest book.”