Whack A Mole

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, 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.”