Whack A Mole

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

We park where we parked before.

Ceepak kneels down beside the hole. He shakes his head.

The sand is dimpled with footprints. Mostly the kind made by big, clunky cop shoes.

“I'm afraid we won't find any evidence of significance here.”

“Yeah. Unless we want to frame Sergeant Santucci.”

Ceepak actually smiles. “Don't tempt me,” he says.

I smile back. We're a team again.

Ceepak stands up. Scans the horizon. Mumbles.

“There are ‘Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost.’”

He's quoting Bruce again-still doing “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”

He keeps looking around. Keeps mumbling.

“‘I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost, for wanting things that can only be found ….’”

He doesn't finish. So I do. Silently: “‘In the darkness on the edge of town.’”

Hey, seeing how we're on the top edge of the island contemplating the apocalyptic darkness dreamed up by some kind of sick demon who thinks he's doing what God told him to do, it seems pretty appropriate.

“Tell me what you know about this doctor,” Ceepak suddenly asks.

“Well, he was at The Sand Bar. Sunday and Monday.”

“Did you two talk?”

“Yeah. Some. Actually, I listened. He talked. He's pretty full of himself. Likes to hear his own voice even though he sort of sounds kind of prissy. You know-like rich guys always do. And, of course, he's cheating on his wife….”

“Would you say he's charming?”

“I guess. Yeah. He uses big words. Sounds smooth and sophisticated. Almost has a fake British accent. Some girls like that.”

Ceepak rotates. Looks south, out across the charred remains of the hotel.

“If Ezekiel drove up here to dig his hole, we might find tire treads. However, it appears as if heavy machinery has been working the site.”

The rocky lot is rutted with deep, dried-in tread tracks. No way for us to isolate the ones belonging to a killer's vehicle.

“Dr. Winston likes to fish,” I say. “He took a charter on Cap'n Pete's boat but his wife got seasick. He said he usually rents a boat and goes out on his own.”

“The photograph,” Ceepak says, sounding like he's in a trance. “It was looking up. Toward the bridge. A profile shot. Taken from below. Meaning he was either down near the water's edge….”

“Or on a boat! In the bay-pointing his camera up toward the bridge!”

Ceepak rotates another 180 degrees. Looks north. Out to the rotting dock, the dilapidated pier that looks mostly like telephone poles holding up one of those rickety swing bridges forever dangling over caverns of molten lava in video games.

Ceepak starts walking toward the water.

I follow him.

He picks up his pace.

I do the same.

“See it?” he says.

“No. What?”

“Something shiny. There.” He points to the spot where the dock meets dry land.

I see the glint.

We quick-time it to the pier. Ceepak holds up his right hand to halt our charge. He points at a shattered board in the dock decking.

“Note the hole. In the planks.”

I see one of the rotting planks has a gaping circle at its center. A foot hole.

“Perhaps he came here on a boat,” Ceepak thinks out loud. “Docked. Moved too rapidly down the deck. Fell when the rotting floor boards gave way….”

“And something flew out of his pocket.”

“Or his hand.”

Ceepak moves closer.

“Footprints,” he says. “We should plaster-cast them.”

We will, too. I know it. We have this stuff called dental stone in the car. You pour it on a footprint and when it hardens, you can take the shoe impression home with you. We could also use it to make Christmas tree ornaments out of seashells or Barkley's paw prints if we weren't so busy chasing a serial killer.

Now Ceepak crouches. Pulls the tweezers out of his left thigh pocket.

“It's a key. Appears to be an antique or an imitation thereof.”

He pincers the key and shows it to me. It's one of those old-fashioned ones with a big, ornate handle. Like a scrolled skeleton key from a haunted house, the kind that slides into a black metal keyhole.

Ceepak rotates the key so I can read its curlicue engraving.

“C.”

“Could be the unit in a motel,” says Ceepak. “Room C. Most likely from one of the local bed-and-breakfast establishments. Hence the antique effect.”

“Winston was staying at Chesterfield's!” I say. “Kept moaning about B amp;Bs and how much he hated them.”

“C. Chesterfield's. Good work, Danny. We need to radio this in. Put out an APB for Dr. Theodore Winston.”

“You think he's our guy?”

“I'm not certain. However, I'll feel better knowing he's off the streets for the remainder of the day.”

“Yeah.”

It's almost three-thirty P.M. and July 17 has less than nine hours left. That may be all the time Stacey, the serial killer's next intended victim, has left, too.

Ceepak's cell phone rings. The black one. The one he uses on the job.

“Ceepak,” he says when he flips it open. “Right. I see. Okay. Thanks, Jane.”

He closes the phone calmly.

“The plaster casts will have to wait.”

“Did Jane find a name in the guest book?”

“Roger that.”

“Dr. Teddy Winston?”

“No. His wife. Mrs. T. A. Winston.”

I drive. Ceepak works the radio.

“This is Unit Twelve. We are en route to Chesterfield's. Elm Street off Ocean. We will 10–31 Dr. Theodore Winston and bring him in for questioning.”

We're 10-40ing it.

That means we're on a silent run, no lights or siren, just plenty of speed. I'm pegging ninety just like Ceepak did. I think the Ford is going to need a crankcase worth of fresh oil tomorrow. Maybe a new crankcase.

10-31 means we plan to pick up Dr. Teddy Winston and haul him into headquarters for a little one-on-one conversation. Ceepak will handle the interrogation. He's a pro. He can tell if you're lying by which way you look when you answer a question-whether your eyes dart right or flash left. It's called the DEA eye test.

It seems everybody has a logical side and a creative side. So first you ask a question your suspect shouldn't have to think about-maybe you ask him to confirm the ZIP code on his driver's license or something. Then you watch his eye movement. He glances to whichever side and offers an answer without any creative embellishment. Now you know which way he looks when he's telling you the truth. Left or right. You've established his pattern. When you ask your next question, maybe the one to do with the crime, if he glances the other way, you know he's fibbing.

Ceepak can actually do this.

Me? I think I lack the necessary powers of concentration.

I tried it once on my buddy Jess. We were at The Sand Bar and I did the ZIP code bit but forgot to look at his eyeballs. Then I asked him about this ten bucks I think he borrowed from me back when we were in high school. I studied his eyeballs in the mirror behind all the whiskey bottles. Since it was a reflection, the eyes were, you know, backward.

Ceepak is tapping the Mobile Data Terminal.

“No wants or warrants,” he says. “Except for several outstanding parking tickets, Dr. Winston's slate is clean.”

“But you said these serial killers are smart. Know how to avoid police detection.”

Ceepak nods. “Indeed. They typically study police investigative techniques. In fact, in twenty percent of cases, the killer participates to some degree in the police investigation of his own crime.”

“No way.”

Before Ceepak can say, “Way,” the radio crackles back at us.

“This is Unit Six.” The voice gasping out of the tinny speaker sounds agitated. Winded. “We caught Ceepak's call. We are already at Ocean and Elm.”

It's Santucci.

“We will apprehend suspect. Request backup. Consider suspect armed and dangerous.”

“Danny?”

I jam down on the gas pedal.

We need to be at Chesterfield's like ten minutes ago.