The Montauk Monster

by Hunter Shea

  “What’s the problem?” he huffed, the phone to his ear, his throat raw. Calls in the dead of night were few and far between. It had to be bad if one of his officers had dispatch put a call in to him.

  Adelle leaned close, trying to hear through the phone’s receiver.

  He listened to the code and the few bare details that were available at the moment. Nodding, he said, “I’ll be there in ten.”

  Tripping on the CPAP hose, he kicked the apparatus to the side and slipped on his uniform pants that he’d slung over the back of a chair.

  “Is everything all right?” Adelle asked, putting on her robe. She knew the drill. Coffee would be on and in a thermos by the time he hit the front door.

  Dennis sighed. “One of my officers responded to a report of a couple of bodies on the beach. I hate floaters and bloaters.” He went into the bathroom and pocketed a small jar of vapor rub. He’d smear a little on his upper lip when he got there. It worked wonders for keeping the stench at bay. In the old days, when he’d started out in uniform in Brooklyn, they would light up cigars to mask any strong odors. There were plenty of two-cigar days back then.

  Now, thanks to the sleep apnea and the weight problem that defied diets and workouts, Adelle would have his head if he came home smelling like cigars. Plus, he was pretty sure it was illegal to smoke anywhere now except five miles offshore.

  As always, Adelle met him at the door with his thermos and a kiss. “Be careful, Dennis. I love you.”

  “Love you, too. If I’m home for breakfast, I’ll pick up some bagels.”

  “Whole grain for both of us.”

  Dennis got into his car asking himself how life had turned to the point where he had to choke down that wholegrain crap as a reward for serving, protecting, and standing around dead bodies. His mood darkened the closer he got to the crime scene.

  By the time Sergeant Campos pulled into the beach’s lot, he had to stop in back of several squad cars, both Montauk and Suffolk County PD, two ambulances and a fire truck. He weaved through the cars, his belly smudging the squad-car doors. More lights and vehicles pulled up behind him. He spotted Officer Gray Dalton standing between a pair of dunes.

  “This your call?” he asked.

  Dalton nodded. “Sorry, Sarge, but I thought this is something you should see for yourself.”

  They stepped under the yellow crime scene tape.

  Dalton stopped him before they turned the corner. “It’s real bad.”

  “Floaters always are,” Campos said, taking out his vapor rub.

  “These aren’t floaters, at least not as far as I can tell. There’s a chance they washed up and someone got at them after, but”—he paused—“well, you’ll see.”

  Officials moved about the beach, setting up a pair of portable lights. They clicked on, throwing harsh light on the scene around the bend.

  Campos rounded the dune and felt his muscles lock. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

  It looked like something out of a war movie. His first thought was that whoever was scattered about the sand and reeds had stepped on a land mine, like the IEDs those terrorist assholes used in Afghanistan and Iraq. He could make out some of the large parts—a leg here, blown off at the knee, the lower part of an arm, the heads—though there wasn’t much to identify them. And to the left, was that a breast? “What the hell happened here?”

  “Someone walking along the beach called it in. It was like this when I got here,” Dalton said.

  “Where’s the person who reported it?”

  “We don’t know. It was an anonymous call.”

  Anonymous calls could mean anything. Could be the person was too scared to stick around—probably ran home to throw up the last week’s worth of dinners. There was a possibility it was the very same person who committed the crime. If it was called in on a cell phone, he wouldn’t be anonymous for long.

  Campos said, “See if there’s any way to trace the call. Everyone uses cell phones nowadays. If they get an address, they are not to send a soul until I tell them to.”

  “On it,” Dalton said, radioing in. He pulled his walkie away to shout at one of the EMS guys. “Watch where you’re stepping. Just keep back for now.”

  Campos liked Dalton. He was young, but he wasn’t a pissant who felt entitled to the world. He played things straight and knew he had dues to pay. Adelle had liked him when they met at a picnic for the force, but that was mostly because of his looks. He was six foot, lean but solid, with full, jet-black hair and eyes so blue they reminded Dennis of the peepers on those husky dogs. He took great joy in reminding Adelle that Dalton was young enough to be their son.

  While Dalton moved away, Campos got down on his haunches to take a closer look at one of the piles of shredded humanity. The smell of ammonia and other foreign chemicals made his eyes water as they retreated up into his head. He flinched, putting a handkerchief over his nose. That didn’t smell like a floater or even a recently eviscerated body.

  Is it toxic?

  Studying it, he could only assume it was part of a torso. A couple of fingers stood up in the meat like they were flashing him a peace sign.

  Then he noticed the smoke. An almost transparent steam wavered over the miasma.

  Stepping back, watching, his eyes bulged.

  “Where’s the ME?” he shouted.

  Dalton called over, “He just pulled up, Sarge.”

  “Get him over here now and tell him to bring a hazmat suit. Everything is fucking melting!”

  The clanging of the metal lids of his garbage cans jarred Brian Ventura from his sleep.

  Maybe it’s just the wind.

  Two heavy, tinny thumps followed.

  “Dammit.”

  Sam, his neighbor and occasional Jets game tailgater, had been begging him for years to swap out the antique silver cans for plastic, especially the ones that locked the lid on tight. Wind and raccoons liked to play horrible music with his garbage, usually waking Sam up as well.

  Something was rustling in the cans. He heard bottles clink against the patio and the crinkle of paper and plastic bags.

  Brian got up slowly, scratching under his black T-shirt, giving his eyes a minute to clear.

  He used to put bricks on the lids, then cinder blocks, but nothing could stop the raccoons out here. Some were the size of dogs. If they wanted in, they would find a way. That was fine, all part of living in the suburbs, except when it came to the noise level at his house. But dammit, those cans were still good, although dented from the garbagemen tossing them around like tennis balls. When they rusted away or got too misshapen to stand upright, he’d cave and get the plastic ones.

  Frugality wasn’t a crime yet.

  Flicking on the hall light, he went downstairs, through the living room and into the kitchen. He grabbed the bat he kept by the sliding doors, the ebony one he’d gotten at Bat Day at Yankee Stadium, signed by Derek Jeter, and hit the switch for the patio light.

  Nothing.

  Great. Now I have to get a bulb tomorrow.

  Pulling the blinds away from the latch, he turned it and pushed the door open just enough to poke his head out. He could see one of the cans lying on its side. Garbage was scattered all over the yard.

  The other one must have rolled onto the side of the house.

  Something shuffled in the dark. The raccoons were still there, making an enormous mess. There was no way he’d fall back to sleep after cleaning this debris up. He wondered if it was illegal to kill a raccoon. That’s all he’d need is for Mrs. Arthurs across the way to see him bludgeoning one of the Dumpster divers. She’d have the police here before he could sing the first few bars of “Rocky Raccoon.”

  Brian looked up at Sam’s bedroom window and saw it was still dark. Maybe he slept through it. Hopefully he did.

  Stepping out into the cooler night air, Brian tightened his grip on the bat. The plan was to scare them off, maybe hit the bat on the ground for extra effect. He’d been around long enough to know they worked in pairs.
The bat was really there in case one of them was sick or rabid and decided to turn on him. Otherwise, they’d just waddle away, slipping under the row of Sam’s azalea bushes.

  Fully awake and in need of some small form of revenge, Brian decided to quietly creep to the edge of the house and jump out at the raccoons. Maybe he’d give one a heart attack. It seemed a fair payback.

  Inching along the rear of the house, he had to pause a moment to stifle a chuckle. Here he was, a grown man, getting his kicks from frightening a dumb, hungry animal. Another reason to add to his “Why I’m Single” list.

  He stepped as lightly as possible, any sounds he made covered by the snuffing and rummaging in the alley.

  Feastus interruptus, he thought.

  Coming to the edge of the alley, he stopped, raised the bat over his head, bunching the muscles in his legs.

  Now!

  He leapt into the alley, landing hard on his sandaled feet, letting out a quick grunt to show he meant business.

  He was right, there were two of them. Two massive heads pulled out of the refuse, whipping in his direction. One of them growled a deep, guttural warning.

  These were no raccoons.

  The bat suddenly felt like a lead weight in his hands. Brian took a step back. He couldn’t make out any details in the dark, but he could see that they had to be dogs, big-ass ones to boot. His plan had worked, in that his little surprise had gotten them to stop rooting through the garbage. The one drawback, and it was a big one, was that they weren’t the least bit afraid. Not of him. Not of the bat in his hands.

  They took a step forward. The one on the right flicked a paw, crashing the can into the side of the house.

  Brian tried to shout. All that came out was a soft, stammering hiss of nonsense.

  The dogs came closer.

  What the hell was wrong with them? Brian could feel the heat of their savage intention coming off them in waves.

  He tripped as his heel came in contact with the raised brick of the patio. Daring a quick glance to his right, he wondered if he could make it in the door and slam it shut before they got to him. It would be close.

  They’d gone disconcertingly silent.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he pivoted and started to run.

  He didn’t go far.

  The other garbage can took the brunt of his flight. His shin cracked into it and he somersaulted over the can, landing on his side. The pain in his leg was excruciating.

  The ticking of nails on concrete made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end as the dogs rounded the corner with confident strides.

  Brian scrabbled to get back on his feet. The open door was just six feet away. In there was safety. In there was light and a first aid kit to take care of his leg.

  In there was a place where pissed-off giant dogs could not go.

  His yard was swiftly flooded with light.

  “Brian, what the hell are you doing out there?”

  The light and Sam’s angry voice put a good scare into the menacing dogs. They dashed back down the alley as fast as greyhounds. One of them brushed against the can on its way out, giving it one last ear-splitting clatter against the house.

  Hands clasped over his battered shin, Brian couldn’t find the words to answer his neighbor.

  CHAPTER 3

  With three hours to go until dawn, the beach at Shadmoor State Park was buzzing with more activity than it ever would during a midsummer’s day. It looked like every first responder in eastern Long Island had gathered in the sand. For the moment, the area was clear of news crews, but that wouldn’t last long. Dalton studied the logjam of cars, vans and trucks, wondering how he’d ever get out.

  First one in, last one out.

  “Gray, is that you?”

  He turned to see Norman Henderson, a middle-aged cop with a long, sad face, walk over carrying a couple of cups of coffee. Norm was local PD in Montauk, a man whose voice never matched his size. He was a good guy with a big heart and a porcine belly that obscured his belt. His warnings outnumbered the tickets he wrote, fifty to one.

  “Please tell me one of those is for me,” Dalton said.

  Henderson eyed the cup in his left hand and shrugged. “I was saving it for Jake, but what the hell. Heard you were the one that found the bodies. You need it more than him.”

  Jake was Jake Winn, another member of the minuscule Montauk PD. Back in the day when cars rode two men at a time, Henderson and Winn had been partners. Winn was rough around the edges but good intentioned. He and Henderson had been a hell of a team. Norm scared them with his imposing size while Jake spit flames from a mouth honed by time spent in the marines. Last time Dalton spoke to him, Jake Winn had been working days. An event like this had a way of getting everyone out of bed.

  “Pretty gruesome,” Henderson said, blowing on his coffee.

  “That’s putting it mildly. You get a close look?”

  “I went as close as I needed.”

  “You catch the smell?”

  Henderson’s brow wrinkled. “Yeah. What is that?”

  “I don’t have a clue. I’m not too thrilled that I was breathing it in before, and now the only people near the bodies are wearing hazmat suits and masks.”

  Dalton’s stomach had been feeling queasy since Sergeant Campos had ordered everyone upwind and away from the bodies. He tried not to dwell on it. Mind over matter.

  Henderson said, “Maybe the killer threw some chemicals around, hoping to dissolve the parts. You’re too young to remember, but that was a specialty of the Irish Westies back in the day. No one could whack a guy and melt his body any better. They got so good at it, the Italians used to outsource their bodywork to them. You’d think those Westies were all chemists for DuPont, they were so good.”

  Sipping his coffee, Dalton shook his head. “But why hack them up like that and scatter them around the beach? If you had a contract on someone and a way of dissolving the evidence, wouldn’t you do it somewhere no one could see or smell while the process worked? This makes no sense.”

  Henderson sucked on his teeth. “Well, it couldn’t be the Westies anyway. None of them are left to do the deed.” He looked over at Dalton’s squad car. “You’re not getting out of here until lunch.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Henderson stumbled into Dalton and turned to give holy hell to whoever knocked into him.

  Jake Winn, his uniform wrinkled and hat pushed as far forward as it could go, stared at the coffee in Henderson’s hand.

  “I thought you were gonna get me one. I only got two hours’ sleep before the call came in.”

  Henderson pointed at Dalton. “He found them. He wins.”

  Winn was about the same age as Henderson but looked a few years younger. He was leaner, with no trace of gray in his hair or mustache. He had sharp, dark eyes framed by the start of crow’s-feet. The man was a consummate gym rat who took crap from no one.

  “At least let me get some of yours, dipshit,” Winn said, grabbing Henderson’s cup and tipping it back. He swallowed hard and said, “You know whose fucking car that is, right?”

  “I do,” Dalton said. “I ran the plates after I found the bodies.”

  Winn held up a hand. “Don’t say it. Norm can figure it out on his own.”

  Walking over to the abandoned car, Henderson clicked on his flashlight, scanning the outside, then the interior. The beam settled on a hula girl bobblehead glued to the front dash.

  “That’s Randy Jenks’s piece of crap,” he said, his voice troubled.

  “You think that’s Randy over there?” Winn said.

  Dalton said, “I saw the heads before the skin and hair started dissolving. There’s no way to tell. If there are teeth left, we might be able to get a positive ID.”

  Winn grumbled, “I’m not waiting for a dentist. I’m going to head on over to Randy’s, see if he’s home. Maybe someone stole his car, ended up here, came across the wrong angry bastard. At least I hope that’s what happened.”

>   Dalton finished his coffee and threw the cup in a nearby trash bin. “That’s a good idea. Hey, did Randy have a wife or girlfriend?”

  Winn removed his hat and ran his hands through his close-cropped hair. “Norm, was he still with that girl, what’s her name?”

  “Sherry. Nah, they broke up months ago. I heard about it from his mother during the PAL basketball camp. He was real broke up about it. I’d be upset if I lost a girl like that, too.”

  “How come you want to know if Randy had a girl?” Winn asked.

  “Because I thought I saw a breast.”

  “A tit? Over there?” Winn said.

  Dalton nodded. “It was hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it was. I’m not used to seeing them unattached to a torso.”

  Dalton could see the muscles in Henderson’s jaws clench. “Come on, Jake, I’ll go with you. We’ll let you know if we find him.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be here, watching the sun come up,” Dalton said.

  “There are worse ways to pull a double,” Winn said.

  Dalton thought about what lay over the dune and wondered what exactly that would be.

  Kelly James pulled her dad’s pilfered Prius over to the side of the road, keeping her foot on the brake. If her parents found out she’d snuck out, borrowed the car and came home at three thirty in the morning, she’d be grounded until the first day of senior year. She rested her head against the steering wheel, getting her courage up.

  They’d never understand.

  When June had told her that Joey was going to be at Wendy’s party—with that slut Adriana—there was no way she could sit home without going crazy. Joey had just broken up with her a week ago with the typical “Look, you’ll always be in my heart, babe, but I’m going to college five states away in a couple of months. It’s not fair to both of us. You know those long-distance relationships never work. This way, you’re free to be yourself and not worry about me. Senior year is supposed to be fun. I wouldn’t want to take that away from you.”