Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

  “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&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.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We catch our first break.

  Well, we actually catch two. First: the family that discovered the jars while they waited out the thunderstorm did, indeed, sign the guest book. Second: they were admirably thorough and filled in every detail requested: NAME(S), AGE(S), HOME ADDRESS, ADDRESS WHILE VISITING THE ISLAND.

  Ceepak suggests we take the book with us.

  “Not many visitors,” he remarks. “About two or three a day. However, given the apparent lack of basic housekeeping and the low level of museum security, there is no telling when those two jars were placed in the bookcase. We may eventually need to talk to every person listed in this register.”

  So we pack up the green book, secure The Scrimshaw Room, lock up the museum, and head off to the Seahorse Motel to visit the Pepper Family of Okemos, Michigan. Warren, Brenda, and the kids: Heather (13), Warren Jr. (10), and Maddie (6). I figure Maddie was the one howling like a miniature banshee when she saw the ears bobbing up and down inside their little glass bottles. I don't blame her: I would have done the same thing.

  • • •

  The Seahorse is an L-shaped brick building with a neon-green sign jutting out from the wall facing Nutmeg Street. At night, the neon flashes through a series of poses turning the tubular seahorse into an underwater bucking bronco.

  We walk past the rattling ice machine and head into the office. The nice girl watching TV behind the front desk tells us we're in luck: she just saw the Peppers heading for the pool, which is located around the back of the building.

  We say thanks and head that way. The day is cooling off after the thunderstorm, but not the steamy air around the motel. As we walk around to the pool, we're blasted by hot exhaust from the ice machine, the Gatorade vending machine, the coin-operated dryer vent, and every dripping air conditioner we pass.

  We round a corn
er and smell chlorine. I see three kids splashing in a cool blue rectangle about the size of a postage stamp. The parents are sitting in white plastic chairs on the pebbled concrete path lining the pool. The chairs are the kind they always have on sale at Wal-Mart and in the seasonal aisle at the grocery store.

  The kids are playing Marco Polo, thrashing and splashing in their blind frenzy to find each other. The pool is, as I mentioned, tiny. Maybe ten feet wide by twelve feet long. It's an in-ground pool but the motel didn't have much ground left to put it in.

  Mrs. Pepper sees our uniforms and nudges her husband.

  “Warren? It's the police!”

  Warren wakes up.

  “Hmmm?”

  He reaches for his sunglasses and knocks over a beer can snuggled in a foam Koozie.

  One of the kids just did a cannonball into the pool. I know this because the seat of my shorts just got soaked.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Pepper? I'm Officer John Ceepak of the Sea Haven Police Department. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”

  Ceepak pulls out his pad. “We'd like to ask you a few questions about what you saw at the Howland House Whaling Museum.”

  “You mean those … things? In the jars?” whispers Mrs. Pepper.

  “You mean the ears?” a boy blurts out from the pool.

  “They were gross!” screams the teenaged girl.

  “No, they weren't! They were awesome!” I'm figuring the boy is Warren, Jr. “Maybe some sailor lost them to scurvy! We read about scurvy in school. He didn't eat his limes so his ears fell off and then they pickled them!”

  Now I hear bawling. A little girl in water wings who wants her big brother to shut up.

  “Mommy, make him stop!” Must be Maddie.

  “It was disgusting,” says her mother. “I told that woman—she should be ashamed.”

  “How long will that ear exhibit be in there?” her husband now asks Ceepak. He sounds genuinely interested.

  “Warren?”

  “Well, the boy wants to go back … maybe take the cousins … it's kind of educational….”

  “The museum will remain closed for the foreseeable future,” says Ceepak.

  “Really?” Mr. Pepper sounds disappointed. “I was just telling the guy in 109 about it. He's been coming down here for fifteen years and never even knew they had a museum, let alone one with, you know, mummy ears.”

  “Were those King Putt's ears?” Warren Jr. has climbed up the ladder and hauled himself out of the pool. Currently, he is standing beside me, shivering and dripping on my shoes. “Dad says they were probably from like a caveman….”

  Ceepak ignores the boy. “Did you see anyone else at the museum, ma'am?”

  “No,” says Mrs. Pepper. “We were the only ones inside. It's not a very popular spot. I can see why.”

  “Did you see anybody coming out when you were going in?”

  “No.”

  “You're certain?”

  “Positive. We ran in when the thunderstorm started. I told the kids they could look around. Nobody else was in the building until the old lady showed up.”

  Ceepak nods. “Thank you, ma'am. Sir. Danny?”

  He puts away his notebook and we head back to the parking lot.

  “That was certainly helpful,” I say as we drive away. “They can go into the Witless Protection Program.”

  “Now, Danny, you know that police work involves a lot of walking down trails that turn into dead ends. However, walk down them we must.”

  Ceepak checks the time. It's nearly six P.M.

  “Where to now?” I ask. “Any more dead ends we can get out of the way today?”

  The radio on the drivetrain hump between us bursts with static.

  “Unit Twelve?” It's a female voice. “This is Special Officer Diego. Over.”

  Ceepak picks up the microphone. “This is Twelve. Go ahead, Officer Diego.”

  “Where are you guys?”

  “Seahorse Motel.”

  Or more correctly, traveling down a dead-end street to Nowheresville.

  “Can you swing by the house?” she asks. “Like right away?”

  Ceepak snaps down the microphone button with renewed vigor. “Did you find something on Mary Guarneri?”

  “Oh, not much. Just Miss Milk Carton's mother.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Chief Baines recognizes the significance of our recent finds,” says Ceepak, “and agrees that they warrant further investigation.”

  We're huddled around Denise Diego's computer workstation: just the three of us.

  “However,” Ceepak says, lowering his voice, “Chief Baines also requests that we keep this matter under the tightest operational security. We three are the only individuals he wants in the know on this. I will personally update the chief regarding our progress on a periodic basis.”

  “Should we have like a secret handshake or something?” asks Diego. “I could work up a code….”

  Ceepak smiles. “No need, Denise. Just don't discuss this matter with your fellow officers, friends, or family.”

  She shrugs and buries her arm in a bag of Cheese Supreme Doritos. I think she's disappointed that the Sea Haven Police Department doesn't afford more opportunity for Dungeons & Dragons–type tricks.

  “Whatever,” she says.

  Diego is a little older than me. And a lot smarter. Her family is Cuban—the ones who said adios to Havana back in the ’60s when Castro came to town. She's got a sweet face and a cute figure. When she tries to talk tough, her big brown eyes usually give her away. She also likes to eat Doritos. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She told me once that Doritos are the perfect food. I called them “chemical chips” and she said, “Exactly! That's what makes them such an efficient fuel.”

  “Tell us what you found,” says Ceepak.

  Diego licks her fingertips and starts clacking on the keyboard.

  “This one was pretty simple,” she says. “I did a quick history on those milk-carton pictures. They started putting missing children on the side panels in the late ’70s and early ’80s—after Etan Patz in New York and all those kids in Atlanta disappeared.”

  Ceepak nods. Like I said—he's more of a forensics history buff than I am.

  “Anyhow, I went to missing-kids-dot-com. It's run by the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children. They even have an 800 number: 1-800-THE-LOST. Creepy, hunh? Sounds like a vampire movie. But, then I realize—all the information about missing kids is centralized over at the FBI. So I tap into the NCIC….”

  Even I know this one: she's talking about the National Crime Information Center, a computerized database filled with all sorts of info about fugitives, stolen property, and missing persons. The data is available to all federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

  “Anyway,” Diego continues, “I put in the name Mary Guarneri, and the computer spits out the next of kin who posted the original missing child alert: Martha W. Guarneri, 24 West Grove Street, Fresno, CA, 93706.”

  “Fresno?” says Ceepak. “That's a long way from New Jersey….”

  “Yeah. So, I checked her background. She used to live in West Pennsylvania. Erie. Up near the lake. No husband. Never married. You guys tell me her daughter left home and came to Sea Haven in the summer of 1985. Well, mom left Erie, PA, in 1992.”

  “I wonder why,” Ceepak muses.

  “You can ask her.” Diego hands him a purple Post-It note. “That's her phone number. She's sixty years old, and she should be home right now. She lives in a one-bedroom rental close to the Fresno Airport. That's why her rent's so cheap.”

  Diego winks at me.

  “You got all that off the Internet?” I ask.

  “Yep. Took me almost an hour.” Another wink. “Be careful, Danny. Big Sister's watching you.”

  I nod. I will.

  “How do you know she's currently at home?” asks Ceepak.

  “Well,” she says as her fingers play across the keyboard, “it's partial
ly supposition on my part. We know she works the early morning shift at Country Waffles on Blackstone Avenue. She gets off at three P.M. and, according to her credit card bills, takes the FAX bus, that's the Fresno Area Express.” She glances at her wristwatch. “It's six fifty here, means it's ten to four out in Fresno. The bus ride takes ten to fifteen minutes.”

  I give her a wrinkled brow of disbelief. How could our new Nancy Drew know that?

  “Danny,” she says, “FAX posts its schedule online. I simply plotted the shortest route from her job to her home and factored in….”

  Ceepak picks up a phone. “Awesome work, Officer Diego.” He glances at the number. “Let's give her a call.” He nods to a vacant desk. “Danny, pick up when I give you the signal.”

  “10-4.”

  “Denise?” he asks. “If you'd like to….”

  “No, thanks.” She gives her Doritos bag a good shake. Crumbs sprinkle down to mingle with the crusty triangles already scattered on her mouse pad. “I need a refill. Can I get you guys anything?”

  Ceepak cups his hand over the telephone's mouthpiece, shakes his head. Then he gives me the single-finger hand-chop point. I figure that's my “go” signal to pick up the phone, so I do.

  “Hello?” says a tired voice.

  “Hello, is this Ms. Martha Guarneri?”

  “Yes….” Now she sounds suspicious. “Who's this?”

  “Ms. Guarneri, my name is John Ceepak. I am a police officer in Sea Haven, New Jersey.”

  There's this tense pause.

  “Have you found her body?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I hear Ms. Guarneri taking in a deep breath to steel herself.

  Her voice trembles anyway. “I always knew this day would come. You'd find her body. I'd get a call….”

  “Ms. Guarneri? We have not recovered your daughter's body. We do not even know if she is alive or dead.”

  “I see. I see.” She heaves a deep sigh. Relief, I guess.

  “We did, however, come upon what we suspect is her charm bracelet.”

  “Her….”

  “Ma'am, did your daughter wear a charm bracelet?”