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

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Excuse me?”

  “How many of these girls did you kill?”

  “What?”

  “It's a simple question, sir.”

  “I … I….”

  The eyeballs are staring straight ahead now.

  “Did you cut off their heads?”

  Ceepak flops one of the After shots down on the table. Teddy looks down and his face loses all its tan.

  There's a knock at the door. The chief swings it open.

  “Ceepak?”

  “Sir?”

  “Need you out front. You too, Boyle.”

  “What is it?” Ceepak asks the chief when the three of us are in his office.

  The chief holds up a plastic bag.

  Inside I can see a THANK YOU note—the kind my mother used to make me send to all my aunts and uncles before I could spend any of my Christmas money. The front flap is decorated with a sketch of a watering can stuffed with flowers. Ceepak and I screw up our eyes, trying to decipher the snatch of verse printed in blue ink against the blue sky.

  Chief Baines reads it to us: “‘Just at the right time, the Lord will send showers of blessings. Ezekiel 34:26.’”

  Ezekiel.

  Now he holds up another baggie. Inside, there's a hot-pink envelope.

  “I think it's addressed to you, John.”

  There are two initials typed on the front flap: J. C.

  “Your serial killer is sending you fan mail.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Helen found it when she stepped outside for a smoke.”

  The chief sets the two bags down on his desk.

  “Where was it?” asks Ceepak.

  “Stuck in the gravel. Poking up near the curb.”

  The grounds around police headquarters are landscaped with pea pebbles instead of grass. Crushed rock requires little in the way of maintenance, irrigation, or a green thumb.

  “Did she see who placed it there?” asks Ceepak.

  “No,” says the chief.

  “Were any vehicles in the vicinity?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Pedestrians?”

  “No. She just saw the envelope.”

  “Was it Gus?” I ask. “You think he put it there before he came in?”

  “It's a possibility,” says Ceepak.

  Our old pal just worked his way back onto the suspect list. Ceepak finds another sterile pair of gloves in his cargo pants.

  “This message,” he says, “as well as the initials J. C. typed on the front of the envelope, was done on an IBM Selectric typewriter.”

  The chief nods. “Just like the cards we found buried in all the holes. We should check the office supply stores in town. Office Depot over on the mainland. Staples. See who's been buying ribbons for antique typewriters.”

  Ceepak stops his study of the card long enough to shoot me the slightest little look, because the chief just said exactly what he had said earlier. Back then, our boy Baines told us there wasn't enough time for such niceties.

  Ceepak goes back to work. Guess we'll gloat or scream later. It seems our serial killer has climbed out of his mole hole and, after years of silence, wants to communicate with the police.

  “‘Thank you for arresting the doctor,’” Ceepak reads. “‘He is an odious fornicator.’”

  “See?” says the chief. “He's been following us! Knows what we've been doing, knows we brought in Dr. Winston.”

  Ceepak is unsurprised. “Fits the profile.”

  “We might as well cut Dr. Winston loose,” the chief says.

  “Agreed,” says Ceepak. “Perhaps we can prevail upon him to show us where he met the girl. It might be a location she frequents.”

  “That's what I was thinking,” says the chief even though I doubt he was thinking anything like that.

  “I'll put Kiger on it,” he announces. “Have him drive Dr. Winston around town.”

  Ceepak reads on.

  “‘I have come forth to complete God's work. To finish the task he hath placed in my hands. She is a whoring harlot defiling all good men who cross her path. Therefore, her lewdness shalt be made to cease as I continue to live my life under the Son. Do not dare judge me for, in the end, He, the Son, the true J. C., shalt find me steadfast, loyal, and true. Thou shalt not stay my hand nor prevent His will from being done on earth as it is in heaven. Amen.’”

  Ceepak puts the card back into its plastic bag. Similarly, he places the pink envelope back in its bag. With the evidence secured, he takes off his gloves.

  “I need to talk to Rita,” he says.

  The chief looks confused. “Your lady friend?” He twists his wrist to check his watch. “Jesus, John—I was sort of hoping you guys would stick with this thing … see it through.”

  “Rita Lapczynski knows someone who was part of Reverend Trumble's community during the time period when the serial killer was most active. Perhaps her contact will remember something that everyone else has forgotten.”

  The chief shakes his head. “You still worked up about Reverend Billy? Do me a favor, John—give it a rest. The guy's already called the mayor who, of course, called me. Trumble claims you're harassing him, infringing on his freedom of religion, yadda-yadda-yadda.”

  “Be that as it may, I sense Life Under the Son is the key to all of this.”

  “Why? Because the nut job's mash note had a few ‘shalts’ and ‘thous’ in it?”

  Chief, were you even listening? I want to say. He spelled it out, right there in the middle of his THANK YOU card! He lives his life under the Son? Duh. Buy a vowel, big guy.

  But I don't say any of this because I've become sort of accustomed to receiving a paycheck on a regular basis. Besides, Ceepak will say it better than I ever could. He knows how to remain professional in all circumstances. Even on days when the boss forgets to pack his brains.

  “Sir—were you listening to what I just read?”

  Okay. Maybe Ceepak's had enough, too. Who could blame him?

  The chief slants down one eyebrow, squints up the eye underneath it.

  “Come again, John?” Hey, I think he's miffed.

  “Sir, the note writer clearly states, ‘I continue to live my life under the Son.’ An odd choice of words unless, of course, he is referring to Reverend Trumble's ministry. A group that, as I have said, I believe our killer has had some prior association with.”

  “Maybe,” says Baines. “However, you might also consider….”

  “Danny?” Ceepak heads for the door.

  I follow.

  “Where do you two think you're going?”

  Ceepak stops. Turns. “To catch a killer.

  We haven't much time. Less than five hours.” We walk out the door.

  Behind us I hear the chief say, “Dismissed.”

  Guess it makes him feel better.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Bagel Lagoon at 102 Ocean Avenue is closed.

  Nobody's in the mood for ethnic doughnuts at seven-thirty P.M. The sun has pretty much slipped down in the west, out over the bay. If I were at The Sand Bar, I'd be out on the deck settling in with a cold brewski and a basket of peel-and-eat shrimp, all set for another spectacular show. Sunset. Happens every night but never at the same time. Keeps things interesting.

  I'm parked on Ocean Avenue, right in front of a fire hydrant. My buddies on the volunteer fire squad tell me that's how they know where to find a hydrant: just look for where the cop cars are parked.

  Ceepak went upstairs to his apartment to talk to Rita. We didn't actually discuss it, but we both silently decided it would be better if he went up there alone.

  I was sort of surprised that we came to Ceepak's place to find Rita. I don't think they're living together but I guess they planned a whole bunch of overnight adult activities for the week her son is up in NYC.

  I wonder what's keeping Ceepak. He's been upstairs a while.

  Guess he's still explaining our situation. Rita will definitely tell him the name of the friend who lo
oked out for her when she was pregnant and scared and all alone at Reverend Billy's. This person who is now one of our town's most prominent citizens and probably doesn't want anybody else to know she once did time at a boardwalk sanctuary for unwed mothers.

  Rita will reveal the name to Ceepak because she promised she would—if and when we really needed to know it. Rita always keeps her word. She's like Ceepak that way.

  I crank up the radio. The one with the FM dial, not the official one straddling the drive hump. That radio's powered on and squawking but I'm not really paying attention to cop chatter because WAVY is spinning a live version of Springsteen's “The Promised Land.”

  We're almost at the chorus. The part with the sha-la-la's I do so well.

  I let Bruce handle my intro, set me up:

  “Mister, I ain't a boy, no I'm a man. And I believe in a Promised Land.”

  Then he goes on about how he's done his best to live the right way, how he gets up every morning and goes to work each day. I can relate.

  Okay.

  Here we go.

  Sing-along time.

  “All units. 10-49.”

  It's the other radio. The Motorola Spectra police radio.

  “Repeat. 10-49. Shots fired. 10-50. Corner of Oak and Ocean. The Seafood Market….”

  10-49 means urgent. 10-50? Use caution.

  Oak and Ocean is where Mama Shucker's is located. I know it well. It's this huge, open-air steam bar and seafood market.

  “Request all units respond. Officer Malloy is reporting more shots fired….”

  Malloy. His partner Santucci is probably the one doing the shooting.

  We need to roll. Ceepak needs to be down here. Now.

  I lean on the horn.

  I flip on the siren.

  I hit the horn again.

  Here comes Ceepak. He's moving fast. He's taking the steps two at a time like a man running down an up escalator. He probably wishes he had installed a Batpole outside his kitchen window for emergency situations such as this.

  I see Rita with the dog, standing outside the door up on the second-story landing. Barkley is living up to his name. Barking like mad. Guess he thinks I'm making too much noise. I lay off the horn.

  I lean across the front seat and yank open the passenger side door to save Ceepak a second or two.

  “10-49,” I yell to him. “10-50! Shots fired!”

  Ceepak nods. “Got it.”

  He hops into the passenger seat, practically rips the seat belt off its pulley tugging it down.

  “Let's roll.”

  I flick on the light bar. The siren keeps screaming.

  “It's Santucci and Malloy,” I say. “Seafood Market. Mama Shucker's. Ocean and Oak.”

  Ceepak nods. I see him pull his pistol out of its holster. Pop out the magazine. Check his ammunition. Slap it back in.

  I stomp on the accelerator and jerk the Ford into the middle of Ocean Avenue. Traffic moves out of my way. The Ford is shimmying. I swerve and weave between lanes.

  We pass The Pancake Palace. Pudgy's Fudgery. We reach Jacaranda Street. The roads in this part of town are named after trees and go in alphabetical order. Kumquat will come next. Oak is four after that. We pass Santa's Sea Shanty.

  “That's her store,” says Ceepak.

  “Who?”

  “Sarah Byrne. The woman who took care of Rita. The one from Life Under the Son.”

  But we can't stop now. Sarah Byrne will have to wait. As much as we'd like to talk to her, we can't go see Santa until after we see Santucci.

  And Santucci has a gun.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Mama Shucker's usually has a message scribbled on the white marker board where they post the daily specials. Today it's BE NICE. WE’RE NOT ON VACATION.

  Sergeant Santucci must not have read it.

  When we arrive on the scene, though it's gotten dark, we can see in our headlights Santucci crouched behind his cruiser. He's using the car's hood to steady his grip on his weapon. I pull in alongside his vehicle. Without bothering to even bob up and aim, Santucci squeezes off another blind round at the Seafood Market.

  I hear glass shatter. Water splash. Gallons of it. It sounds like the tail end of a good log-flume ride. I think Santucci just took out a lobster tank.

  Another shot is fired. I flinch. Almost duck down. I figure it's the bad guy returning fire.

  It isn't.

  It's Santucci again. I see him poking up his pistol with both hands and firing wildly.

  My eyes flick back and forth trying to trace the random burst of bullets, try to see what the hell it is that Santucci's shooting at.

  But all I can see are impacts and ricochets.

  One bullet nails an igloo of chipped ice and sends up a cloud of pink shrimp shrapnel.

  Another hits a column of breadcrumb canisters.

  One takes out a light fixture.

  Three shots shatter assorted bottles of Louisiana hot sauce lined up like clay pigeons on top of the deli case.

  Santucci is a lousy shot.

  “Cease fire!” Ceepak yells as he jumps out of our car and attempts to assess the scene. I pull open my door, hit the ground, scramble over to Santucci and Malloy's Chevy Caprice. I take cover behind the trunk and flip up the Velcro flap locking down my own sidearm.

  “Cease fire!” I hear Ceepak scream again when he reaches Santucci up near the front tire.

  “Fuck you, Ceepak!” Santucci sticks his gun up over the hood again, waves it around back and forth, and lets fly another couple rounds.

  This time he takes out the glass case displaying Mama Shucker's famous clams casino. They're good. Better without the tiny shards Santucci just added to the recipe.

  “Lower your weapon, Sergeant!” Ceepak orders.

  Santucci squeezes the trigger one more time.

  Fortunately, all I hear is a click. He's empty. Apparently, he unloaded a full magazine into the seafood shop. Sixteen bullets. Enough to make fish and lead chips for the whole family.

  Ceepak looks ready to rip the pistol out of this idiot's hand. I hunker up against the rear wheel well. Behind me, from inside the cruiser, I hear Deadeye Dom's partner.

  “We're taking fire! Suspect is armed and dangerous. Repeat, armed and dangerous!”

  Malloy must be lying on the floor, working the radio.

  “Are you hit, sergeant?” Ceepak asks Santucci. “Sergeant? Have you taken fire?” He sounds like he's trying to shake Santucci awake.

  I look over at the two of them.

  Santucci is having trouble finding a fresh magazine of ammo on his utility belt because his hand is too jumpy. The fingers fumble, can't work open any pouch snaps.

  Now his knee starts thumping up and down. The heel of his heavy shoe is twitching, spiking a ditch into the gravel underneath it. A drop more adrenaline and I guarantee Santucci will officially be having a heart attack.

  “Dom—who is your target? Dom? Talk to me. Who's in there?”

  “Your suspect.”

  “Come again?”

  “Your suspect. Ralph Connor. The bartender. From The Sand Bar.”

  “Who said this bartender is a suspect in our investigation?”

  Santucci takes a breath. Fills his chest with enough oxygen to make him an asshole again.

  “Cut the shit, Ceepak. Jane Bright told me. Said some bartender named Ralph was on your list with Gus and the doctor. Only you guys couldn't even nail this Ralph character's last name so Malloy and me had to step up to the plate, do your job for you. We nosed around. Asked the right people the right questions. Got the name. Then we spotted him down on Oak Beach.”

  “Was he with the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “The one in the photograph. The one we're looking for.”

  “Hell, no. He was alone like these psycho killers always are. We tailed him up here. When I pulled out my sidearm, he grabbed a hostage. Hustled her into the back.”

  “Who?”

  “Some old broad
.”

  Great. Ralph the angry bartender has taken a senior citizen hostage. I hope Medicare covers it.

  “What happened to your pursuit of the girl?” Ceepak asks. He's worried about the dwindling hours in the killer's schedule. Especially since we're wasting time here watching Santucci shoot at oyster-cracker boxes when he was supposed to be apprehending the girl and putting her into protective custody.

  “Don't worry,” Santucci says. “She's long gone. She skipped town.”

  “Are you certain? Did you witness her departure?”

  “No, Ceepak. I just used my head, okay? Applied some fucking common sense to the situation.” Yelling at Ceepak seems to have calmed Santucci down some. His hand has stopped trying to jump off his arm. He resumes his search for ammunition. “After you two bozos chased her up and down the boardwalk, you gotta figure she's moved on to greener pastures. Probably halfway down the Parkway to Cape May by now.”

  “Who's the hostage? Inside?”

  “Like I said—this old lady. She works behind the fish counter.”

  “Where are they?” Ceepak asks.

  “Inside.”

  “Where? Which sector of the market?”

  “Back there!” Santucci points backward over his head, to the general vicinity of the other side of his cop car, so our situational intel at this point basically blows. No problem. Ceepak is used to being sent into battle with faulty intelligence. It's the only kind they had back in Iraq.

  “Give me some ammo,” Santucci says. “I'm out. Need to reload.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  “Gimme a clip!”

  Ceepak ignores Santucci, turns to me. “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I'm going in.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Me, too.”

  “Negative. You will remain stationed here with Sergeant Santucci.”

  “Give me your bullets, Boyle!”

  “Forget it,” I say. “Come on, Ceepak. I know this guy. Ralph and I talk all the time. You need me in there with you. I can help.”

  Ceepak gives me a doubtful look. It may not be the time for talking. This isn't Happy Hour.

  “Hey,” I say, “the state of New Jersey gave me a gun, remember?”

  As a visual aid I pull out my Glock, wiggle it around some.