Whack A Mole jc-3

by Chris Grabenstein

  “We're good.”

  “Zoom in tight. Use the macro lens.”

  “Okay.”

  I do. I also make the mistake of checking out the viewfinder as the lens pushes in.

  First I see a pinkish triangle suspended in somewhat murky fluid. As the image becomes sharper, I know it's a nose. I can see the two smooth nostrils devoid of any nasal hair. A strand of flesh flops out of one naked hole and just hangs there. Poor girl. I know for certain it belonged to a girl because it's one of those cute buttons of a nose-the kind that would look ridiculously out of place on any guy unless he was a pixie.

  “Note the cut marks. Along the edges,” says Ceepak.

  I do. I also take another picture-close along the sides of the nose. I sidle around to frame up a reverse angle. I've never been behind the inside of a nose before. I hope I never am again.

  “Very clean incisions,” says Ceepak. “Whoever did this was quite skillful, their blade quite sharp.”

  “You think they did this with a knife?”

  “Or a scalpel,” says Ceepak. “Perhaps a razor-although that would present a problem once they reached the cartilage-the tough elastic tissue connecting the flesh of the nose to the nasal bone of the skull. One would need a saw of some sort to cut through that.”

  I feel all those free crackers from the Morgan's basket creeping up my windpipe to protest.

  “Photograph the label,” he says.

  “Right.”

  I move a step to the left and zoom in again.

  MIRIAM. 1980.

  “Odd name,” says Ceepak.

  “Even for 1980?” I ask-making the ’80s sound like prehistoric times, which, to me, they are. That's when Springsteen used to wear a sweatband on his head and people drank Crystal Light while they did aerobics with the blonde from Dynasty named Krystle, who also wore a sweatband. Lot of sweatbands back then. Sweatbands and break dancing. I've seen history books.

  “I don't believe Miriam has ever been one of the most popular names for girls in America, except, of course, in Jewish families.” Ceepak now produces a spray can. “This is ninhydrin,” he says. “A chemical substance that reveals latent fingerprints in porous surfaces such as paper.”

  He aims the spray nozzle toward the paper label affixed to the jar and spritzes it.

  I snap my head back. “Oh, man.” It stinks.

  Ceepak starts fanning his hand near the jar. “It's best to do this in a well-ventilated area….”

  Now he tells me. I think they shut down the A/C inside The Treasure Chest when they lock the front door. The air in aisle four isn't ventilating at all except for Ceepak fanning it in my face. It smells like the Turnpike up near Rahway.

  “We need to wait for the ninhydrin to dry,” he says. “I wish I had my steam iron….”

  I cough. “Maybe they sell them here.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “I could go look….”

  Ceepak stops fanning the fumes. “No need. Whoever placed the jar on this shelf was most likely wearing gloves.”

  “We need those security cameras,” I say. “If they were real … if they were working….”

  “Indeed. An individual wearing gloves, if only for a moment, would certainly stand out in a sea of summertime shoppers.”

  “Yeah.”

  The smell of the stink-spray is still strong. I'm thinking about heading over to the next aisle where I see scented candles sculpted in the shape of pink flamingoes.

  “Two ears. One nose,” says Ceepak. “Why? Why isn't this another ear?”

  “Maybe he got bored with ears. Maybe we're dealing with two different killers.”

  “Who both store their trophies in labeled jars of formaldehyde? Doubtful, my friend. Doubtful.”

  “Okay, so what's next?”

  “I'll examine this evidence more closely this evening. Put it under my microscope. Discuss this new development with the chief. He'll undoubtedly initiate calls to the press. Ask them to sit on the story. He'll likewise ask the Pepper family to do the same thing….”

  “Well, what do you want me to do?”

  “Get a good night's rest. First thing tomorrow morning, we need to go talk to the Reverend Billy Trumble.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I drop Ceepak off at headquarters.

  He has a little high-school chemistry lab set up on the second floor. The chief arranged for it after Ceepak saved his butt on the Mad Mouse case. It's not a huge deal, but he's got a microscope plus a computer that can do automated fingerprint searches or match tire tracks to a database of known tread patterns. He even has this program called SLIP for “Shoewear Linking and Identification Program.” He's all geared up for the first season of CSI: Sea Haven if, you know, CBS decides to do that instead of, say, CSI: Des Moines.

  I head back over to Ocean Avenue. When I cruise past The Treasure Chest and The Bagel Lagoon, I check my rearview mirror and see Rita coming down the staircase from Ceepak's apartment with Barkley the dog. It's a slow go. Barkley needs to contemplate each step before taking it.

  By my watch, it's nine forty-five P.M. I figure Aubrey Hamilton might still be waiting for me over at The Sand Bar. I figure this because I forgot to let her know I wasn't coming at nine-thirty as planned.

  Oops.

  I hang a right and head back to the bay side of the island. I know I'm supposed to head home and get a good night's sleep, but I need a beer. Something to wash the stink of Ceepak's fingerprint spray out of my nostrils. Something to wipe the image of Miriam's severed nose out of my memory bank.

  She's gone.

  Long gone, according to Ralph the bartender.

  “She's the blonde with the long legs, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Always dresses in white, to show off her tan?”

  “Yeah. That's Aubrey.”

  “She's a tramp, my man.” He stares at an empty stool two down from mine at the bar. “Had most of the buttons undone on her blouse … everything all hanging out.”

  “Unh-hunh….”

  “Keep away from that one. Skanks like her are nothin’ but trouble. Trust me. You want a beer?”

  No, I want somebody to put me out of my misery. But a beer will have to do.

  “Yeah. A Bud would be great. Thanks.”

  Ralph plops a cold longneck down in front of me.

  “Oh, shit,” he says. “Dorkface.”

  He sees somebody I don't.

  “Why does this fucking asshole have to come into my bar every night?”

  I turn around. It's Princeton. The fiftysomething tourist who was heading off to Smuggler's Cove last night with my sweet little hitchhiker.

  He sees me. Waves like we're old pals, fraternity brothers. Acts like I have a tiger tattooed on my butt, which, I'm told, is what all the guys who go to Princeton do-even the ones who eventually grow up to become Secretary of State and whatnot.

  “Good evening, gents,” he says as he straddles the stool next to mine, even though there are about a dozen empty seats up and down the long bar. This is Monday night. The bar scene in Sea Haven doesn't really start cooking until Wednesday or Thursday. Sometimes Tuesday. Tuesday is Ladies’ Night. Mondays, however, are nothing. Mondays are for drinking Busch at home.

  Ralph swabs at the bar with his damp cloth. “What're you drinking?”

  Princeton rubs his palms together like he's warming 'em up. “What's good tonight?”

  “Beer.”

  “Ah-ha. Do you have Stella?”

  “Yeah.”

  “On tap?”

  “Yeah.”

  Stella Artois is this Belgian beer all the college kids go nuts about.

  Princeton holds up two fingers. “One Stella. Two fingers of foam if you please.”

  “Oh, shit,” says Ralph. “I forgot. Tap just broke. You want a bottle? That way you can pour as many fucking fingers of foam as you want.”

  Princeton blinks and smiles, and Ralph stomps off to fetch his beer. “Excellent sugge
stion.” His stool squeaks as he swivels in my direction.

  “What a foul-tempered cretin,” he confides.

  I shrug. Sip my Bud.

  “You're with the police, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I'm not driving this evening.”

  “Then I'm not having a problem.”

  “Excellent. I'm Teddy Winston.”

  “Danny Boyle.”

  “Here's your beer.” Ralph delivers Teddy's bottle with a hard thump that sends some of his precious foam sloshing up the top and down the sides.

  Teddy whips out a hanky and dabs at the puddle.

  “Do you happen to have a coaster?”

  Ralph plops a paper one down.

  “And a glass?”

  Ralph reaches for a mug.

  “The classic chalice?” Teddy asks.

  “Nope. Just mugs.”

  Princeton blinks again. “Sorry. I don't mean to be intractable. I'm just something of a perfectionist. I suppose most surgeons are….”

  Ralph wipes his way up the bar away from us. He wants nothing more to do with Dr. Teddy Winston.

  I, however, need to ask a few questions.

  A perfectionist and a surgeon? Welcome to my suspect list.

  Most surgeons know how to use a scalpel, and Ceepak says serial killers are usually perfectionists. All of a sudden, I'm wondering whether Teddy Winston, MD, is an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist.

  “You're a surgeon?”

  “Indeed I am.”

  “And you used to come down here, back in the ’80s?” I ask.

  “That's right. When I was in college and med school. Sea Haven offered a welcome respite. I'd put down the books, pick up my fishing pole….”

  “Right. Cool. You ever hang with a girl named Miriam?”

  “Miriam?”

  “Yeah. She could've been a Jewish girl.”

  He thinks. Pouts out his lower lip.

  “No. Not that I recall. I don't remember any chicks named Miriam….”

  Chicks? This guy is totally stuck in the ’80s. Maybe the ’70s.

  “How about a Ruth?” I ask.

  “Another Jewish chick?”

  “I don't know. I think she was from Pennsylvania. Up near Erie.”

  Teddy tilts his mug and pours a perfect foamy head. He takes a sip, smacks his lips obnoxiously to show his appreciation for the Belgian brewmeister's skill.

  “Ah. There's nothing quite as refreshing as a crisp, hoppy, pilsner, is there?”

  “Yeah. So-did you know a Ruth back then?”

  “Maybe. There were so many scrumptious young things roaming the beaches back in the day. But tell me, since we're discussing fine female flesh-do you know a young redhead who calls herself Stacey?” He looks wistful. “Enormous breasts. Quite fetching.”

  “No,” I say. “I don't know any Stacey.”

  Except, of course, the one I picked up hitchhiking. The same one I saw in the parking lot with this doofus last night. Sure I'm lying, but frankly, I don't care if Princeton has a Code.

  He sighs. Way too dramatic. “Too bad. Amazing young woman. I need to find her.”

  “How come?”

  “She slipped away before I could jot down her phone number.”

  “I see.”

  “She also pilfered about a hundred dollars.”

  “She robbed you?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “You want to fill out a complaint? Press charges?”

  “No. No need. She earned it. Every penny. In fact, I was hoping we might hook up again later this week.”

  “Is she a prostitute?”

  “Heavens, no. The money she took was a gift. An honorarium, if you will.”

  “Sure,” I say, because I want him to keep talking.

  “However, that motel, Smuggler's Cove, it's even worse than I remembered. You're lucky you have your own pad.”

  I think a pad is where you take chicks. I should watch That ’70s Show more often.

  I gesture toward Ralph, who's down at the far end of the bar reading a wrinkled copy of Salt Water Sportsman.

  “Ralph's even luckier,” I say. “He lives on a boat. A houseboat.”

  “I am envious,” says Teddy. “Fortunately, I was able to get out on the ocean this afternoon. Usually, I rent my own vessel. Captain it myself. Today, however, I took a quick charter with my wife.”

  I cock an eyebrow.

  He gets it.

  “Now before you condemn me as an adulterous scoundrel, hear me out: my wife takes certain antidepressant medications that serve to suppress her libido, forcing me to seek ‘relief,’ if you will, elsewhere.”

  Some people take Rolaids, he takes redheads.

  “We're staying at a bed-and-breakfast,” he says, making it sound like a sewage treatment plant. “Place called Chesterfield's. God, how I hate B amp;Bs.”

  “How come?”

  “Nothing but middle-aged couples hoping to rekindle some semblance of their fading romances. Housewives desperate to get laid at least once a year so they drag their husbands into tarted-up Victorian houses filled with dishes of potpourri. There, one is encouraged to eat breakfast in a communal dining room with these … people. Fat people, mostly. Obese. You should see them scarfing down the homemade cranberry-pineapple muffins. As they ooh and aah over the scones, you are compelled to imagine them naked-aahing and oohing while they do what you know they did the night before.”

  Now he's grossing me out worse than Miriam's nose. I change the subject.

  “So you went fishing?”

  “Indeed. I thought a quick fishing expedition might cheer my wife. Revive her sagging spirits. She, however, quickly became seasick. Vomited over the starboard railing. We had to turn about and come back to dock early. The charter captain, by the way, was a very decent fellow. Only charged me for the hour we were out, not the three we booked. Quite gregarious, too. On the way back, he told the most amusing stories.”

  “Was it Cap'n Pete?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows Cap'n Pete. He's a local institution.”

  “As he should be. Anyway, if you see this redhead, let me know.” He hands me a business card. “Call my cell.”

  I tuck the card into my shirt pocket-not because I want to pimp for Theodore “Teddy” Winston but because I'd like Ceepak to meet this guy. Call me crazy but I have a hunch he'll want to ask this scalpel-wielding perfectionist a few more questions about “chicks” named Ruth and Miriam.

  Maybe even Lisa.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Tuesday morning starts like Monday: at seven-thirty A.M. in the roll call room.

  Only today Sergeant Pender is manning the podium instead of Chief Baines. I think the chief's in his office. Blow-drying his hair.

  “Ceepak,” says Pender, “you and Boyle can continue your ‘special investigation’ until oh-nine hundred. After that, we need you guys working crowd control at the Sand Castle site. The heavy machinery starts rolling at ten A.M.”

  Ceepak isn't happy. “Will do. However, that gives us insufficient time to follow up some very significant leads.”

  Pender shrugs.

  “Sorry. The chief gives me the marching orders; I pass 'em on to you.”

  Ceepak nods. “Roger that. Understood.”

  Pender looks down to the podium, checks his notes.

  “We almost done here?” says Dom Santucci, yawning and leaning back in his chair. “Me and Malloy are working a special investigation, too.”

  Sergeant Pender looks confused.

  “I don't see anything in the book….”

  “That's because it's super-secret. The chief doesn't even know about it.” Santucci pauses. Looks around the room. Acts like he's about to say something he shouldn't, which is what he does all day.

  “You see….”

  We wait.

  He whispers: “We're trying to locate and apprehend a decent cup of coffee.”r />
  Santucci's partner, Malloy, smirks and crosses his thick arms across his washing-machine-size chest. The two of them like to act bored every morning because they think they're better than all the other cops in the room. They also like to roll their short-sleeve shirts up into a cuff so everybody can see just how big and impressive their bulging arm muscles look this early in the day.

  Reggie Pender frowns.

  “Funny, Dom. Real funny. Maybe you guys will be able to track down that coffee up on the North End. You're working it today.”

  Malloy moans. “The North End? Jesus, crap….”

  “We have seniority,” says Santucci. “We've been on the job longer than anybody in this room. Longer than you or the chief. We want the beach and boardwalk.”

  “Sorry. Ceepak and Boyle have that assignment.

  “How come?”

  “That's what the chief wants.”

  “We used to have some rules around here, you know? Rules regarding seniority and who works where….”

  “Look, Dom-you have a complaint, take it up with the chief. Right now, do your job. Hit the streets. Hit the North End. Go find that damn coffee. Dismissed.”

  Pender gathers up his notes.

  Santucci's seething. His face is so purple he looks like the Fruit of the Loom grape. “We're not done here, Sergeant Pender.”

  “Yes we are. Like I said-you have a complaint, take it to the chief.”

  Pender marches out the door.

  The second he's gone, Santucci gets in Ceepak's face.

  “You bucking for detective?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I've been hocking the chief for months to bump me up to detective grade. This department needs one. Full-time. We need a good one.”

  “I have never once discussed job titles with the chief.”

  “Bullshit.”

  No. If Ceepak says it, it's true, because Ceepak cannot tell a lie. If he ever chops down a cherry tree, he'll hand you the axe and arrest himself.

  Santucci won't let it drop. “So how come the chief gave you that Mickey Mouse microscope upstairs?”

  “I have an interest in forensics that Chief Baines finds useful to our ongoing mission to keep Sea Haven safe.”

  “Bullshit. You want to fight me for the detective job? Fine. Bring it on. I know my shit. Backwards and forwards. So when you and junior here screw up whatever it is you're investigating, don't worry-me and Malloy will bail your ass out.” He turns to his partner. “Come on, Mark. Let's go investigate us that cup of coffee.”