“Roger that,” says Malloy, mocking Ceepak. “Roger-dodger that!”
The two cops march out of the room, hiking up their gun belts so they can swagger even better.
“Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You ready to roll?”
“Roger that,” I say with a smile Ceepak smiles back. “Then it's all good.”
Since we don't have much time before we're back on Sand Castle duty, Ceepak picks Reverend Trumble as our most pressing lead. We hop in the Ford Explorer and set out for his headquarters. Ceepak takes the wheel.
“What's eating Santucci?” I ask. “Whataya think crawled up his butt?”
“Can't say for certain,” says Ceepak. “Furthermore, I've never been inclined to investigate.”
I think he just cracked a joke. He does that sometimes. More since he met Rita.
“I suspect, however, he finds himself in an uncomfortable position. I am, indeed, still somewhat new on the Sea Haven Police Force. Perhaps I have violated some unwritten code and inadvertently disrupted Sergeant Santucci's perceived career path.”
I change the subject.
“Hey, how about that doctor I was telling you about? The vacationing surgeon who was coming here all the time in the ’80s?”
Ceepak nods.
“He definitely makes our list, Danny.”
We pull into a parking slot out front of The Sonny Days Inn. It's eight A.M. Very early morning or-judging from the bleary-eyed looks on the kids standing in the straggly chow line-very, very late at night.
Ceepak tells me the plan. “We spend fifteen minutes questioning Reverend Trumble about Mary Guarneri and the church charm. See if he remembers her. Immediately afterward, we survey the scene.” He nods toward the line of hungry young beach bums. “Try to spot the pickpocket. See if she showed up for breakfast again this morning.”
“Right.”
“Then, time permitting, we can follow up on this Dr. Theodore Winston you encountered last evening.”
“Who maybe started practicing his surgical skills before he had his medical license?”
“Let's not jump to any conclusions, Danny.”
“Yeah, I know … innocent until proven otherwise. But, trust me-he's definitely guilty of being an asshole.”
“Let's roll,” is all Ceepak says.
We take our place at the end of the breakfast line.
One of the blondes we saw yesterday is automatically inking her rubber stamp as each person approaches. When we reach the head of the line, she's all set to brand a shining sun on our hands to prove we're good to go for grub.
“We're not here to eat,” says Ceepak. “We're here to see Reverend Trumble.”
“He's busy. In the kitchen.”
Exactly how Ceepak wanted him.
“This is important,” he says.
“So is breakfast-for the weary and the lost.”
“Yes, ma'am. However, this is a pressing police matter.”
She looks at us. The morning sun glints off Ceepak's badge. I should probably polish mine more often.
“I see. Catherine?” She calls to a nearby girl whose smile is way too sunny for 8:05 A.M. It looks pasted on. “Please take over here.”
“Of course, sister.”
Sister? I'm starting to wonder if the Reverend Billy's acolytes are all nuns. Maybe Moonies.
“This is not the best time,” says their leader.
“The Sea Haven Police Department appreciates your cooperation.”
I love how Ceepak can kick butt and sound polite doing it.
We're with Reverend Trumble in his office. He didn't want to talk to us in the kitchen; too many devoted followers eavesdropping while they juggled their cast iron skillets. Scraping up scrambled eggs instead of loaves and fishes. French toast for the faithful. Saving souls with Entenmann's Danish rings.
“Tell us about the church charms,” says Ceepak.
Trumble, though impatient, answers carefully. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. “For several years, I gave one to every girl who sought solace here. Charm bracelets, however, are no longer fashionable. So I stopped doing it.
“But when you were handing them out …?”
“I gave away dozens. I ordered them from a catalog … a jewelry company in Pennsylvania….”
“New Bethlehem Creations?”
“Yes, I believe that's correct.”
I take it Ceepak put the sterling silver charm under his microscope last night, identified the company mark stamped into its bottom.
“The tiny church had an open roof,” says Trumble. “A beautifully symbolic representation of our Lord's open and loving spirit. Jesus longs to take His wayward children back into His loving embrace.”
“Tell me, Reverend,” says Ceepak, “do you remember a young girl named Mary Guarneri?”
Trumble shakes his head. “I'm sorry. I do not ever reveal the names of those in my flock.”
“You might have known her as Ruth.”
“Again, Officer, I must insist on protecting the privacy of those who seek shelter here.”
“What about a Miriam?”
Trumble is silent. Then, we get another, “I am sorry.”
But Ceepak doesn't give up. “How about Lisa? Lisa DeFranco?”
“I cannot help you.”
“Did you know Lisa DeFranco?”
Reverend Billy sighs. “If this Lisa DeFranco was here,” he says, “she was obviously a short-term resident.”
“Do you remember her?”
“No. But I can tell you: this girl did not elect to repent her sins.”
“How so?”
“Any young woman who chose to follow our path for any significant length of time would have taken a new name to celebrate her rebirth in Jesus Christ. A biblical name. Anyone named ‘Lisa’ would not be counted among the saved.”
“Why do their names have to be changed?”
“In the sacrament of Baptism, they are asked to choose a new name. One from Holy Scripture to help them remember the day they became a new person, the day they were born again.”
“And so a Mary could become Ruth?”
“I have talked with you enough.” He looks at us steadily.
Ceepak makes some notes in his spiral notebook.
“What happens to these girls once they leave your ministry?”
Trumble shakes his head sadly. “Hard to say. I suppose most return home to their parents or find gainful employment here in town. Others simply drift away. I only hope I am able to make some lasting impression on their young souls.”
I, of course, am thinking about the impressions someone made with a sharp blade on their young faces.
Ceepak closes his notebook, giving up. For now. I can tell he has a grudging admiration for Trumble's desire to put young people on the right path. But I know he'd admire the guy more if the Reverend answered his questions.
“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I still have hungry souls in need of their daily bread.”
Ceepak nods. Trumble heads for the door.
I think about these young girls who, years ago, came through the doors of the Sonny Days Inn. How they picked up church charms and biblical names. How maybe some of them suffered fates that hardly resembled “salvation.”
You have to wonder. Was the French toast worth it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We follow after Trumble into a room set up with six cafeteria tables and three dozen folding chairs-all currently occupied by hungry young folk scarfing down breakfast off thin paper plates.
The Reverend moves behind a chafing dish to scoop up portions of what looks like scrambled eggs but could be yellow cottage cheese. He has given us all the information he plans on serving up today. Ceepak doesn't push it. Not this morning. But I have a hunch we'll be back.
“What about redheads,” Ceepak asks, his eyes scanning the chow line. “I don't see any girls….”
“Me neither.”
Suddenly, I spot Stacey. She's standing by the door.
I know I should point her out to Ceepak. But I don't. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe I don't want him knowing that, on my days off, I spend my time picking up jailbait I find hitchhiking by the side of the road. I know she's a thief, stole my twenty and Dr. Teddy's hundred, but there's really no evidence to suggest that she's the beach bandit, too. Except, of course, the eyewitness description. And the fact that she's here with a rubber-stamped hand.
Okay, I'm embarrassed.
If I finger her, she'll just ID me right back. Tell Ceepak and Reverend Billy's assembled multitudes what kind of skeeve I truly am.
I decide not to say anything.
I'll just have to take full responsibility for any twenties she swipes down the line from upstanding Sea Haven residents and unsuspecting tourists.
It's not what Ceepak would do.
But I am not Ceepak.
I take a second look. She still hasn't seen me. Luckily for me, Stacey has a new hair color. She's spray-dyed it green.
“No redheads,” I mutter in Ceepak's general direction.
Technically, I'm off the hook.
“Roger that.” He checks his watch. “We better hit the beach. We'll check up on your Dr. Winston lead later.”
On his belt, one of the cell phones beeps. He answers it.
“This is Ceepak. Slow down. Take it easy, Pete. Okay. Breathe in. Try to calm down. Tell me what you found.”
Now we have another reason to hurry back to Oak Beach, besides our official bulldozer-watching duties.
Apparently, Cap'n Pete returned there first thing this morning, hoping to find more buried treasure. He brought along a friend's metal detector.
“She started humming right away,” Pete says. “Lights blinking. Noise in the headphones. Knew I found something. Yes, indeedy. Didn't know it'd be this. No, sir. Not this….”
We're west of the roped-off area where the sand castle sculptors will soon start erecting their colossal creations. I can see their backhoes covered with tarps.
The beach, itself, is practically deserted. Some surfers are happily catching the waves before the lifeguards show up to tell them to knock it off. A few joggers are doing the Chariots of Fire thing down where the sand is wet. Two middle-aged romantics in matching sweat-suits stroll up the beach holding hands.
All is as it should be.
Except, of course, for what Cap'n Pete and his borrowed metal detector found buried three feet deep in the sand.
Ceepak crouches next to the hole.
“Did you touch it?”
“No, sir, Johnny. I called you right away. I wouldn't touch it. Still not sure what made this thing start beeping.” He motions toward the metal detector lying on its side in the sand. “It's Bill's. Bill Baiocchi's. You know him, Johnny. From the Treasure Hunter club. He let me borrow it. It's a CZ-20.”
Ceepak nods.
“The CZ-20 is an all-weather detector,” he says. “It's leak-proof to a depth of two hundred and fifty feet, with electronics able to ignore the destabilizing effects of saltwater, making it ideal for working a wet, sandy beach.”
“That's just what Bill said. But what made it start beeping?”
Ceepak grimaces.
“Uncertain.”
The thing in the hole looks like a salad bowl. An old-fashioned Tupperware container like my mother used to have.
Ceepak carefully pries off the lid.
Now we see what might be a soccer ball wrapped in newspaper. Ceepak reaches into one of his many pockets and draws out his forceps. He uses it to work open the sheet of newsprint, which is still dry, thanks to Mr. Tupper's famous watertight seal. He peels back the paper like you'd work open a head of lettuce.
“The Sandpaper,” he says, identifying the newspaper as our local weekly. He studies the top edge. “The Friday, August 4, 1979, edition.”
He splays open the paper. Unwraps the top of the package.
It's not a soccer ball.
It's a human skull.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I still don't understand,” says Cap'n Pete. “If it's a skull, nothing but bone, what set off the detector?”
Ceepak points to the jawbone. “I suspect that several of these teeth have fillings. Metal fillings.”
“This is horrible,” says Cap'n Pete.
A human skull wrapped in the Sports section from a twenty-eight year-old newspaper, then packed into a re-sealable salad bowl and buried three feet deep on the beach? You ask me, that's worse than horrible.
Ceepak looks solemn.
We're about thirty feet up from the high tide line, close to the sea grass and rolled-out fencing. Fortunately, we're so far up from the ocean, no kid ever thought about building his castle on this patch of sand.
“Danny? Hold open the bag.”
He clamps onto the skull with his forceps, gripping it snugly.
I hold open one of the brown paper grocery sacks we always keep stowed in the back of the Explorer. Ceepak says paper bags are better for evidence storage; they don't sweat like plastic. The bag boys at Acme let me take as many as I want. They even gave me a stack of those double-insulated ice cream bags you don't see too much anymore.
“Danny? Focus.”
Ceepak is tonging the cranium like I've seen Homer Simpson do with a rod of radioactive uranium. Only Ceepak is much more careful. When he lowers the skull into my bag, I wince to feel its weight.
Next he uses the forceps to lift out the sheet of newsprint. It's stained. I figure dried blood. Maybe worse.
I hold open another bag to take it from him. I'm sure it's loaded with clues. Maybe DNA.
“What's that?” says Cap'n Pete.
Taking out the newspaper revealed something shiny on the bottom of the Tupperware bowl.
“Plastic baggie. Fold-down top.” Ceepak's speech patterns get clipped when things get serious. “Note card inside. Typed message. Folded paper behind note card.”
Ceepak sinks back on his haunches. He's thinking.
Cap'n Pete crouches down for a closer look.
“Captain Pete?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“This area is about to become a very major crime scene.” This is what he's thinking about.
“Yes. I imagine it might … what with the skull and now what looks like a secret message sealed inside a plastic bag….”
“I anticipate an influx of forensic personnel from the County and State Police. Possibly the FBI.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. They'll be interested in this, that's for sure. The FBI.”
“We might be better able to perform our tasks if you were to vacate this area and return to your fishing vessel.”
“I see. Yes. Of course. You're right. Besides, I have my morning charter. Mustn't keep them waiting. They paid in advance, you know. Cash. Let me grab Bill's metal detector….”
Ceepak holds up his hand.
“Let's leave it here. We might have further use for a CZ-20.”
“Oh. Okay. But what'll I tell Bill?”
“That I will bring him his metal detector. Possibly this evening. I'm sure he'll understand. We'll also want to talk to you again.”
“Me?”
“We'll need to take a more formal statement.”
“Yes. I see. Very good, Johnny. Of course. I'll be back at the dock by noon and I don't think I head out again until two … unless of course there's walk-in traffic … sometimes I get walk-ins … no reservations….”
“We might not get to you today, Pete.”
“No. Doesn't have to be. Not today. No, sir. Whatever's good for you, Johnny. I'm flexible. Schedule's wide open….”
“Thank you. We appreciate your assistance and cooperation.”
“See you later, Pete,” I say.
“Yes. Of course. See you later, Danny.”
The guy won't leave. He leans over, takes another peek into the hole.
“Pete?” Ceepak is losing his patience, but not his court
esy. Not yet.
“Right. See you later. When you come to take my statement. We'll talk then. Should I jot down some notes? Just to make certain I remember everything? While it's still fresh. Are notes allowed?”
“Good idea. Write everything down. Do it now. And please-for the time being, do not tell anyone else what you discovered. Not even your wife or sons.”
“Of course not. Won't breathe a word. Sorry to have … you know … ruined your day.”
“We'll be fine, Pete.”
Pete does a quick sign-of-the-cross. Head, heart, chest, chest. Turns. Walks away.
Ceepak waits until he is absolutely certain Pete has crested the dune and is on his way down to the street.
“Danny? Camera.”
I hand him the digital.
Ceepak snaps a half-dozen shots of the plastic bag resting at the bottom of the bowl.
“I am now going to remove the bag from the bowl.”
I just nod. Ceepak sounds like he's narrating brain surgery for the first-year students up in the cheap seats of one of those operating rooms they always have on doctor shows.
He pulls out tweezers from another pants pocket.
“Inspecting first item. Typewritten note on 3-by-5 ruled index card.”
He holds the note card with his tweezers in one hand, fishes out his magnifying glass.
“Message appears to have been typed on an IBM Selectric. Pica 10 Pitch font.”
“What's it say?”
“We start with a name. Centered and underlined: ‘Delilah.’
Delilah. Samson's girlfriend. The hairstylist.
“Another name from the Bible,” I say.
“10-4. Beneath the name is recorded a date: ‘Tuesday. 8-1-79.’”
The creep marked down the harvest date-just like some people do on freezer bags full of summer corn.
“Under the date there is a typed quote. It too appears biblical in nature: ‘Thus will I make thy lewdness to cease.’”
I figure it's the “thus” and “thy” that peg it as coming from Scripture.
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