Whack A Mole jc-3

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Not necessary, Sergeant. As I stated, situation is secure. The woman with Mr. Connor is his mother. I believe this is her establishment.”

  “That's right, pal!” she yells loud enough for Santucci to hear without needing his radio. “My lawyers are gonna sue your ass six ways to Sunday, you fucking putz!”

  Ceepak grins. Puts the radio to his mouth.

  “At some point, Dom, I'm certain Mrs. Connor would indeed like to talk to you and the chief about the damages done to her perishable goods and store fixtures.”

  “Tell her to wait,” says Santucci. “We're busy out here. Traffic. Crowd control.”

  “Roger that.”

  Ceepak clips the mike back to his shoulder and we move forward. Ralph and his mom were hiding in the prep area where they gut the catch of the day.

  The floor is covered with those honeycombed rubber tiles that are easy to hose down. Behind Mrs. Connor, I see a big cutting board sitting atop a stainless-steel counter. The chopping block looks like it used to be white but now it's stained a permanent pink with decades of fish blood. On the cinderblock wall near to the slop sink, I see a rack full of knives. About six, all different lengths, shapes, and sizes. Filleting knives, curved boning knives. There's a sharpening rod hanging up there, too-so I know the blades are wicked sharp. A rusty hacksaw hangs off a hook near the knife rack.

  Hmmm.

  Every serious fisherman probably has the same sort of tools stowed on his boat-especially a guy like Gus Davis who loves to catch and clean his dinner every day. You don't think of this gear as dangerous when you think of a guy heading out to fish the day away. Fishing's a peaceful sport.

  But now, when I close my eyes, all I can see is one those hacksaws working its way through a neck bone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  It's nearly nine P.M. by the time we pull into a parking space in front of Santa's Sea Shanty on Ocean Avenue at Locust Street.

  “What about Gus?” I ask again.

  I shared my fisherman theory with Ceepak back at Mama Shucker's but he insisted we come see Santa Claus first. Me? I'm not in what you might call a festive holiday mood.

  “It's gotta be Gus!”

  “I don't think so,” says Ceepak.

  “Okay. If not Gus, who?”

  “That's what I hope Ms. Byrne will help us determine.”

  “What if she tells us that Gus used to hang out at Life Under the Son?”

  “Seems highly doubtful.”

  “But if he did, then can we arrest him?”

  “He'll certainly warrant further attention. However, at this point, although I find your theory sound, I do not think Gus Davis is our man. I doubt he would have had the time or temperament to become a member of a youth-oriented church group operating out of a converted motel.”

  Ceepak is probably right. Gus would rather be fishing. Says so on the bumper of his car. But what if he was fishing for victims? Trolling? That's the term Ceepak used when talking about serial killers and how they hunt down their victims.

  “Let's roll, Danny,” says Ceepak. “We don't have much time.”

  I nod and open my door. He's right. The sun is long gone. There's only three hours left to July 17.

  The twinkle lights that illuminate Santa's Sea Shanty are still sparkling bright. Must be a billion tiny bulbs in the fake evergreen garlands wrapped around the building and buried in the even faker fiberglass snow banks surrounding the window display's miniature Victorian Village. Santa is still on duty.

  We open the door. Sleigh bells ring. Of course.

  “May I help you officers?” asks a chubby lady in reading glasses behind the cash register. She's got the apple cheeks. The button nose. Put a little bun in her hair bubble and she could be Mrs. Claus.

  “I was just closing up. Is there some problem?”

  “Are you Ms. Sarah Byrne?”

  “That's right. Have we met?”

  “No, ma'am. I don't believe so. I'm John Ceepak. Rita Lapczynski is a friend of mine.”

  “Is that so? How is Rita?” She smiles. “Is she still working over at Morgan's? Haven't been by there in ages. Store keeps me busy. It's Christmas three hundred and sixty-five days a year in here.”

  Ceepak moves closer to the counter. He's so tall his head scrapes against the plastic mistletoe suspended from the ceiling.

  “Ms. Byrne,” he says gently, “we need to ask you some questions about the time you spent at Reverend Trumble's mission. We need to know about Life Under the Son.”

  She looks up at Ceepak. The sugarplum twinkle is gone from her eyes.

  “Rita told you?” she says. She looks surprised.

  “Only because you might be able to help us in a matter of utmost urgency.”

  “I see.”

  “Ms. Byrne,” says Ceepak, “lives are at stake.”

  She probably heard him but doesn't act like it. Instead, she fiddles with the felt hat on top of a papier-maché caroler's head.

  “I assure you, Ms. Byrne, anything you tell us will be held in the strictest confidence.”

  She finally looks up. Stares into Ceepak's eyes. Sees what she needs to see. Then she looks at me.

  “Young man? Could you kindly lock the front door?”

  “Sure.”

  I throw the deadbolt. Flip over the CLOSED-FEEDING THE REINDEER sign.

  Ms. Byrne moves out from behind the cash register to stand near an aluminum tree loaded down with seashells and sequined tropical fish.

  “What do you gentlemen need to know?”

  “You joined the community run by the Life Under the Son ministry?”

  “Yes. I had run away from home. My stepfather….”

  She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. Ceepak only wants information that's pertinent to our investigation.

  “This was in the 1980s?” he asks.

  “That's right. 1985.”

  “Did Reverend Trumble baptize you?”

  “Yes. We walked out to where the waves break. He dunked me under; I swallowed a mouthful of saltwater. When I came up I was Joanna-a biblical name that means God is gracious. Reverend Billy chose it for me.”

  “How long did you room at his mission?”

  “I was there through September. Until I miscarried.”

  Ceepak nods solemnly. “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Rita told you about that as well, I take it?”

  “We needed to know.”

  “I see.” She looks lost. Lost to us, at any rate. I figure she's thinking about the past.

  We wait patiently.

  Even though we're in a huge hurry.

  The clock is ticking, but Ceepak's giving her all the time she needs. I just hope she doesn't need too much more.

  Finally, the respectful silence is broken when Ms. Byrne clears her throat and says, “But how is it I can help you, Officers? I'm sure Rita must have thought I could or she wouldn't have sent you over here, would she?”

  Ceepak reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a copy of the missing-person milk carton photo Cap'n Pete found buried in the sand.

  “You say you were at the mission in 1985?”

  “That's right.”

  “Do you remember this girl?”

  He hands her the picture. She adjusts her glasses.

  “Yes. She was my friend. Her name was Mary. Mary … something. Italian. Rhymed with Mary….”

  “Guarneri?”

  “Yes. Mary Guarneri. That's it. We shared a room at the motel.”

  “She was also a runaway,” says Ceepak.

  “That's right. Her mother didn't like the boys she'd been fooling around with back home in Pennsylvania. So, she came down here to fool around with ours.”

  “Was she pregnant?”

  “No. Merely promiscuous. She had no intention of ‘washing away her sins,’ as Reverend Billy liked to say. She just needed the free room and board.”

  “Do you remember what happened to Mary?”

  “Not really. I know she pretended to be
baptized.”

  “Pretended?”

  “She played along. Said all the right words. Before you could be born again, you had to stand up in front of everybody, the whole congregation, and confess your sins. Reverend Trumble always insisted that we be very specific. I think he liked hearing the intimate details.”

  Ceepak nods.

  “Well, let me tell you, gentlemen-Miss Mary Guarneri did not disappoint. No, sir. She regaled us all with lurid tales of wild sex on the beach, in the back seat of Buicks, under the boardwalk. I don't know how much she made up, how much was true, but the day after her X-rated admissions, Reverend Billy dragged her out into the ocean, dunked her under a breaker, and Mary became Ruth.”

  “Do you remember when she was baptized?”

  “Not really. Sometime in July. Before my miscarriage.”

  “And she remained at the mission?”

  “For a while. She put on quite a show. Even took to acting like the true believers. The zombies. She called herself Ruth. Called everybody else brother and sister. Sent out the postcards like Reverend Billy told her to. Even sent one to her mother and pretended to make amends.”

  “Do you know what happened to Mary a.k.a. Ruth?”

  “No. Mary, or Ruth, simply disappeared. It was hot and muggy here that summer. Awful. There was no air conditioning at the motel in those days. I always assumed she ran away to someplace cooler. Maybe up to Canada.” She stares at the milk carton panel. “Was someone searching for her?”

  Ceepak nods. “Her mother.”

  “Did she find her?”

  “No, ma'am. Mary Guarneri never came home.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that.”

  “Do you remember any of the young men who might have been at the mission that same summer?”

  “No. Not really. The boys drifted in and out. Not many took rooms. They came for the food, a hot shower, and, if you ask me, to meet girls who had already proven themselves to be … readily available.”

  My turn to butt in: “Were any of those guys police officers?”

  “Police?”

  Ceepak tries to clear things up: “Ms. Byrne, did you know Sergeant Gus Davis when he was with the SHPD?”

  “Sure.” She smiles for the first time since we strolled through her door. “Everybody knows Gus. He stops in here all the time. Buys every fishing Santa I stock. Gus loves Christmas. Under that gruff exterior, I suspect he's a sentimental softy.”

  “Do you remember seeing Gus at Life Under the Son during the summer of 1985?”

  “Gus? No. Never.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I can be, I suppose. It was such a long time ago. I've tried to move forward and forget all that.”

  “Are you sure he wasn't there?” I ask.

  “I'm sorry. I wish I could be of more help. But I simply don't recall many details.” She turns to Ceepak. “Perhaps you should talk to Pete.”

  “Pete?”

  “Peter Paul Mullen,” says Ms. Byrne. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, ma'am. Captain Pete.”

  “That's right. Well, back then, before he was married, he was one of those young men I was telling you about. His mother wouldn't let him go out on dates. So Pete was a good boy and spent his weekends with the boardwalk ministry. He never did anything, mind you. Never hit on anybody. Never even flirted. I remember he always hung out in the back. Kept quiet, kept to himself….”

  Ceepak turns to me.

  “Danny, it seems your theory may be correct.”

  Yeah.

  I just had the wrong fisherman.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  We're hauling ass up Ocean Avenue.

  Ceepak is tapping on the Mobile Data Terminal keyboard, looking up Peter Paul Mullen's home address, running a search through state and national crime databases for anything they have.

  “He lives up north. 14th Street in Cedar City.”

  That's like seven miles away.

  “Let's swing by his dock first,” Ceepak decides.

  That's two blocks up Ocean, three over to the bay.

  “Lights and siren?” I ask.

  “Negative. If he is there with the girl we don't want to spook him.”

  “Roger that,” I say and hang a sharp left on Gardenia Street.

  “Should we call for backup? Alert the chief?”

  Ceepak leans back in his seat. Checks his ammo again. I see him glance over to the rearview mirror. I know he's thinking about Santucci-back there at Mama Shucker's, directing traffic and steering rubberneckers away from the mess he made.

  “Negative,” he says.

  “Right,” I crack, “the chief might give Santucci fresh ammo.”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak.

  He isn't joking.

  At Ceepak's suggestion, I park at the corner of Gardenia and Bayside. We're about one hundred yards from Cap'n Pete's Pier. In the distance, I can see a string of carnival lights swinging in the breeze.

  Ceepak taps his chest. Points toward the darkened office.

  We're going in.

  I see the double-door ice machine. The picnic table. I figure I can use those for cover if this thing goes hot.

  Ceepak pulls out his pistol. I do the same. My palm is clammy, so I slip my gun back into the holster for a split second so I can dry my hand across the seat of my pants. Then I take it out again. Hold it with both hands. Hold it out in front of my face.

  Ceepak zigs and zags in a crouch across the parking lot. I do the same. He uses light poles and parked cars and a telephone booth to make certain we're not sitting ducks or fish in a barrel.

  I do the same.

  We reach the ice machine and he raises his right hand. We halt. He points down to something on the deck in front of the office door.

  It's Pete's stupid talking parrot.

  Somebody ripped it off its hook and tossed it to the ground. Looks like they stomped on it, too. There's a deep dent cracked into its bright yellow belly. I wonder if that annoying voice chip recorded something Cap'n Pete didn't want anybody else to hear. Maybe a girl's screams.

  “Looks like a possible 10–36,” Ceepak whispers.

  Vandalism.

  We now have probable cause to search the premises.

  Ceepak raises his pistol skyward. I keep mine aimed straight ahead. He'll do the door. I'll deal with whatever's on the other side once he swings clear.

  He nods. I nod back.

  His left hand twists the metal knob on the screen door. It's unlocked. Also rusty. He pulls it open. Slow. The door squeaks.

  Ceepak peers through the window at the top of door number two, the fiberglass storm behind the screen.

  “Clear,” he whispers. He tries the second door. “Unlocked.”

  You'd think you'd lock your doors if you were inside sawing someone's head off.

  “Going in.”

  Ceepak speaks in quiet, terse bursts. I nod. I know what I'm supposed to do: cover his ass. He is putting himself in the most vulnerable position, making himself the first target. My job is to shoot anybody who shoots at him.

  He raises his right leg. This door will be kicked open so he can keep his gun in front of his chest. He's done this before. Lots of times. They were always knocking down doors back in Baghdad. Busting up apartments doubling as bomb factories.

  He kicks.

  The cheap storm door nearly flies off its hinges. It swings open so fast it hits an interior wall and bounces right back. Ceepak kicks at it again, softer this time. Gives it more toe, less heel.

  “Clear!” he shouts.

  We storm into the front room.

  “Clear,” I shout back because I need to shout something.

  The room looks like it did when Cap'n Pete was showing us his shoebox full of treasures. No wonder the worst treasure hunter in Ceepak's club was finally able to actually find something: it was all stuff he had buried himself so he knew where to dig.

  Ceepak points to the curtained partition separat
ing the public space of the office from the private back room. The storage room. The room where, I've heard, Cap'n Pete keeps a cot for those late nights when he's been out on the continental shelf in his boat, fishing for blues, and doesn't return to dock until three or four in the morning. The same cot he probably slept on back in the ’80s, after those long nights of strenuous mutilation in the service of the Lord.

  Ceepak snags my attention.

  He's going into the back room.

  I'm aiming my Glock forward again.

  I nod.

  He nods.

  He takes in a deep breath, shoves the heavy blanket aside. It slides away like a wool shower curtain.

  We step into the darkness. The room has no windows. No lights. Our eyes adjust.

  When the shadows start to take on shapes that make sense, we see that the side walls are lined with industrial shelving. Metal racks with exposed nuts and bolts and diagonal slats like you'd use in your garage. The shelves are crammed with neatly arranged plastic storage bins stacked on top of each other. At the far wall, ten feet in front of us, I make out the shape of a small rollaway bed.

  Ceepak flicks on his Maglite, swings the flashlight beam over to the bed.

  Stacey is lying spread-eagled on the mattress. I can see her dyed hair but not her face.

  She is lying on her stomach.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  There are no sheets or blankets on the bed.

  Stacey's face is buried in the lumpy crevices of the stained mattress. Her arms and legs are anchored to the bedposts with plastic FlexiCuffs strapped around her ankles and wrists.

  Ceepak dashes over to her.

  I twist around, aim my pistol back at the curtain. I don't want Pete sneaking up behind us with his hacksaw.

  “She's been drugged,” says Ceepak. “I suspect trichloromethane. Chloroform.”

  I back up so I can keep one eye on the door, the other on Ceepak and the girl. When I bump against the shelf unit behind me, I hear the unmistakable rattle of glass jars.

  I think we've discovered the Cap'n's private museum. The place where he keeps his favorite trophies and souvenirs.

  Ceepak pulls out his Swiss Army knife and uses the scissor tool to snip through the four FlexiCuffs. Then, he gently rolls Stacey over. He wants to put her on her back, wants to check out her face.