She shakes her head. Lifts up an arm. Points down the hall.
“What is it? Was something stolen?”
Another head shake.
“Take it slow. Tell us what happened.”
She swallows. Nods. “I came by during the thunderstorm. Figured I might as well lock up early today. When I got here, I found a family inside, waiting for the rain to let up. The mother started screaming at me. ‘How dare you!’ she said. ‘How dare you put something like that on display in a museum?’ Her youngest, a little girl-oh, she was bawling her eyes out. Something had scared her, that's for sure.”
“What was it?”
She shakes her head. It's so atrocious, she can't even tell us. So, once again, she points up the hall. Her arm trembles.
“The Scrimshaw Room.” She chokes out the words.”Bookcase. Top shelf. Two jars.”
“Jars?”
Norma nods. Breathes in deep.
“Plastic jars with screw-on lids. Small.” She curls her knotted fingers to make a tiny fist.
“Okay, Norma. You stay here. My partner and I will investigate….”
Her hands fly up to her chest again. If she doesn't have a heart attack, she might give me one.
“Danny?” Ceepak says. “Secure the front door. Use your evidence gloves.”
I put on these lint-free gloves Ceepak insists I always carry so I won't contaminate potential evidence, such as fingerprints on a doorknob. Ceepak pulls on a pair, too.
I close the front door.
“We'll be right back, Norma,” says Ceepak.
We head up the carpeted hallway.
We reach the door to the Scrimshaw Room and Ceepak does this series of hand signals to indicate how we will enter.
He'll lead. I'll follow.
The room looks like it always looks. Dark bookcases. Overstuffed furniture. Framed oil painting of men in a boat harpooning a gigantic whale on one wall, carved figurehead of an Indian lady in a red headdress on another.
We see them at the same time.
On the top shelf of the bookcase on the far side of the room.
Two small jars filled with clear liquid and something else-something pinkish and blobby with stringy bits floating in the fluid. It could be somebody's jellyfish collection or one of those pig fetuses in formaldehyde they give you to dissect in junior high biology class. There's writing on both jars. Labels. We move closer.
Ceepak sucks in a deep chestful of oxygen.
“They're ears,” he says. “Severed human ears.”
I feel the sausage-and-pepper sandwich I had for lunch move an inch up my esophagus. I choke it back down and lean in for a closer look.
The label on one jar reads: RUTH. SUMMER. 1985.
The other jar doesn't have a name, just a date: SUMMER. 1983.
No name because it doesn't need one.
The ear lobe suspended in the specimen jar has an earring stuck through its pale flesh. It spells out a girl's name in sparkly letters.
“Lisa,” Ceepak whispers.
I guess he's thinking what I'm thinking: Lisa DeFranco might've lost more than a class ring that summer she visited Sea Haven.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ceepak called Rita on her cell phone.
She swung by the museum and gave Norma a ride to the restaurant. Norma isn't supposed to be working the door there tonight, but she agreed with Ceepak and Rita: after all she'd seen today, better not to be home alone. Besides, Morgan's has a fully stocked bar and Norma could use a hot toddy or two, heavy on the rum.
“Be sure you lock up, Officer Ceepak,” Norma called out as she and Rita drove away.
“Will do,” Ceepak said. I think one day he may find himself an honorary Daughter of the Sea.
“Danny? We need to investigate this crime scene.”
“Right.”
I knew that's what we'd be doing as soon as Norma was safe, secure, and gone. Ceepak loves a good Crime Scene Investigation- on the job or off. When he isn't working, he's usually at home watching all twenty different versions of
We've already radioed in and alerted the house as to what we found. Chief Baines agreed with Ceepak: we should gather what evidence we can and bring it in for further analysis. I suspect Chief Baines is most interested in removing the specimen jars from public view. Floating body parts are not the kind of attractions you want on display when you're running a resort town big on family fun in the sun. Pickled ears belong in a sideshow up in Seaside Heights, in the freak show tent with the bearded lady and the fire-eater-who, I think, are married to each other.
Ceepak uses his forceps to remove the jars from the bookcase and place them in the evidence bag.
“Doubtful that we'll find any fingerprints on either jar,” he says while placing them gingerly into the sack. “But it remains a remote possibility, and therefore, we must treat the evidence accordingly.”
“Right,” I say, and experience another acid reflux episode as I watch the ears slosh around in slow motion.
“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
“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
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
