around. Usually, I use it to remind me of stuff. You know-pick up bologna, buy a new toothbrush, question career choice. Stuff like that.
“So, what've we got?” I ask. “Diddly or squat?”
“We've got the ears, Danny. I suspect they have been preserved in formaldehyde or a similar embalming fluid. Their DNA signatures, therefore, remain intact and could help us identify the two girls.”
“Do you think the ‘Lisa’ is our Lisa? Lisa DeFranco?”
“It's certainly one possibility. We should contact the girl's mother.”
I can just imagine how delighted the wicked witch of the A amp;P is going to be to hear from us again.
“Even if she can't provide us with a sample of her daughter's DNA, we could test hers. There would be a definite familial pattern.”
“Are those ears even real? Maybe they're just, you know, made out of rubber like the ones you can buy for Halloween. George W. Bush ears or Spock ears….”
“I'm quite certain they're real. I also fear they may point to picquerism.”
I'm afraid to ask but I do: “What's that?”
“The act of mutilating a victim beyond what is necessary to kill her. It is a common trait among serial killers.”
“So all of a sudden there's a serial killer on the loose in Sea Haven?” I ask.
“We cannot yet call our perpetrator a serial killer, Danny.”
“Good.”
“The FBI defines a serial killer as someone who has killed at least three victims.”
Oh. I see. Two down, one to go.
“And whether he is on the loose, as you say, is questionable. We can surmise from the dates on the jars that these mutilations took place in the 1980s.”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “We don't even know if these two girls are dead. What if, I don't know, what if both Ruth and Lisa were caught up in some kind of big kidnapping scheme where the kidnapper sends an ear with his ransom demands to prove he means business.”
“Then the ears wouldn't be here, would they? They'd be wherever the kidnapper sent them. And, again, remember the dates written so meticulously on the jar labels: Summer 1983. Summer 1985. Two kidnappings, two years apart? Both involving severed ears as proof of life? Again, highly unlikely.”
He's right. I'm clutching at straws. Rehashing plots from DVDs I've rented.
Ceepak frowns. “I suspect that what we've discovered here is evidence of the sixth phase of the typical serial killer cycle. The totem or trophy stage: the taking and keeping of souvenirs. It's an essential act for the serial killer because the souvenirs create the link between his fantasies and the reality of what he has actually accomplished.”
“So,” I say, “the ears in the jar are his version of the snow globe you bring home to remind you of all the good times you had on vacation?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why's he getting rid of his souvenirs? I mean he's had them for, what? Over twenty years? Why's he all of a sudden donating his stuff to a whaling museum?”
“That, Danny, is the question we must strive to answer. The sooner the better.”
The way he says it, I know he thinks something bad is about to happen.
“Maybe we should check that visitors book in the now,” I suggest. “Maybe we can find the family that was in here during the thunderstorm. They might have seen somebody or something….”
Ceepak nods. “Good idea.”
Feeling like I'm on a roll, I come up with what I think is another good one. “But first-we should check that glass for prints.” I point to the bookcase, which is one of those old-fashioned oak jobs where every shelf has its own window to keep out the dust.
“No need,” says Ceepak. “Whoever dropped off the jars wore gloves. See here? And here?”
He points to two smudged sections. The only two clean spots on the otherwise grimy glass. Even though it's the middle of July, I don't think the Daughters of the Sea have gotten around to their spring cleaning. The two areas, about eighteen inches apart, were wiped clean when our guy pressed his gloved hands against the glass.
Ceepak re-pockets his gear. “Let's go check out that guest book.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We catch our first break.
Well, we actually catch two. First: the family that discovered the jars while they waited out the thunderstorm did, indeed, sign the guest book. Second: they were admirably thorough and filled in every detail requested: NAME(S), AGE(S), HOME ADDRESS, ADDRESS WHILE VISITING THE ISLAND.
Ceepak suggests we take the book with us.
“Not many visitors,” he remarks. “About two or three a day. However, given the apparent lack of basic housekeeping and the low level of museum security, there is no telling when those two jars were placed in the bookcase. We may eventually need to talk to every person listed in this register.”
So we pack up the green book, secure The Scrimshaw Room, lock up the museum, and head off to the Seahorse Motel to visit the Pepper Family of Okemos, Michigan. Warren, Brenda, and the kids: Heather (13), Warren Jr. (10), and Maddie (6). I figure Maddie was the one howling like a miniature banshee when she saw the ears bobbing up and down inside their little glass bottles. I don't blame her: I would have done the same thing.
• • •
The Seahorse is an L-shaped brick building with a neon-green sign jutting out from the wall facing Nutmeg Street. At night, the neon flashes through a series of poses turning the tubular seahorse into an underwater bucking bronco.
We walk past the rattling ice machine and head into the office. The nice girl watching TV behind the front desk tells us we're in luck: she just saw the Peppers heading for the pool, which is located around the back of the building.
We say thanks and head that way. The day is cooling off after the thunderstorm, but not the steamy air around the motel. As we walk around to the pool, we're blasted by hot exhaust from the ice machine, the Gatorade vending machine, the coin-operated dryer vent, and every dripping air conditioner we pass.
We round a corner and smell chlorine. I see three kids splashing in a cool blue rectangle about the size of a postage stamp. The parents are sitting in white plastic chairs on the pebbled concrete path lining the pool. The chairs are the kind they always have on sale at Wal-Mart and in the seasonal aisle at the grocery store.
The kids are playing Marco Polo, thrashing and splashing in their blind frenzy to find each other. The pool is, as I mentioned, tiny. Maybe ten feet wide by twelve feet long. It's an in-ground pool but the motel didn't have much ground left to put it in.
Mrs. Pepper sees our uniforms and nudges her husband.
“Warren? It's the police!”
Warren wakes up.
“Hmmm?”
He reaches for his sunglasses and knocks over a beer can snuggled in a foam Koozie.
One of the kids just did a cannonball into the pool. I know this because the seat of my shorts just got soaked.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pepper? I'm Officer John Ceepak of the Sea Haven Police Department. This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”
Ceepak pulls out his pad. “We'd like to ask you a few questions about what you saw at the Howland House Whaling Museum.”
