The four female skulls already excavated sit in grocery bags over near Hole Number One. From a distance, it looks like Ceepak, me, and two extremely hungry lumberjacks brought huge sack lunches with us to work today.
About ten feet down from the brown bags, I see the recently erected FIRST ANNUAL SEA HAVEN SAND CASTLE KINGDOM banner snapping in the breeze near the entrance to a rolled-out rectangle of bright orange construction fencing. The banner's got half-moon wind vents cut into it, so it won't roll up on itself. Behind the fence, I see guys climbing aboard backhoes, finishing their coffee and rolls and Little Debbie Honey Buns.
“We need to wait for backup,” says Ceepak. “Lock down this primary area of interest. Set up a secure perimeter. We may need to seal off the Sand Castle site as well.”
I nod because I know we can't have tourists and backhoes traipsing all over what might be the east wing of Sea Haven's beach-front boneyard.
When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me it was a sin to walk across somebody's grave. Sacrilegious. You don't want to step on their souls, she'd say. Made me wonder how cemetery groundskeepers mowed their lawns if it's against the rules to walk on top of anybody's coffin.
Who knew that the unintentionally irreverent have been playing hacky-sack for years on top of our secret cemetery: Oak Beach.
“So far,” Ceepak says, “it seems the killer only struck in the summer.”
“Yeah.”
He rattles off the facts. “One victim in the summer of 1979. Two in the summer of 1980….”
“And one in 1981.”
“So far.”
“Yeah. So far.”
“He also seems to kill early in the week. Monday. Tuesday.”
I nod. “And he always uses the Friday newspaper.”
“Indeed. However, the
“Yeah.”
“Still, you make a cogent observation, Danny. In all instances, the killer waits three or more days before wrapping up the skull, sealing it inside the plastic storage container.”
“Yeah,” I say. “The kill date always comes before the paper date….”
“Precisely. The perpetrator also premeditates his next kill-at least where he plans on burying the next skull. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to put the maps in the bag with the note card. Each kill is a prequel to the next.”
I nod again, then restate the most obvious fact we've uncovered thus far: “He also cuts off their ears and noses.”
We examined all four skulls. There were cut marks.
Ceepak checks his watch.
“What's keeping Diego?”
He's eager to pinpoint the lewdness quote, hoping it might give us a clue as to the perp's twisted motivation.
Unfortunately, Denise wasn't home when Dispatch called. They finally tagged her on her cell. She was at the 7-Eleven picking up breakfast. Cool Ranch Doritos and a Diet Pepsi would be my guess.
“Hey, Danny Boy!”
I squint. Some guy smoking a cigarette is waving at me from the wooden plank walkway cutting through the dunes.
“Friend of yours?” asks Ceepak.
“I'm not sure,” I say, because I don't recognize him. He saunters over toward us, takes one last drag, flicks his butt in the sand.
“Sir?” Ceepak calls out. “Kindly retrieve your refuse.”
The guy stops. Seems surprised.
Ceepak points to where the man tossed his cigarette.
“Please deposit your trash in a proper receptacle.”
Now the guy shrugs, bends down, searches in the sand. He finds his cigarette butt and picks it up.
“Sorry, man.” He coughs, rolls the stubbed-out filter between his finger and thumb. Tucks it in his shorts. He shambles over toward us.
It's Ralph. The angry bartender. I didn't recognize him at first because I've never seen the guy in direct sunlight-just under dim neons in the dark bar. He's also wearing a Phillies baseball cap pulled down tight to shade his bleary eyes.
“Hey, Ralph,” I say. “You're up early.”
“Yeah.” He hacks to clear out his lungs a little. “Excuse me. Think I'm catching a summer cold.” He catches sight of our grocery sacks. “What's in the bags?”
I answer because I don't want Ceepak blurting out the truth.
“Stuff.”
“Police stuff?”
“Roger that,” I say, sounding
Ralph sticks a fresh smoke between his lips. But he doesn't light up. Something distracts him.
“Jesus, look at them, would ya,” he says, the cigarette bobbing up and down in the corner of his mouth. He motions toward a group of young girls giggling up the beach in their bikinis. I figure it's the first of many such trios that will strut their stuff on this particular stretch of sand today.
“Would you let your daughter dress that way in public?”
He shoots this one to Ceepak.
“I'm not married,” says Ceepak. “I have no children.”
“Yeah, well me neither, but fucking-a. Look at that. What are they? Fourteen? Fifteen? Why don't they just walk around naked?”
I have often asked myself the same question-but not in the same hypercritical tone Ralph's using. With me, it's more of a dream-cometrue type thing.
“What're you doing out of bed so early?” I ask Ralph, hoping to nudge him off his rant.
“It's Tuesday morning.”
“Unh-hunh.” I have no idea what he means.
“My last morning to wake up undisgusted. Tonight's Ladies’ Night. Means the so-called ladies will be packed in cheek to jowl, all boozed up on half-price drinks, throwing themselves at anything in pants. They ought to call it Whores’ Night.” He makes the word sound like the beer: “Hoors.”
I wonder once again why Ralph works a job he hates so much. Why he's so annoyed with the mating dance that plays out nightly on the other side of his beer-stained bar or why he's stuck with it for close to thirty years.
Ralph shakes his head as another group of tanned babes appears on the beach, their little navel rings flashing in the sun.
“Shit, remember when there wasn't even a beach here?”
“When was that?” asks Ceepak.
“In the early ’80s. It was deserted over this way. Then they put in the fucking jetties. Stopped the erosion. Built the beach back up. That's when the sluts returned, too.”
“Were you here then, sir?”
“Fucking-a. Stuck behind that goddamn bar. Every goddamn summer since 1977. Maybe I shoulda gone back to college….”
I hear sirens approaching. Our backup has finally arrived.
“What's going down?” Ralph asks, using the lingo he's heard on too many cop shows.
“Sand Castle Competition,” I say. “We're bringing in extra security. For the backhoes.”
“Fucking sand castles. Whose fucking idea was that? Means we'll be super fucking crowded tonight.” He mutters while he works his way through five paper matches that sputter out before he can light up. “Fucking
