“She had bangs that parted in the center and brushed across her eyebrows. Came to the beach in a polka- dot bikini.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got all that from this?” He points at the naked skull and empty plastic container
“No, sir.”
It's time to show the chief the first Polaroid.
The Before shot.
“That her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. I see. Attractive girl. That's how you knew about the hairdo and bikini.”
“Yes, sir. This is her as well.” Ceepak flips the Chief the second shot.
The After.
“Aw, Jesus, Ceepak.”
I hope the Chief doesn't puke. His shirt with the cuff links looks pretty expensive. Be a shame to stain it with regurgitated orange juice and waffles or whatever he had for breakfast.
The After shot shows Esther with her head halfway sawed off. It's heavy, so it droops to one side. You can see fleshy tubes worming their way through her neck meat. You can also see the buckets of blood that gushed out of her carotid artery and poured down her chest, making her bikini top lose its pink polka dots and go jet black. You can see the cardboard sign the killer hung around the sawed-off stub of guts that used to be a pretty girl's neck: WHORE.
At least she still has her ears and nose. The killer must've chopped those off later. Ceepak found more cut marks on either side of her skull and up near the nasal bone. He said the cuts were more precise than those detected on the first four skulls. Less nicking and chipping of bone matter.
The chief burps. Puts a fist to his sternum. Burps again. Now he smoothes out his shirt.
“Very dramatic, John. Nice. You almost made me hurl.”
“Not my intention, sir.”
The chief puts his hands on his hips.
“No? Okay, tell me-what exactly is it you want?”
“To call in the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Baines shakes his head. “No. I will not jeopardize every business on this island in a misguided quest to solve an ancient mystery.”
“At least let us keep following this trail until we find its end.”
Ceepak now shows the chief the two maps we found in Hole Number Five's baggie.
“Roger that. One is a Resort Map. The streets and main tourist attractions in Sea Haven circa 1981.”
“That's when The Sand Bar was still called Poppa John Dory's,” I say, pointing to the intersection where it's situated today. A cartoon of a green fish holding a mug of beer and smoking an ash-tipped cigar indicates the old nightclub in the same location. When Ceepak and I work a case, I'm typically the one in charge of Sea Haven Watering Hole History.
“For whatever reason, for his next kill, our perpetrator was already planning on relocating his burial ground.” Ceepak taps a red-circled area on the Resort Map, down near the southern tip of the island.
“There's nothing but houses down there,” Baines says. “Expensive homes. Private beaches.”
“Not back then,” I say. “That's all new development. Beach Crest Heights didn't go in until 1990- something.”
Beach Crest Heights is the gold coast of our barrier island. The streets are paved with moola and named after the ones in Beverly Hills. We have our own Rodeo Drive.
The chief frowns. “So you want to go down to Beach Crest and dig up backyards? You want to rip out the gardens of this town's richest citizens?”
“Just this one,” says Ceepak. He shows the chief the second map. It's hand-drawn, with a spot marked by an X. If I have my bearings correct, the X would be on the beach just off a street now named Palm Drive.
Our fearless leader sighs.
“Okay, Ceepak. Tell me why this can't wait until sometime in October?”
“The ears and nose.”
“Excuse me?”
“The jars we found, sir. The killer is putting his trophies on display to taunt us. To let us know he's restless and ready to strike again. Are you familiar with the BTK serial killer in Kansas City?”
“Of course.”
Even I know this one. They called him BTK because he used to Bind, Torture, then Kill his victims. He teased the police. Sent them letters. His crimes, mostly committed in the 1970s, remained unsolved for nearly three decades.
“BTK kept silent for twenty-five years, sir,” Ceepak says. “The police assumed he had died or disappeared. Maybe he had just burned out. Then something snapped. He sent the police a new piece of evidence. He couldn't resist the urge to reclaim the limelight. I believe we are currently facing a similar situation with Ezekiel.”
The chief looks confused. “Ezekiel?”
“It is the handle I have given the Sea Haven Serial Killer,” Ceepak explains.
“On account of the Bible quote,” I chip in. “It comes from Ezekiel.”
The chief stares at me. Probably wonders when I all of a sudden became a Scripture scholar.
“I believe,” says Ceepak, “that, by placing his cherished souvenirs where we were absolutely certain to find them, our killer is sending us a signal. I fear Ezekiel is poised to strike again.”
The chief stares at the two maps. I can see he's working his jaw, trying to find some moisture for his mouth.
“In fact,” Ceepak continues, “it is quite common for serial killers to go through a period of depression and dormancy then….”
There's a rustle of fabric. The tarp separating us from the Sand Castle site flaps open. It's Santucci.
“Chief?” he says, his voice sounding shaky. “One of the bulldozers over here, one of 'em just dug something up….”
“What is it, sergeant?” the chief snaps.
Santucci sort of points at Ceepak.
“Another of Ceepak's goddamn skulls.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mary Guarneri.
The girl who once wore a charm bracelet with a tiny church dangling off it. The girl who went to the World's Fair in New Orleans with her mother. The girl who ran away from Erie, Pennsylvania, then changed her name to Ruth when the Reverend Billy Trumble dunked her in the ocean and washed away all her sins.
That's whose head it looks like the backhoe just dug up.
“Her name was Ruth,” Santucci says. “Says so right here on the Polaroid. See? He wrote the name. ‘Ruth.’”
“It's Mary Guarneri,” Ceepak says softly.
“Sorry, Sherlock. You're wrong.”
Santucci waggles one of the photographs he and Malloy found in the bottom of another plastic salad bowl. I can see the picture over Ceepak's shoulder.
It's the After shot.
I recognize Mary's face from the side of that milk carton Cap'n Pete dug up. Only in the Polaroid there's no smile and her whole head is tilted to one side, like it toppled off the neck. The head is barely attached to the rest
