The chief nods agreement. “Understandable. He's going after runaways. Maybe hookers. His vics are society's losers and leeches.”
Ceepak grimaces.
I figure he's seeing Antwoine James's face again. The poor black kid who got blown up over in Iraq and nobody back home seemed to give a damn. The kid who was somehow less dead because he was one of civilized society's so-called losers and leeches.
Ceepak narrows his eyes. He's not happy. When he speaks again, it's in that tone he uses when he's pissed. “Our killer clings rigidly to religious doctrine as spelled out by Ezekiel in the Old Testament. I further suspect he is familiar with, or was at one time a member of, Reverend Billy Trumble's congregation. It appears that the majority of our victims passed through the boardwalk ministry and the community it feeds.”
“So you think Reverend Trumble knows who did this?” asks the chief.
“I believe he and the killer may have met. That's all I can surmise at this juncture.”
The chief checks the time.
“Okay. It's two forty-five. Ceepak, you and Boyle talk to Trumble. Santucci?”
“Sir?”
“You and Malloy scour the island, find the girl in the picture.”
“We're on it, sir.”
“May I ask a question?” says Ceepak.
The chief checks his watch to see if it's changed any since he checked it ten seconds ago.
“What?”
“The penultimate hole,” says Ceepak. “The one before this, the clues that led you here. Who was the victim? What was the date?”
The chief shoots a look to Santucci.
“Girl named Orpah,” Santucci says reluctantly. “You know like Oprah, only spelled wrong.”
“Actually,” says Ceepak, “Oprah's name is the misspelled one. Orpah is a biblical character who….”
“Save it for Sunday School! We've got work to do.”
“What was the date?”
“July. 1992.”
“Interesting,” says Ceepak. “The killer has been dormant for a full fifteen years.”
“Well, he's awake now,” says the chief. “That's why we're in a hurry. There's not a minute to waste.”
“He's got his next girl all picked out,” adds Malloy. “From the look of things, I figure she's a prostitute from down in Atlantic City bringing her act up here, you know what I mean?”
“No,” says Ceepak. “May I see the photograph?”
Baines looks at Santucci, who reluctantly pulls something from his back pocket.
The suspense is killing me.
What Ceepak takes from Dom isn't a Polaroid, like all the other photographs we found in all the other holes. It's a folded sheet of regular typing paper.
“Computer printout,” says Ceepak.
“Yeah. I guess,” says Santucci. “Probably. Off a printer.”
Ceepak nods. “Inkjet, not laser. We need to check all local office supply stores. Track residents and visitors who may have purchased color ink cartridges. We should also ask if anyone has special-ordered ribbons for an antiquated IBM Selectric typewriter. I'm assuming the index card found in this hole had typography similar to that found on….”
“John?” The chief rolls his eyes. “We don't have time for any of that.”
“Understood.” Ceepak stares at the photo. “He's definitely gone digital. He's using a camera with an impressive zoom ratio.”
The chief cuts him off. “And guess what? We also don't have time to go see who bought digital cameras at Best Buy and Circuit City!”
“Agreed.”
Ceepak studies the photo of the killer's next intended victim. The Bride of Ezekiel. How can this be happening in Sea Haven? The big event this week was supposed to be the Sand Castle Competition, not the beheading of a beach babe.
Now he hands the paper to me.
It's a snapshot of a girl hitchhiking near the causeway bridge.
Stacey.
The redhead who recently dyed her hair green.
It's a good thing the photographer didn't zoom out, didn't capture more of the scene.
My Jeep might be in the picture.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Santucci, Malloy, and the chief take off.
They're heading back to headquarters to work up anything they can on the redhead. See if she's on file in Atlantic City. Check with the State Police over in Trenton. See if Stacey is a “person of interest” to them, as Malloy so eloquently assumed when he called her a hooker. At the same time, they need to call in every off-duty cop on the SHPD roster and start a hard target search-the beach, the boardwalk, the motels, the works.
I'm left wondering if Stacey is her real name. Maybe that's just what she tells suckers like me who can't stop staring at her cleavage when she climbs into their cars.
“I'll drive,” says Ceepak.
I have a feeling we're going to fly down to The Sonny Days Inn for our second interrogation of Reverend Billy, like avenging angels flapping wings at warp speed. Ceepak clutches the steering wheel with one hand, works the radio mike with the other.
“Helen?” he says to the dispatcher. “Please ask Officer Bright to go into the evidence room and examine the guest book from The Howland House Whaling Museum. Tell her we're looking for the following male names on the guest list: Billy Trumble. Ralph….”
He looks at me.
“Uh….”
I realize I don't know Ralph the bartender's last name. He's always just been “Hey, Ralph” or “Catch you later, Ralph,” so the only answer I can give is a shoulder shrug.
“Any and all Ralphs,” Ceepak says. “The one we're interested in works as a bartender at The Sand Bar….”
“Ralph. Bartender. Got it,” says Helen. “Who else?”
Ceepak lets go of the button, slides us into the center lane so we can do ninety instead of just eighty.
“Danny? That surgeon. Do you recall his name?”
I rattle around some brain cells. Knock some useless stuff, like the meaning of the “33” on a Rolling Rock beer bottle, off my mental shelf. Strain to remember. Oh, right. He gave me a business card!
“Teddy. Teddy Winston.”
Ceepak depresses the red button again. “Dr. Theodore Winston.”
“Theodore Winston. Got it. Keep going.”
“10-4. Gus Davis.”
“Gus?”
“Right.”
“Our Gus?”
“Yes, Helen.”
“He likes whales?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, I know he likes to fish … never knew he was into whales.”
