We pass the cardboard displays for Party Poppers and Pinwheels.
We squeeze through a maze of circular clothes racks jammed with Sea Haven sweatshirts, most of which have the same SH logo silk-screened on the front. It's like we're telling the rest of the world to be quiet.
“There it is.” Ceepak uses his Maglite flashlight like a laser pointer. “Next to the snow globes.”
I see it, too.
Another small jar. Glass with a metal screw-on lid.
It's on the top shelf. On either side of it are dozens of “snow” globes all depicting the same diorama: an open pirate chest, a skull, and two palm trees stranded on a plastic desert island. If you grab one and give it a good shake, the water becomes filled with a swirling flurry of gold sparkle flakes and the skull's jawbone yaps up and down. I know this because The Treasure Chest has been selling their signature Pirate Globe to boys like me for nearly twenty years.
“Danny? Focus.”
Ceepak can usually tell when my mind is drifting off to someplace other than where it should be.
“Take a picture before I spray the jar.”
“Right.”
I power up the Canon and press off a few images. The one with the flash is a mistake: the jar's glass reflects back and my picture looks like a big white blob. I trash that one. Check the others.
“We're good.”
“Zoom in tight. Use the macro lens.”
“Okay.”
I do. I also make the mistake of checking out the viewfinder as the lens pushes in.
First I see a pinkish triangle suspended in somewhat murky fluid. As the image becomes sharper, I know it's a nose. I can see the two smooth nostrils devoid of any nasal hair. A strand of flesh flops out of one naked hole and just hangs there. Poor girl. I know for certain it belonged to a girl because it's one of those cute buttons of a nose-the kind that would look ridiculously out of place on any guy unless he was a pixie.
“Note the cut marks. Along the edges,” says Ceepak.
I do. I also take another picture-close along the sides of the nose. I sidle around to frame up a reverse angle. I've never been behind the inside of a nose before. I hope I never am again.
“Very clean incisions,” says Ceepak. “Whoever did this was quite skillful, their blade quite sharp.”
“You think they did this with a knife?”
“Or a scalpel,” says Ceepak. “Perhaps a razor-although that would present a problem once they reached the cartilage-the tough elastic tissue connecting the flesh of the nose to the nasal bone of the skull. One would need a saw of some sort to cut through that.”
I feel all those free crackers from the Morgan's basket creeping up my windpipe to protest.
“Photograph the label,” he says.
“Right.”
I move a step to the left and zoom in again.
MIRIAM. 1980.
“Odd name,” says Ceepak.
“Even for 1980?” I ask-making the ’80s sound like prehistoric times, which, to me, they are. That's when Springsteen used to wear a sweatband on his head and people drank Crystal Light while they did aerobics with the blonde from Dynasty named Krystle, who also wore a sweatband. Lot of sweatbands back then. Sweatbands and break dancing. I've seen history books.
“I don't believe Miriam has ever been one of the most popular names for girls in America, except, of course, in Jewish families.” Ceepak now produces a spray can. “This is ninhydrin,” he says. “A chemical substance that reveals latent fingerprints in porous surfaces such as paper.”
He aims the spray nozzle toward the paper label affixed to the jar and spritzes it.
I snap my head back. “Oh, man.” It stinks.
Ceepak starts fanning his hand near the jar. “It's best to do this in a well-ventilated area….”
Now he tells me. I think they shut down the A/C inside The Treasure Chest when they lock the front door. The air in aisle four isn't ventilating at all except for Ceepak fanning it in my face. It smells like the Turnpike up near Rahway.
“We need to wait for the ninhydrin to dry,” he says. “I wish I had my steam iron….”
I cough. “Maybe they sell them here.”
“Doubtful.”
“I could go look….”
Ceepak stops fanning the fumes. “No need. Whoever placed the jar on this shelf was most likely wearing gloves.”
“We need those security cameras,” I say. “If they were real … if they were working….”
“Indeed. An individual wearing gloves, if only for a moment, would certainly stand out in a sea of summertime shoppers.”
“Yeah.”
The smell of the stink-spray is still strong. I'm thinking about heading over to the next aisle where I see scented candles sculpted in the shape of pink flamingoes.
“Two ears. One nose,” says Ceepak. “Why? Why isn't this another ear?”
“Maybe he got bored with ears. Maybe we're dealing with two different killers.”
“Who both store their trophies in labeled jars of formaldehyde? Doubtful, my friend. Doubtful.”
“Okay, so what's next?”
“I'll examine this evidence more closely this evening. Put it under my microscope. Discuss this new development with the chief. He'll undoubtedly initiate calls to the press. Ask them to sit on the story. He'll likewise ask the Pepper family to do the same thing….”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Get a good night's rest. First thing tomorrow morning, we need to go talk to the Reverend Billy Trumble.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I drop Ceepak off at headquarters.
He has a little high-school chemistry lab set up on the second floor. The chief arranged for it after Ceepak saved his butt on the Mad Mouse case. It's not a huge deal, but he's got a microscope plus a computer that can do automated fingerprint searches or match tire tracks to a database of known tread patterns. He even has this program called SLIP for “Shoewear Linking and Identification Program.” He's all geared up for the first season of CSI: Sea Haven if, you know, CBS decides to do that instead of, say, CSI: Des Moines.
I head back over to Ocean Avenue. When I cruise past The Treasure Chest and The Bagel Lagoon, I check my rearview mirror and see Rita coming down the staircase from Ceepak's apartment with Barkley the dog. It's a slow go. Barkley needs to contemplate each step before taking it.
By my watch, it's nine forty-five P.M. I figure Aubrey Hamilton might still be waiting for me over at The Sand Bar. I figure this because I forgot to let her know I wasn't coming at nine-thirty as planned.
Oops.
I hang a right and head back to the bay side of the island. I know I'm supposed to head home and get a good night's sleep, but I need a beer. Something to wash the stink of Ceepak's fingerprint spray out of my nostrils. Something to wipe the image of Miriam's severed nose out of my memory bank.
She's gone.
Long gone, according to Ralph the bartender.
“She's the blonde with the long legs, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Always dresses in white, to show off her tan?”
“Yeah. That's Aubrey.”
“She's a tramp, my man.” He stares at an empty stool two down from mine at the bar. “Had most of the buttons undone on her blouse … everything all hanging out.”
“Unh-hunh….”
“Keep away from that one. Skanks like her are nothin’ but trouble. Trust me. You want a beer?”
No, I want somebody to put me out of my misery. But a beer will have to do.
“Yeah. A Bud would be great. Thanks.”
Ralph plops a cold longneck down in front of me.
“Oh, shit,” he says. “Dorkface.”
He sees somebody I don't.
“Why does this fucking asshole have to come into my bar every night?”
I turn around. It's Princeton. The fiftysomething tourist who was heading off to Smuggler's Cove last night with my sweet little hitchhiker.