Ceepak looks solemn.
We're about thirty feet up from the high tide line, close to the sea grass and rolled-out fencing. Fortunately, we're so far up from the ocean, no kid ever thought about building his castle on this patch of sand.
“Danny? Hold open the bag.”
He clamps onto the skull with his forceps, gripping it snugly.
I hold open one of the brown paper grocery sacks we always keep stowed in the back of the Explorer. Ceepak says paper bags are better for evidence storage; they don't sweat like plastic. The bag boys at Acme let me take as many as I want. They even gave me a stack of those double-insulated ice cream bags you don't see too much anymore.
“Danny? Focus.”
Ceepak is tonging the cranium like I've seen Homer Simpson do with a rod of radioactive uranium. Only Ceepak is much more careful. When he lowers the skull into my bag, I wince to feel its weight.
Next he uses the forceps to lift out the sheet of newsprint. It's stained. I figure dried blood. Maybe worse.
I hold open another bag to take it from him. I'm sure it's loaded with clues. Maybe DNA.
“What's that?” says Cap'n Pete.
Taking out the newspaper revealed something shiny on the bottom of the Tupperware bowl.
“Plastic baggie. Fold-down top.” Ceepak's speech patterns get clipped when things get serious. “Note card inside. Typed message. Folded paper behind note card.”
Ceepak sinks back on his haunches. He's thinking.
Cap'n Pete crouches down for a closer look.
“Captain Pete?”
“Yes, Johnny?”
“This area is about to become a very major crime scene.” This is what he's thinking about.
“Yes. I imagine it might … what with the skull and now what looks like a secret message sealed inside a plastic bag….”
“I anticipate an influx of forensic personnel from the County and State Police. Possibly the FBI.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. They'll be interested in this, that's for sure. The FBI.”
“We might be better able to perform our tasks if you were to vacate this area and return to your fishing vessel.”
“I see. Yes. Of course. You're right. Besides, I have my morning charter. Mustn't keep them waiting. They paid in advance, you know. Cash. Let me grab Bill's metal detector….”
Ceepak holds up his hand.
“Let's leave it here. We might have further use for a CZ-20.”
“Oh. Okay. But what'll I tell Bill?”
“That I will bring him his metal detector. Possibly this evening. I'm sure he'll understand. We'll also want to talk to you again.”
“Me?”
“We'll need to take a more formal statement.”
“Yes. I see. Very good, Johnny. Of course. I'll be back at the dock by noon and I don't think I head out again until two … unless of course there's walk-in traffic … sometimes I get walk-ins … no reservations….”
“We might not get to you today, Pete.”
“No. Doesn't have to be. Not today. No, sir. Whatever's good for you, Johnny. I'm flexible. Schedule's wide open….”
“Thank you. We appreciate your assistance and cooperation.”
“See you later, Pete,” I say.
“Yes. Of course. See you later, Danny.”
The guy won't leave. He leans over, takes another peek into the hole.
“Pete?” Ceepak is losing his patience, but not his courtesy. Not yet.
“Right. See you later. When you come to take my statement. We'll talk then. Should I jot down some notes? Just to make certain I remember everything? While it's still fresh. Are notes allowed?”
“Good idea. Write everything down. Do it now. And please-for the time being, do not tell anyone else what you discovered. Not even your wife or sons.”
“Of course not. Won't breathe a word. Sorry to have … you know … ruined your day.”
“We'll be fine, Pete.”
Pete does a quick sign-of-the-cross. Head, heart, chest, chest. Turns. Walks away.
Ceepak waits until he is absolutely certain Pete has crested the dune and is on his way down to the street.
“Danny? Camera.”
I hand him the digital.
Ceepak snaps a half-dozen shots of the plastic bag resting at the bottom of the bowl.
“I am now going to remove the bag from the bowl.”
I just nod. Ceepak sounds like he's narrating brain surgery for the first-year students up in the cheap seats of one of those operating rooms they always have on doctor shows.
He pulls out tweezers from another pants pocket.
“Inspecting first item. Typewritten note on 3-by-5 ruled index card.”
He holds the note card with his tweezers in one hand, fishes out his magnifying glass.
“Message appears to have been typed on an IBM Selectric. Pica 10 Pitch font.”
“What's it say?”
“We start with a name. Centered and underlined: ‘Delilah.’
Delilah. Samson's girlfriend. The hairstylist.
“Another name from the Bible,” I say.
“10-4. Beneath the name is recorded a date: ‘Tuesday. 8-1-79.’”
The creep marked down the harvest date-just like some people do on freezer bags full of summer corn.
“Under the date there is a typed quote. It too appears biblical in nature: ‘Thus will I make thy lewdness to cease.’”
I figure it's the “thus” and “thy” that peg it as coming from Scripture.
He offers no interpretations. Not yet. Not about the mention of lewdness. Not about the date, 1979-which sort of puts the skull back in the disco days with the ears and nose we already found. Ceepak never conjectures right away. First he examines all the evidence. That means tweezering and unfolding the other piece of paper tucked into the baggie because it's only halfway visible behind the index card.
“Map,” he says. “Hand-drawn. Permanent black marker on foolscap paper.”
It looks like a treasure map drawn on that old-fashioned parchment stuff you always see in souvenir shops with the Declaration of Independence printed on it.
I see there is a big X on the map.
And a dotted line-like footprints.
And, in the corner, one of those orientating compass deals: N, E, S, W.
“Ten paces due north,” says Ceepak as he studies the map.
Then he turns to me.
“Danny, I believe we're going to need the field shovel.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
We keep an Army-issue field shovel stowed in the back of our cop car with the flares and rolls of POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape.
The sun glints off the tinted glass and I can already telclass="underline" this day's going to be a scorcher. Probably hit 90, maybe 95 degrees. And the wind has shifted. It's blowing across the island from the bay to the ocean. West to east. That means the greenhead flies will be blowing this way, too.
The greenheads are vicious little devils, our local locusts, the shore's summertime plague. Their heads aren't really green. They take their name from their big buggy eyes. Huge green peepers popping out of humongous black bodies. These suckers fly slow-maybe because their eyeballs are so huge. They sort of lumber through the air like one of those C-130 military cargo planes that shouldn't even be able to fly. You swat at a greenhead, it'll stare at you, ask if you've got some kind of problem, then loop back to take a snap at your ankles.
Ouch. All this, and greenheads, too.
• • •
Ceepak is waiting for me-standing on a clump of sea grass ten feet north of the first hole.
I hand him the shovel. He looks like he's ready to play some serious Whack-A-Mole. Like he's there to bop anything that dares pop up out of a hole in the sand.
“I radioed the chief,” he says.
“And? Is he calling the FBI?”
“Not yet.”
“I think we should.”
“As do I. However, the chief reminded me that we retain primary jurisdiction in the case for investigative purposes unless and until we determine that these individuals were killed elsewhere and transported across state lines.”