Chief Baines never does like the FBI dropping by Sea Haven. They scare away more cash-carrying tourists than all the sharks in Jaws I, II, and III combined.
“Record my location,” says Ceepak, ready to shoulder the grim responsibility of moving forward.
I pull out the digital camera and snap a frame. I check the viewfinder. The shot looks like one of those groundbreaking ceremonies for a new bank.
“Got it.”
Ceepak nods.
Digs.
Shovels up several buckets of sand, making a tidy pile to the left of his hole.
“Approximate depth: one foot.”
He keeps digging. The sand is soft.
“Two feet.”
The pile of powder next to his hole grows taller. Sugary sand slides off the peak, trickles down along the sides.
“Three feet.”
I hear steel tap plastic. Ceepak stops. Steps away from the hole. Lays down his shovel and drops to his knees.
“Danny? Will you please bring me a paintbrush?”
“On it.”
I slap one into his open palm and say, “Paintbrush.”
“Thank you.”
I crouch down and watch Ceepak start to dust off what we both know is going to be the lid to another Tupperware bowl. Ceepak whisks away the sand with his brush, an umpire cleaning off home plate for the next batter up.
I see a translucent top with the raised ridge of a lip. The famous, vacuum-sealed lid designed to keep the bowl's contents fresh and crisp. Even if you store your head of lettuce-make that a human head-in the hot sand.
Of course, it's another skull.
A small oblong ball, really. Maybe five inches wide, eight inches tall, six inches deep. Wrapped in another newspaper.
“Again, a Friday edition of the Sandpaper. July 12, 1980.”
There's another baggie in the bottom of the bowl. Inside the baggie, another note card and another little folded map.
“‘Miriam,’” Ceepak says, reading the index card. “‘Monday. 7-8-80.’”
“Oh, man,” I whisper, even though I feel like screaming. “Miriam.”
Ceepak just nods.
We have to assume it's the same Miriam whose nose we found with the local souvenirs back at The Treasure Chest.
Ceepak holds up the card and reads what's typed along the bottom: “‘Thus will I make thy lewdness to cease.’”
“He's repeating himself.”
“They usually do.”
Ceepak puts the index card into an evidence bag, and then uses his tweezers to unfold the little map. I study it over his shoulder: it's dotted with dashes of footprints leading to another X. Ten feet due west this time.
“Of course!” says Ceepak. He's having one of his eureka moments. “It was near the pirate chests.”
“Pirate chests?” I'm a little behind him, somewhere south of Eureka! “What pirate chests?”
“At the souvenir shop. Remember? The jar was on a shelf surrounded by snow globes depicting pirate chests filled with gold doubloons. The killer was being cute. Alluding to his private necropolis filled with treasure chests.”
“So you think this Miriam is the same Miriam who, you know….”
“I do.”
Usually, he says, “It's a possibility.” Not today. Today, he's definite.
“The nose, most likely, was the souvenir the killer kept for himself during the totem stage of his cyclical spree. During or after the murder, the killer performs a ritualistic taking of trophies, often involving mutilation of his dead victim's corpse. He needs a souvenir, something to help him perpetuate the erotic pleasure sparked during the actual killing.”
“Jesus.”
“It's no wonder he placed his formaldehyde jars in a museum and, later, The Treasure Chest. One building storehouses trophies, the other contains nothing but souvenirs. This man is taunting us.”
“Why?”
“He wants us to know he's back in town. Perhaps to complete another killing cycle. A serial killer is very similar to a drug addict, Danny. Sooner or later he will give in to his cravings and return to the one thing in the world that gives him pleasure.”
Ceepak pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his hip pocket, snaps them onto his hands. Next, he finds his magnifying lens. Finally, he uses his free hand to hold the skull. He looks like Hamlet crossed with Sherlock Holmes. I make sure no one's watching.
It's amazing. The beach is still empty.
“Can you see it, Danny?”
I lean over his shoulder, try to look through the lens, but all I'm getting is a rubbery, funhouse-mirror close-up of white.
“See what?”
“Between the eye sockets. Where the nasal bone is joined to the frontal bone.”
I see an upside-down Valentine-heart-shaped hole between the skull's two eye sockets. Not much else.
“Definitely nicked,” says Ceepak. “Slightly notched. There are noticeable groove marks where a blade sawed too close to the bone when severing the cartilage forming the support structure for the nose.”
He flips the skull around in his hand and zooms in for a look at the ear canal.
“Here, too. I note chipping near the exterior auditory meatus. A cut line crossing into the adjoining temporal bone.”
“He cut off Miriam's ears?”
“Yes, Danny.”
“But we didn't find her ears.”
“Not yet. Most likely, those were the souvenirs he chose to keep for himself, in his personal museum.”
Ceepak slips the skull back into its paper sack.
“I believe we may have just isolated the killer's signature.”
Ceepak hikes back across the sand to Hole Number One and the ring of evidence bags circling it-everything we found with “Delilah's” skull.
Ceepak reaches into the bag, pulls out the skull, and examines it with his magnifying glass. First the front, then both sides.
“Again. The nose and both ears were chopped off. The cuts in this instance were much cruder, less skilled. I note a false start with a serrated blade high up on the nasal bone, along an imaginary line running between the girl's pupils.”
I don't want to imagine that line. I don't want to imagine some lunatic drawing it in with a stubby carpenter's pencil or snapping a blue chalk line across the girl's face so he could saw off her nose with a serrated steak knife.
“He kills his victims, decapitates them, then cuts off their nose and their ears. This is his signature.”
“Why?”
“Unclear.”
He puts away Skull Number One and marches over to Hole Number Two.
“We need to call Officer Diego. Have her run down the Bible quote.”
“Diego doesn't come in until nine.”
“Let's radio the house. Have Dispatch call her at home and instruct her to report for duty ASAP.”
“It's only like a half hour until….”
“Danny? Time is of the essence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We should also request uniformed backup to help us secure this crime scene and work crowd control. The beach will be filling up soon. We should contact the municipal garage. See if we can procure some privacy screens. You know, the type of tarps the Highway Patrol puts up around serious accident scenes on the Interstate.”
“Right.”
“I will once again urge the chief to request county, state, and/or federal assistance. He should also contact the Chamber of Commerce. Postponement of the Sand Castle Competition would seem the most prudent course of action.”
“Yeah.”
“Danny, if you had any plans for this evening, please cancel them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We need to move fast. This killer may not wait for Chief Baines to call the FBI before striking again.”
And I was worried about the greenheads.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
One hour later, we have two more holes, two more plastic containers, two more skulls pulled up from the sand.
Hole Number Three: Rebecca. Tuesday, August 13, 1980.
Hole Number Four: Deborah. Tuesday, July 29, 1981.
Each skull was wrapped in the local newspaper from the following Friday. Each was stored in Tupperware-type bins slightly different from each other and the ones we found earlier, but big enough to handle the job. All four plastic containers held sandwich bags with neatly typed index cards identifying the victim and proclaiming, “Thus will I make thy lewdness to cease.”