“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.
“Two maps?” the chief says.
“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 of the girl's body by a few stringy tendons. Her eyes are wide and wild with terror. The neck looks like a bloody stump someone tore through with a chain saw.
The chief is burping again. Trying to force down whatever it is that wants to sneak up.
Ceepak looks away from the Polaroid.
“Her name is Mary Guarneri.”
“Jesus, Ceepak,” Santucci scoffs. “What? You can't fucking read? Her name is Ruth!”
The chief finds his voice. “Stand down, Santucci. Ceepak? Do you know something about this girl? Why the hell do you keep calling her Mary?”
“Mary Guarneri changed her name to Ruth when she was baptized by the Reverend Billy Trumble.”
Santucci whips off his shades. “Says who?”
“Is this the girl who had the church charm on her bracelet?” the chief asks. “The girl from the milk carton?”
“Roger that.”
“I see. Okay. You should've said so. Okay. We're making connections. Filling in the missing pieces. When was she murdered?”
“Well, sir,” says Santucci, hiking up his belt, “my best guesstimate is sometime on or about July 3, 1985.” He points to the newspaper he found the skull bone wrapped up in. “Lots of Fourth of July ads and whatnot in the newspaper there. So, we figure, she had to be, you know, dead before the Fourth.”
Malloy muscles in with his two cents. “Also, sir-we picked up a pretty solid clue right here.” He holds up the other Polaroid. The Before.
Ceepak cringes. Not because the picture is gruesome. It isn't. It just shows a young girl in a lacy black bustier with a big crucifix dangling down between her breasts-the kind of stuff Madonna used to wear back in the ’80s when she was still singing on MTV about being a virgin.
No, Ceepak's cringing, I think, because our esteemed colleague is holding the evidence with his greasy, just-ate-a-melty-Snickers-bar fingers. No gloves. No evidence bag. Just his chocolate-covered thumb and forefinger.
“See there, Chief?” Malloy says. “The killer wrote a date on the Polaroid! July 3, 1985.”
Ceepak shakes his head.
“You got some problem with our detective work here, Officer Ceepak?” Santucci snarls.
“Yes, Sergeant Santucci. You've taken us out of sequence.”
“Come again?” says the chief.
“Danny and I were proceeding in an orderly, chronological fashion. The bowl containing the skull labeled DELILAH was, apparently, the killer's first. It was dated 1979. The map uncovered in that hole led us to another skull, dated 1980.”
Santucci sniggers. “Wait a second, Ceepak. How do you know there ain't a 1978 head buried someplace else? Hunh? How can you be certain this Delilah was the first?”
“We can't,” Ceepak admits.
“See? Jesus. I don't know why everybody says you're such hot shit.”
“All right, Santucci,” the chief says. “Enough. We're all on the same team here.”
“Yes, sir. But Malloy and I want to follow up this lead.”
Santucci waves what looks like another Resort Map in our collective face. Malloy pulls a second map out of his back pocket. It's the hand-drawn sketch, the one with the X marking the spot, and it's also smeared with chocolate from whatever he had for his mid-morning power snack.