Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery
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stuffed monkey. “Miss?” A man three tables away, a huge man with a napkin tucked under his three chins and a glob of sour cream dotting the tip of his nose, is waving his arm like a little boy who needs permission to use the bathroom. “We need more butter, miss.” “Right away!” Rita says. She scoots into the kitchen. Ceepak watches her fly through the swinging double doors. I look down and check out T. J.'s postcard. Naturally it reminds me of the one Mary Guarneri sent her mother all those
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
pace. I do the same. “See it?” he says. “No. What?” “Something shiny. There.” He points to the spot where the dock meets dry land. I see the glint. We quick-time it to the pier. Ceepak holds up his right hand to halt our charge. He points at a shattered board in the dock decking. “Note the hole. In the planks.” I see one of the rotting planks has a gaping circle at its center. A foot hole. “Perhaps he came here on a boat,” Ceepak thinks out loud. “Docked. Moved too rapidly down the deck.
night. Their body heat makes the infrared lenses go crazy.” Ceepak nods. Presses the binoculars to his eyes. Scans the horizon. “See anything?” I ask. “Negative.” Gus leans in to check the arcing circle on the long-range radar. “He's still too far out for visual. But we're gaining on him, boys. He's definitely dropped anchor. Set up shop for the night. Hasn't moved since we first pinged him.” Ceepak lowers the field glasses, drapes their strap around his neck to free up his hands. He
out. I was definitely caught in a crossfire I couldn't understand: I did good by doing the worst thing a human being can ever possibly do. Friday, we went back to work. There's a lot of paperwork to fill out when you shoot somebody. More when you kill them. Sergeant Santucci was hovering near the front desk when we walked in for roll call, still trying to bust Ceepak's chops. “Pete Mullen? He wasn't even on your suspect list! Jesus, Ceepak. You call yourself a detective?” Ceepak ignored