Authors: Chris Grabenstein

Hell Hole (26 page)

BOOK: Hell Hole

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I think
they're all going to shut up now.

I think they're going to quit interrupting Ceepak so they can scowl at each other instead. So far, Rutledge is the only one Ceepak hasn't mentioned, but I have a funny feeling the big moose's turn is coming up.

“Shareef Smith arrived at the rest area at twenty-two-oh-three. Three minutes after ten PM. At approximately ten-ten, Hernandez, Rutledge, and Dixon entered the men's room, having seen the night janitor, Osvaldo Vargas, exit after completing his hourly cleaning.

“They set to work. Rutledge and Dixon took up their position in the furthest toilet. The handicapped stall. They had the Russian-made PB/6P9 pistol with them, a war souvenir brought home illegally from Iraq. They attached a full silencer, even though they know the PB/6P9 is quieter than most conventional firearms even without the additional tubing screwed onto its muzzle.

“Mr. Hernandez, disguised as a member of the janitorial staffâsomething quite easy to accomplish with an appropriately colored polo shirt, baseball cap, and a pair of khakisâproceeded to shut off the right-hand side of the men's room by spooling out the âclosed for
maintenance' retracta-belt tape. He also activated the Tornado floor blower to cover any noises that might be made during the coming execution of Corporal Smith.

“Lieutenant Worthington arrived at nine minutes after ten and detained Shareef Smith in the parking lot until he received the go signal from Handy Andy, who was stationed in a vehicle near the security camera stanchion. I note that you gentlemen as well as Lieutenant Worthington all carry Nextel cellular units. The walkie-talkie function comes in quite handy in certain situations, doesn't it?

“Worthington proceeded to lure Smith into the men's room with the promise of a free high. He had procured what is known as Hot Stuff heroin from a Sea Haven drug dealer who has operated undetected for years out of the abandoned Hell Hole ride on Pier Four. Purchasing the illegal substance locally was another attempt by Sergeant Dixon to leave a trail of evidence traceable to Lieutenant Worthington, a man with a known history of drug addiction.

“Worthington escorted Smith into the rest area careful, of course, to avoid the one internal security camera's line of sight. He suggested that they slip into the closed-off section of the men's room to shoot up. He gave Smith the works kit and heroin packet, directed him to what I will label stall number threeâthe second to last from the wall. I suspect your son then entered what I will label stall number two, where he pretended to inject drugs as well.”

Ceepak gestures toward Rutledge and Dixon.

“You gentlemen used the handicapped stall, the oversized unit closest to the wall, as your prep area. You carried in a small gym bag or suitcase holding the silenced pistol as well as some sort of cheap plastic ponchos, which, by the way, are quite easy to obtain at any gift shop here on the island. You've killed up close before, so you knew there would be residual splatter, that your clothing would become spotted with Smith's blood. I'm quite certain the old man you killed in the wheelchair taught you that lesson. But a simple plastic rain poncho was the only precaution you needed to take because you knew a public bathroom would be a forensic field rife with fingerprints, footprints, hair samples, and the DNA of a thousand different strangers. You really
didn't have to worry about leaving clues. There were too many already on the floor, the doors, and the walls for any investigator to single out yours. It's probably why you chose the men's room at a rest area as your killing field in the first place.

“Once cloaked in your makeshift aprons, you did a weapons check and bided your time until you heard Worthington and Smith enter. Perhaps they carried on a brief conversation between stalls, commenting on the quality of the local drugs. When you were satisfied that Smith had, indeed, infused the opiate into his veins, you waited a little while longerâknowing that, by now, Handy Andy and Hernandez had effectively closed off the entrance to the rest room.

“Hernandez, in his guise as a member of the custodial crew, was stationed at the main door to the men's room, informing the few travelers seeking the facilities at that hour, that the bathroom was temporarily closed for maintenance. I suspect that Handy Andy, posing as a frustrated tourist, came into the building to help spread the word of the men's room's temporary closure. It's why he was wearing a flowered Hawaiian shirt that night, as witnesses will attest. His costume was a bit of clichÃ©, perhaps, but his back-and-forth dialogue with Hernandez at the entryway undoubtedly had the desired effect. Temporary crowd control.

“I admit that this last bit is conjecture on my part. But, before we bring you gentlemen to trial, we will interview the passengers on the Academy bus that left the Taj Mahal Casino in Atlantic City at nine twenty-two PM on Friday night. We know they stopped at the exit fifty-two rest area during the hours in question and, although we haven't yet had sufficient time to interview them, I'm quite certain some of the male passengers who were inconvenienced will be happy to identify you, Mr. Hernandez, as the janitor who told them the men's room was temporarily closed. I further suspect they will recognize you, Mr. Prescott. As will the Feenyville Pirates.”

“Who?” asks Handy Andy.

“The men who were breaking into the trunk of Shareef Smith's vehicle when you returned to the parking lot to initiate the search for his digital camera. You weren't in the parking lot the whole time; otherwise
you never would've let the pirates rifle through Smith's trunk before you had a chance to search it yourself.”

Handy Andy says nothing in reply.

“Back inside the men's room, the designated killers stormed into stall three. Smith at that point would, of course, have been docile, already under the influence of what, I'm quite certain, was a heavierthan-usual dose of heroin. One of you gentlemen then lowered the latch on the stall, locking the door from the inside to help paint the suicide picture.

“I suspect you were the one who forced the silenced pistol into Smith's hand,” Ceepak says to Rutledge. The muscle. “Did you pull Smith's finger to squeeze back on the trigger or did Sergeant Dixon assume that task himself? Yes, I think it was probably Dixon.”

Ceepak paces over toward Dixon's chair.

“I suspect it was also Sergeant Dixon who had the misguided notion to ring Smith's neck with the sanitary seat covers, hoping that the thick stack of tissue would stanch any blood streaming out of Smith's head wound before it dripped down to the floor. To set up your group alibi, you needed to insure that a certain amount of time elapsed before Smith's body was discovered because your entire team had to hurry back to the rental house on Kipper Street. You knew you had nearly an hour before a real janitor returned to the men's room on his rounds and discovered that one side had been inexplicably closed off. Plenty of time for you to return to Sea Haven and wait for whatever public authorities were summoned to the scene to telephone you.

“Of course, you knew they would call. That's why you left the map with Lieutenant Worthington's cell phone number scribbled on it in Smith's pocket.

“Then, Dixon and Rutledge crawled under the side walls of the stall and rejoined Lieutenant Worthington. You walkie-talkied Hernandez, who signaled back that the coast was clear. Hernandez walked away first, so if anyone saw you three gentlemen exiting the men's room, carrying your zipped-up gym bag, where I'm certain you stowed the blood-stained ponchos, they would have simply assumed that the janitor had finished his work and you were the first ones in and out of the
reopened facilities. You left the âclosed for maintenance' retracta-belt up to close off the right-hand side as long as possible. You also kept the floor dryer blowing to stop any incoming guests from venturing into the roped-off area for fear of slipping on a freshly mopped floor.

“You then nonchalantly waltzed out of the building and into the parking lot, where you helped Andrew Prescott finish ransacking Smith's car, tearing out the air bags to make the burglary look legitimate. Frustrated in your search but unable to waste more time looking for the camera, you climbed into your vehicles, knowing that Handy Andy has disabled the pertinent surveillance camera that might record your rapid departure. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, you were in Sea Haven, where you pretended to have been partying all night.

“You also needed a witness for your alibi. The best witness, of course, would be someone whose word could not be easily impugned. A police officer, for instance. So, once you had returned to the house on Kipper Street, you cranked up the volume on your stereo system, created as much noise as you could, you even began chanting running cadencesâeverything you could think of to disturb the peace and incite your neighbors to call nine-one-one. Perhaps one of you gentlemen even called in the noise complaint yourself.

“Officer Boyle and his partner arrived on the scene. They noticed, as you had hoped they would, the curbside recycling bins brimming with empty containers. You knew the state police would probably discover the body sometime after eleven PM and make contact with you after midnight. You couldn't control the precise moment of discovery so you arranged for a van full of strippers to show up, just in case you needed further delaying tactics. Danny and Officer Starky arrived on the scene, the state police called, and you had your alibi. Everything went off as planned. You executed your stratagem with military precision. Unfortunately, you made one mistake. Back in the bathroom. Isn't that right, Mr. Hernandez?”

Hernandez squirms a little at his end of the sofa.

Ceepak moves closer.

“You had the last job. One final sweep of the men's room to make certain no one would notice anything except Shareef Smith's shoes.
Most visitors to the restroom at that hour would suspect that a man in a toilet stall in the closed-off section was doing something lewd or untowardâespecially if they were observant enough to notice that his pants weren't rolled down. Afraid to get involved, they'd simply do their own business in the open side and be on their way. However, all that would change, if they saw what you saw when you made that final sweep. Wouldn't it?”

Hernandez doesn't answer but he sure looks squirrelly.

“You saw blood dripping down the back wall. You saw it trickling to the floor. You knew that in short order it would form a noticeable pool. So, being a quick-thinking Airborne Ranger, you showed initiative. You took matters into your own hands and ventured outside the parameters of the approved plan.

“Without hesitation or, if I may say so, thinking, you dashed all the way to the janitor closet on the far side of the food court, where you found a mop and rolling bucket. You were going to clean up Sergeant Dixon's mess again, weren't you? Just like when he makes you fetch his coffee before it's finished brewing and it spills all over the coffeemaker.

“You forgot about the security camera aimed toward the gift shop and food court, didn't you, Private Hernandez? Forgot that it would record your image as you pushed the mop bucket back toward the men's room.”

Hernandez bristles but doesn't respond.

“Of course, I admit, when we first viewed the tape, we assumed you were Osvaldo Vargas, the real night-shift janitor. The image was grainy and, as I've already indicated, you two are very similar in build and coloring. However, we recently learned that Mr. Vargas left work early Friday night. In fact, we have his departure on tape. Therefore, the short man with the mop and bucket could not be Osvaldo Vargas. It has to be you.

“You returned to the men's room and, without opening the locked stall door, which you knew to be an important element in the suicide scenario, you attempted to swab away the gathering blood. You poked your mop under the door and thrust it into the stall. You went at it from the sides and left behind the faint streak marks that first indicated to us that
the truth behind Smith's death was something besides what we were meant to see. One of your mop shoves accidentally knocked Smith's drug paraphernalia into the adjoining stall. Maybe you didn't see it slide over there. Maybe somebody came into the men's room and you panicked.

“Whatever the reason, Mr. Hernandez, you ruined the master plan. You quickly dumped your dirty water into one of the toilets, flushed it away. You parked the empty bucket in the corner, and hightailed it back to Kipper Street to rejoin the others.

“So tell me, Miguel. The mop? It wasn't in the bucket. Is it still in the backseat of your car?”

“All right
. Enough.”

Senator Worthington is up and off the couch.

Ceepak keeps going: “I will now tell you how these same soldiers twice attempted to kill my partner and me. The first incident, involving a technique of inserting razor bladesâ”

“I said enough, Officer Ceepak. Jesus H. Christ, are you retarded?”

“No, sir. I'm in full command of my mental faculties.”

“Really? I don't think so. Do you think that I, or any loyal member of the United States government, can stand by and allow you to disseminate misinformation about the war effort? Of course we can't. You're a threat to national security. This sort of negative talk not only undermines the morale of our troops, it serves to embolden our enemies. Mr. Graves?”

Up near the front door, the senator's bodyguard is looking kind of stunned. Guess he was paying attention.

“Sir?”

“You men need to detain these two individuals.” The senator points at Ceepak and me.

“What charges, sir?”

“Charges? Goodness, we don't have time for formal charges! This will be a preventive detention as outlined under the Patriot Act.”

Graves looks confused. “Preventive detention?”

“The Patriot Act clearly states that we can hold American citizens precisely
because
we do not have sufficient evidence to prove that said citizens have committed a crime meriting detention. Do I wish I had the evidence prior to arresting Ceepak and Boyle? Of course I do. Do I have the time to pursue it while allowing these two individuals to continue spreading their terrorist claptrap? Of course not. September eleventh changed everything.”

Graves still doesn't look convinced. In fact, he looks even more confused.

“Besides, what these soldiers did in Al Hahmudiyah was a justified act of war. Goodness, the Romans used the same tactic when battling barbarians! Did you know, Officer Ceepak, that there have been no further attacks out of Al Hahmudiyah since these brave men went in and did what had to be done on nineteen November?”

“What these soldiers did was wrong. In Al Hahmudiyah and at exit fifty-two.”

“What do you know about any of this?” says Dixon. “You got out while the getting was good. You cut and ran, Ceepak. Took a nice, cushy job down the shore where you can play MP with the beach babes. Meanwhile, my men are over there, tour after tour, playing âbend over, here it comes again,' and we're supposed to play nice with the dune niggers after they fuck up one of my best men? You
are
fucking retarded. You pretend to follow the West Point code, even though you could never hack it at the Academy? Fine. Play soldier all you want, you sanctimonious piece of shit, but here's the real code, the only fucking code that counts: I will not tolerate any man who jeopardizes the life of a single member of my unit. Whether it's some old fucking mullah, a crybaby turncoat like Shareef Smith, or a rear-echelon motherfucker like you!”

He turns to Graves.

“Sailor?”

“Sir?”

“Shoot these two individuals. Shoot them now!”

“I don't know â¦ .”

Dixon pivots and screams at the other bodyguard blocking the door. The white giant. “Call it in! Tell your snipers to take their shots!”

“Do it!” Senator Worthington says from the couch.

The giant hesitates.

The senator insists: “Do it on my authority!”

The giant's arm starts moving up toward his mouth.

I look down at my shirt.

The red dot is gone.

I check out Ceepak. His is missing too.

I look back at the bodyguard who's just about ready to radio in the strike command. I can't tell who's going to get shot when he does. Then I notice a red dot targeting
his
heart.

“Take them down!” he barks into his sleeve.

I close my eyes. Cringe.

Shots are not fired.

“Take them down!” he orders again.

Still no gunfire.

“Do it yourself!” the senator screams.

The giant whips out what looks like machine gun and I hear glass crack.

“Fuck!”

The giant drops his weapon and shakes his right fist to fling away some of the pain.

Now the front door swings open.

It's another bodyguard, weapon drawn. He's swiveling at the hips, surveiling the situation, aiming his automatic at everybody in the room, and trying to see if anybody is aiming one back at him.

They aren't.

“We're clear,” the new guy shouts into his wrist. “Everybody stay where you are!” he yells into the room. “Acquire secondary targets!” This goes back to the wrist.

I check my chest again. I'm clear. Guess I didn't make the “secondary” list.

Senator Worthington, however, did. I see a red dot dancing up and down against his fluffy white hair. Dixon has earned one too.

The glass door leading out to the patio slides open.

Cyrus Parker steps into the living room. He brings his sniper rifle with him.

“Sorry to be late,” he says. Now he turns to the giant moaning on the floor up near the front door. “Jesus, Chalhoubâyou bought the senator's bullshit?”

Chalhoub the giant, is curled up in a fetal ball the size of a Volkswagen and just keeps groaning, “fuck, fuck, fuck” over and over.

“And you, Graves. This that urgent errand you had to run?”

“Sorry, Cyrus,” mumbles Graves.

“Roger that,” says Parker, shaking his head. “You are one sorry piece of shit, son.”

About six of our cops sweep into the room followed by two more men in blue suits and earpieces. Guess we had four of the senator's former bodyguards on our team; they had four on theirs. It was all even-Steven. Two nervous paramedics run in to take care of Chalhoub.

Now Sam Starky steps through the door.

“Danny? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, “I'm fine.”

She's unarmed, so I call out, “Step back, Sam.”

Her smile grows broader. “Yes, sir.” She moves back to the poolside of the patio door. Then, she wiggles her fingers in a little wave to let me know she's glad I'm alive. I go ahead and wave back. What the hellâshe's pretty cute and I'm not dead.

Parker, who is heavily armed and has already demonstrated that he's not afraid to open fire if presented with what Sergeant Dixon might call “just cause,” moves through the room.

“Lieutenant Ceepak, how you holding up, sir?”

“It's all good.”

“Excellent,” says Parker. “Anybody call while I was out?”

“Affirmative. Unfortunately, I was unable to answer my cell phone.”

“Maybe they left a message.” Now Parker gestures with his rifle.
“Took that shot at Mr. Alex Chalhoub's trigger finger from a hundred yards out. I still got it, don't I?”

“Roger that,” says Ceepak, smiling for the first time all day.

“I hear
you
can pierce Roosevelt's ear on a dime.”

“I never said that.”

“I didn't say it was you who told it to me.”

“Cyrus?” This from Senator Worthington.

“Good evening, Senator Worthington,” says Parker.

“Are you aiding and abetting known threats to national security?”

“You mean Officers Ceepak and Boyle?”

The senator nods.

“Aw, relax. America can handle anything these two dish out. It's
you
she needs to worry about.”

The senator looks livid.

Parker shrugs. “I'm just saying, is all.”

“Mr. Parker, I no longer require your services. Your employment contract is hereby terminated.”

“Excellent news, sir,” says Parker, his voice booming. “Because I certainly wouldn't want to work for any man who tried to fry his own son.”

“I have no earthly idea what you're talking about.”

“Sure you do. That fire at the Hell Hole, the one that came this close to cremating your boy, you had these gentlemen from Echo Company set it for you. Now, nowâdon't deny it, sir. You're just ambitious, is all. Hell, you'd probably back a truck over your own mother if it helped you become president. And don't try lying to me, sir. Graves here might buy it but I've been sniffing your bullshit up close for way too long to continue buying any of it. It was arson. And Dixon's crew hereâthey were your arsonists.”

My guess? Handy Andy took the lead. He is, as his nickname implies, handy. Plus, he's the one we saw dousing dead Iraqis with a can of kerosene during the slide show.

“Don't be preposterous, Cyrus! Your suggestion is absolutely laughable.”

“Your son didn't think it was all that funny. Officer Ceepak was good enough to hook me up with a member of the FDNY who accompanied me to the hospital where he explained to your son exactly what happened. Said you had these gentlemen set one of those gasoline-upstairs, diesel-fuel-downstairs deals that typically insures that everybody inside the building comes out dead. You son would be here right now to personally tell you to go fuck yourself but, well, the doctors told him he couldn't leave the hospital just yet.”

Now Parker reaches into his suit coat pocket.

“He did, however, ask me to show you this.”

He pulls out a cell phone.

“It's Nextel's Motorola i-eight-sixty. Has a little video camera in it. Isn't that something? I've already seen the main feature. The clip's only about ten seconds long, shorter than that cell phone footage of Saddam Hussein's necktie party, and the image is kind of shaky, because your son had to hold the camera up over his head and point it down like this.” Parker demonstrates. Stretches his arm over his head, wiggles the camera. “It was the only way he could capture what was going on in the toilet stall next to his.” Now Parker gestures toward Dixon and Rutledge. “These two? They were too busy jamming a pistol into that sleepy young brother's mouth to look up and notice they were on candid camera. This one? He's the son of a bitch who squeezed the trigger.”

Ceepak was right.

It was Dixon.

BOOK: Hell Hole

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