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Authors: Chris Grabenstein

BOOK: Hell Hole
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Smith's small
car is parked on top of the dancing dolphin mosaic in the driveway of the party house at 22 Kipper Street.
The soldiers are in the fenced-off backyard grilling steaks. I can hear meat sputtering. I also hear beer tabs popping free. The PVC fence railings have been turned into a laundry line for wet swimsuits and damp towels. Guess the guys went boogie boarding earlier. Guess the customary mourning period for their fallen comrade is over.
We climb out of my Jeep and walk past the overflowing recycling bins. Dixon tosses the ball of tin that used to be his beer can over the fence at the open Rubbermaid barrel. He sees us.
“Officer Boyle! Where's young Officer Starky?”
“She works nights,” I say.
The guys behind Dixon give me a major league “hoo-hah” on my
she works nights
comment.
Dixon eyeballs Ceepak. “Who's your new girlfriend?”
I think he means Ceepak.
Ceepak cracks a smile. Takes a step toward the gate that opens into the backyard patio.
“John Ceepak. I served with the One-oh-one.”
Dixon moves to the gate. Doesn't open it. “How many tours?”
“First wave.”
“Down range?”
“Baghdad. Sadr City. Fallujah.”
Dixon nods. “You re-up?”
“Negative.”
“Why not?”
“Long story.”
Dixon smiles. Gestures toward the Igloo ice chest loaded down with bottles and cans.
“I'll buy you a beer,” says Dixon. “You can tell me all about it.”
“I'll take a rain check on that,” says Ceepak.
Now Dixon's smile becomes a smirk. “Me and my men? Three tours.”
“Four, sir!” shouts the shortest one as he fishes out a fresh beer.
“I stand corrected, Private Hernandez. Mickey Mex went back four different times. Figures America might let him stay in the country, now. Hell, we might even let his girlfriend come over.”
“Hoo-hah!” says Hernandez.
“She's a hooker down in Tijuana, right Mickey?”
“
Sí.
”
“What is she? Sixteen or seventeen?”
“Fifteen, sir!”
Over at the grill, there's a minor grease flare-up, which the sleepyeyed tall guy, the one they call Lieutenant Worthless, douses with a splash of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
“So, Sergeant,” Ceepak asks, “what brings you gentlemen to Sea Haven?”
“This is my uncle's house,” says Dixon. “I kept promising my guys that if we made it out of the sandpit alive, if we hung together and covered each other's asses, we'd have a fucking beach blanket blowout before we rotated back. Burnt meat, cold beer, and hot babes!”
“Hoo-hah!”
“We're sorry about your loss,” says Ceepak softly.
“You mean Smith?” says Dixon. Then he belches. “Fucking pussy.
Couldn't handle the dark mental shit that comes with doing the job.”
“Many soldiers experience emotional stress when confronted with the realities of war.”
“Jesus. Did you do your tour as a fucking shrink?”
“No. Military police.”
“MP? Then you've seen Smith's type. Hell, maybe you even arrested him. Fucking hophead. Got into that serious Afghan shit flowing across the border from Iran, big-time.”
“Heroin?”
“And hash. Used to fuck himself up royally before we'd saddle up. Every mission, Smith was high as a fucking kite. Couldn't trust that weak sister to cover your ass worth a damn.”
“I'm told they found drug paraphernalia near his body last night.”
“Roger that. Guess he smuggled some of that happy horseshit and a Russian PB/6P9 pistol home with him. I wanted to wash him out of our unit but the boys with the brass brains wouldn't let me. Seems we were short on manpower. Too many guys checking out after a single tour.”
Now the other guys stare at Ceepak, like it's his fault one of their buddies became a junkie who hated being a soldier so much he put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Dixon jabs a stubby thumb in my general direction. “Your partner here tells me you won some medals.”
“One or two.”
“You pick up a Purple Heart?” Dixon asks Ceepak.
“No.”
“Guess you weren't there long enough. Rolled into Baghdad just in time to watch them pull down that Saddam statue and said, ‘hasta la vista, baby'—hightailed it home before the Hajis started blowing up every fucking American convoy they could with their roadside IEDs.”
Now it's Ceepak's eyes doing the narrowing. I know he saw his share of improvised explosive devices during his stint in Iraq. I also know he came under some pretty serious enemy fire. He got one medal, the Bronze Star for heroic service in combat, when he risked his life to run up an alley in Sadr City and drag a guy to safety—some gunner he didn't even know—while Sunni snipers up on the rooftops tried to nail
him. My man may have only served one tour of duty but he's definitely done his time in hell.
“I was never wounded,” Ceepak answers without any emotion. “Not in Iraq.”
“Me neither. Too fast.” Dixon does a quick juke step and head fake, like he's a point guard for the Nets. “Kept dodging the bullets and the bombs. Now, my man over there, Lieutenant Worthless …” He points to the tall guy doing tong duty at the grill. “Old Worthless took a Haji bullet in the leg.”
I remember now: he had a limp when he came out with the cell phone to tell us about Smith last night.
“They gave him all sorts of medals for that one. Right, Worthless?”
“Yeah.”
“You pack your Purple Heart?”
“It's inside.”
“Well, shit, Lieutenant—pin it to your swimsuit. That and a beach badge will get your pecker wet.” He turns away. Walks back to the beer cooler. Fishes out a green bottle. Heineken. Twists it open. Takes a swig. Takes his time. “You gentlemen need something?” he finally asks. “Or is this just a condolence call?”
“We need to examine Corporal Smith's vehicle,” says Ceepak. “More specifically—the trunk.”
“Why?”
“We have reason to believe that he was the victim of a burglary last night. We think some local thieves stole his CD changer.”
“Really?” Dixon shakes his head. Starts to laugh. “Jesus, Ceepak. The pussy freak blew his brains out in a fucking crapper. You think he or I or any of these men give two shits about a goddamn CD changer?”
“No, I do not. However, I think investigating this criminal incident might lead us to the truth behind what happened to Corporal Smith last night.”
“Come again?”
“He didn't commit suicide. I'm sure of it.”
“What?”
“Shareef Smith was murdered.”
It's rare
that Ceepak makes a pronouncement like that.
Usually, you ask him, “Was this guy murdered?” he says, “It's a possibility.” I think there's something about a fellow soldier's unseemly death that's hit him hard.
“You're telling me somebody murdered one of my men?” snaps Dixon. All of a sudden, Shareef Smith isn't a “pussy freak” who couldn't handle the stress of battle. He's back to being one of the guys.
“I believe so.”
“Jesus.”
“I have no proof at this juncture.”
“Fuck.”
“As you know, I wasn't on scene last night, but Officer Boyle was able to describe what he saw in sufficient enough detail for me to note inconsistencies that make me uneasy.”
“I was there,” snaps Dixon. “He had the Russian pistol in his hand. Took a mouth shot. Blew his brains out. Splattered them against the back wall.”
“But there was no blood on the floor.”
“Come again?”
“Somebody cleaned it up.”
“No. He had those tissue rings around his neck.”
“The sanitary seat covers.”
“Right. That caught all the blood.”
Ceepak shakes his head. “As you stated, there was blood and organic matter splattered against the rear wall, which the tissue paper would not, in fact,
could not
catch. In a crime-scene photograph taken with Officer Boyle's cell phone you can see the droplets streaking down toward the floor. The floor itself remains clean.”
Dixon squints. Tries to remember what he saw. Tries to find a logical explanation. “Maybe it didn't drip down that far.”
“Negative. I suspect somebody mopped the floor, which would also explain how the drug paraphernalia ended up in the adjoining stall.”
Of course. The mop head slapped the drug stuff over into the next booth like a hockey stick smacking a puck.
Dixon looks unconvinced. “Somebody mopped up while Smith was still sitting on top of the toilet?”
“Roger that.”
“Who? The janitor?”
“Doubtful.”
“Who?”
“Too soon to say.”
“Jesus!”
“Rest assured, Sergeant, we are going to investigate our suspicions further. That's why we need to examine Smith's vehicle. Specifically, the trunk.”
“You think the killer hid in the trunk?”
“No. As it stands, we have no official interest or jurisdictional standing in what happened inside the rest area washroom. However, the burglarization of Smith's vehicle by certain local recidivists might grant us limited access to all evidence associated with his death.”
“We're looking at two of the Feenyville Pirates,” I say, since Dixon seems stuck on Ceepak's choice of the word
recidivist
. I can see he's
struggling to come up with a definition. “Repeat offenders named Nicky Nichols and Mr. Shrimp.”
Ceepak turns. Nobody else can see what I see in his face: a wee wince—a small crinkling of the lines around the eyes. Oops. I don't think I should have said that.
“What?” says Dixon. “Fucking pirates?”
“We have two small-time criminals on our radar for the burglary and, as I said, pursuing that investigation may open up access to evidence related to the corporal's death.”
Dixon yanks open the gate. Steps off the patio. Goes nose to nose with Ceepak in the patch of gravel near the garbage cans.
“What do you mean ‘may'?”
“I cannot guarantee that the Burlington County prosecutor's office will welcome our interest in what they consider a closed case.”
Dixon leans forward.
“Let me see if I have this correct, Officer Ceepak. You're telling me that two local yokels murdered one of my men in a lousy latrine on the goddamn Garden State Parkway but you can't do anything about it?”
“Actually, we have no reason to suspect the locals were the ones who—”
Dixon turns his back on Ceepak, addresses his troops. “Gentlemen? Listen up. We will not be breaking camp tomorrow as previously planned.”
“How long are we staying?” asks Lieutenant Worthless.
“As long as necessary.”
“Just a moment,” Ceepak tries. Dixon isn't listening.
“We may need to bring this shitty little town some goddamn noise!”
“Sergeant Dixon, please!” says Ceepak. “There is no need for you and your men to pursue vigilante justice.”
“That's your opinion.”
“I realize you are upset. But we can not and will not condone citizens taking the law into their own hands.”
“Somebody has to.”
“Justice will be served. The truth will be uncovered.”
“Oh, really? Swell. Put it on a greeting card. Sell it to Hallmark.”
“Give me twenty-four hours.”
“To do what?”
“To see if I can determine who did this.”
“And if you can't?”
“We'll have that beer and talk about next steps.”
Over at the grill, I hear the whomp of flames. Everybody's been riveted on Ceepak and Dixon. Lieutenant Worthless hasn't been minding the meat. It's flaring like waxy fireplace logs.
“You have my word,” says Ceepak.
“Your word?”
“Yes, sir. And I will not lie nor tolerate those who do.”
“You West Point?”
“No. I simply choose to live my life according to their code of honor.”
Dixon gives Ceepak a look. “Really? Well, my men and I have a code too: We look out for our own and will not tolerate any individual who seeks to do any one of us harm.”
“All I'm asking is one day.”
Dixon is thinking about it, I can tell. His breathing is almost regular. Finally, he turns around and calls out to the biggest ox on the patio. “Butt Lips?”
“Sir?”
“Do we have twenty-four hours' worth of liquid refreshment inside the wire?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Handy Andy?”
“Sir?” It's the kid with the kielbasa nose.
“How are we doing on acquiring cable TV?”
“We're wired up and good to go, sir.”
Dixon nods. Returns his attention to Ceepak.
“Very well. You have twenty-four hours, Officer Ceepak. This time tomorrow. Sunday. Seventeen-hundred hours. But that's it. There will be no deadline extensions.”
“Thank you. Now, may we inspect the trunk?”
I hear car tires crunching across gravel.
“You'll need to ask the ladies,” says Dixon, indicating the car that just pulled into the parking pad. “Smith's sisters. Apparently, the vehicle in question belongs to one of them.”

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