The wet sand clung to the bottom of the shoes he polished every day before he went to work. Not often did his job bring him to the beach. Most of his time was spent pushing papers or standing in front of a camera at the court office or meeting with some constituent group that wanted something from him in exchange for their votes. It felt good to get back in the field, even if the reason was less than ideal.
“What do you make of it?” he asked, the ocean roaring its discontent a few feet away.
“Our killer has struck again.”
“Same M.O.?”
The medical examiner nodded and shook his head at the same time. The sheriff wondered if he could be added to his bobblehead collection. A voice in his left ear told him no.
“In a sense, yes,” the medical examiner said. “The only thing that’s the same is that nothing is the same.”
“Are you sure it’s our killer?”
The medical examiner pulled back the sheet. The sheriff didn’t recoil like he had the first few times. There was no way to determine or even guess at the cause of death just by looking. Overinflated lungs. Skin shredded like cheese – hard cheddar, not Velveeta. A rash under her kneepits. Many things could have caused those symptoms. But one thing was clear. The woman had something taken from her. What it was, he hadn’t been able to figure out. Only that the woman wasn’t, in some intangible way, whole.
“Did you find it?” the sheriff asked.
The medical examiner shook his head. “I’ve looked everywhere.”
“So, there is one thing that’s the same.”
“I suppose so.”
The sheriff turned away from the body and looked at the marks in the sand.
“She died somewhere else,” the sheriff said. “You can still see the blood trail along the path where the perp dragged her. There’s not much blood here. Not much of anything really.” He paused for a moment. “Do you have a T.O.D. for me?”
“Sometime last evening,” the medical examiner said. “I’d say between 8 pm and midnight.”
“Hmm.” The sheriff pursed his lips like he had seen Ponch do. “Thanks, Rick. Let me know if you find anything else.”
“Will do,” Rick said. “Say, how’s the search for a boat going? I’ve got an uncle who’s looking to sell his.”
“I had to put that on hold,” the sheriff answered. “Too busy right now to look for one. Besides, the missus has other plans for the money. Maybe when I retire.”
The sheriff forced a smile, yet his eyes grew dim in spite of his effort to maintain a happy exterior. Ever since a small lad, running barefoot along the San Andreas fault, he had dreamed of the day when he would captain his own ship. He even had a name picked out. The SS Double Integral. His totally justified fear of the sea porcupine had driven him into law enforcement.
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Rick said. “Oh, there are a couple things before you go.”
“What’s that?”
“The California legislature just labeled cheese doodles a carcinogen.”
“Nooooooo!” The sheriff’s lament roiled across the raging sea. A flock of mermaids (or possibly seals) turned their collective heads.
“Also, hers wasn’t the only murder here last night.”
“Phew.” The sheriff breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought you were going to say they had also banned Din-Dons, especially since our latest trade war with French, cream-filled, chocolate cake factories has escalated to Cold War proportions. Now, what did you say?” the sheriff asked.
“There was another murder here.”
The medical examiner pointed to his right. A pair of probational deputies knelt on the ground twenty feet away, pails and tiny shovels in their hands. The start of a castle’s walls emerged from the bronzed, sandy earth. The sheriff walked over and angrily ripped a shovel away.
“How many times have I told you?” he yelled at his recruits. “You’ve got to buttress the battlements, or they’ll collapse under the weight. What’s your name, deputy?” he roared at the blonder of the two.
“Jones, sir. Davy Jones,” the deputy said.
A wave of salty paranoia washed over the sheriff and tumbled him headlong over a beach of proverbial sand. He made a mental note to have the deputy transferred to a different precinct.
“I heard there was a body here,” the sheriff said. “Has the medical examiner already removed it?”
“We never found a body, sir.” Deputy Jones said.
The sheriff called over his shoulder towards Rick. “I thought you said someone else had been killed.”
Deputy Jones answered for the medical examiner. “Someone had. Right here.” He pointed with the end of his tiny, plastic shovel. “Or at least, this is where it gave up the ghost.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The ground here is haunted. Recently haunted.”
“How do you know?”
“I went to Harvard. And there’s a chalk outline.”
There was indeed a chalk outline, the miniscule, white particles dispersed by the wind but not so much that the profile had disappeared.
“This one was a man,” the deputy said, nodding his head thoughtfully.
“Who drew the outline?” the sheriff asked.
“Couldn’t tell. It was here when we arrived.”
A red crab peeked its eyestalks through the sand. Its giant claw – covered in a chalky, white substance – disappeared below the surface.
“That makes the fourth murder this month,” the sheriff said to no one in particular.
“You think they’re all connected?” the deputy asked. “The one in Venice Beach. The body in East L.A. And these two? Not to mention the other six since June.”
The sheriff looked up as if he had just been awakened from a dream. His eyelids fluttered for a moment. “What do you know about those murders?” he asked. “We haven’t released any of the details yet.” He eyed the deputy with suspicion.
“Truth is, I’ve always fancied myself a bit of a crime buff. Bought myself an emergency scanner last summer so I could monitor local police investigations.”
“So, you’ve been spying on the police?” the sheriff asked.
“Spying? No. I prefer to think of myself as a confidential informant who withholds information from elected officials to see if I can use it to manipulate, or perhaps impeach, them when the moment is right.”
“Oh,” the sheriff said, relieved. “That’s OK, then.”
The deputy continued. “At first, all I heard on the scanner were the usual crimes: a fisherman over the limit on spiny lobsters, an actress’ personal assistant getting sassy, some privileged American refusing to let his neighbors from around the world squat in his house, fifty or so murders. Typical day in L.A. Which brings me to June 31st. I’m sitting at the dining room table, working on my latest poem about communists who slowly overrun a society through mass immigration – it’s called the Cloward-Piven Plan. Do you want to hear a few lines? No? OK. Anyway, a 911 call comes in. Murder again. My eyes roll. What do I care? Not like it’s in my neighborhood. Then, the dispatcher says something. I don’t remember exactly what, but the murder sounded eerily similar to a couple of the earlier ones. Too similar to be a coincidence. I felt it in my gut more than I understood it. Realizing the incompetence of the local police ….” The sheriff nodded in agreement. “… and their proclivity to bash in heads without any evidence other than skin color ….” Vigorous head nodding. “I decided to join the force. Hiring me was an easy choice, seeing as how I went to Harvard. And I had my own bashing stick. Of course, I would have to put my dream of being a professional poet on hold, but what the city needed most at that moment was a competent investigator.”
The sheriff stared at the deputy and watched the sun reflect off his blond hair, blond eyebrows, and pale blond eyes. If he hadn’t been wearing his drab green uniform, the deputy would have perfectly blended into the sand.
“Well, Mr. Harvard. Tell us what you’ve been able to glean from the crime scene.”
The deputy cleared his throat. “This is speculation, you know, but based on the evidence, I can say with ninety percent probability that the following happened. The first one, the woman over there, was a crime of opportunity. The killer saw her sunbathing all alone and came over to chat her up. When she turned her back for a moment, the killer pulled a weed whacker out of his overcoat and ‘gave her a shave’. This other guy, the missing body, heard the weeding and ran over thinking he had found his new gardener. That was his last mistake, but it didn’t have to be. He saw what was happening and tried to run. The killer took off after him, but the extension cord he brought wasn’t long enough. The deceased, realizing this, stepped out of range, turned, and taunted our killer, who happened to have a vial of cobra venom which he splashed on the deceased’s face, thus ending his life.”
“I see,” said the sheriff, who began to wonder what a $40,000 a year education actually bought. “One question remains. What happened to the body?”
“Best guess. During low tide, the sea porcupines came on shore and removed it.”
The sheriff regretted ever doubting the deputy. His brown eyes glanced nervously at the ocean to see if low tide had returned.
“That’s not what happened at all.”
The sheriff turned towards the sound of the gravelly voice coming from behind the yellow police tape. A man with warm brown skin stood on the other side of the tape. Beside him crouched a tall, blonde woman, laughing maniacally with a bucketful of sand on her head.
The sheriff walked over to him. “How do you know?” he asked, suspicion and taco grease dripping from his pores.
“Because it’s ridiculous,” Country answered.
“Even the part about the sea porcupines?” The sheriff tried to hide the fear.
“I don’t know what those are, but yes.”
“Would you care to tell me what happened, then?” the sheriff said.
“I have no idea,” Country said.
The sheriff scoffed. “You’re one of those,” he said, with no further explanation.
Country stared him down, not in an effort to intimidate the sheriff, but in an attempt to size him up. “What I do know,” Country continued, “is that the woman over there is missing something.”
“Sure, Hickville. You know that because you heard us talking.” The sheriff turned to walk away.
“Check her throat,” Country said in a way that commanded authority as if he knew something that just had to be true.
“What am I looking for?” the sheriff asked, half humoring him, half believing him.
“The back of her throat,” Country said. “I believe you’ll find something missing.”
The sheriff walked to the body of the woman and had the medical examiner remove the sheet which covered her. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, he gently opened the woman’s mouth and shined his flashlight into the opening. He twisted the head side to side to get a better look.
“Hand me a tongue depressor,” he said to the medical examiner.
The sheriff pressed down and wriggled his finger inside until it reached the back of the throat. He stood up, gently removed the gloves, turning them inside out, and flung the latex fingers onto the sand. A hermit crab quickly crawled inside.
“How did you know?” the sheriff asked after he made his way back to Country.
“So, she is?” Country asked.
“Yep. The uvula has been removed with surgical precision. Once again, how did you know?”
“Just a hunch,” Country said. “By the way, my name is Marvin, but my friends call me Country.”
“Sheriff Jeremiah,” the sheriff said, holding out his hand. “No relation.”
“Huh?” Country said.
Sheriff Jeremiah ignored the question. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No. I grew up in Pennsylvania. How could you tell?”
“You have that mid-Atlantic vibe. When’d you get here?”
“My friend and I arrived a few months ago. June 11th to be precise.”
Sheriff Jeremiah’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, not long enough for Country to take notice. “June 11th,” he said to himself. A day before the first murder, he thought. “Well, Country, if that is your real name.”
“No. It’s Marvin.”
The sheriff eyed him with even more suspicion. “Well, Marvin, I think we should stay in touch. In case you can be of any more help.”
“Will do,” Country said and pulled Genny away from a seagull sitting in a tiny barber’s chair with a tinier cloth draped around its neck. The seagull squawked in anger and flew off.
“What were you doing?” Country asked.
“Making a new friend,” Genny said, flakes of sand fused into her golden hair. “How about you?”
“The same,” he said. “I hope.”
The two friends walked along together as the sun’s rays blistered the sandy shore. Somewhere out over the water, the cry of a half-shaved seagull carried across the sea-green expanse. Below the surface, a herd of sea porcupines planned their next move.