Hell Hole by Chris Grabenstein Page A

couldn’t handle the stress of battle. He’s back to being one of the guys.
    â€œI believe so.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œI have no proof at this juncture.”
    â€œFuck.”
    â€œAs 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.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œBut there was no blood on the floor.”

    â€œCome again?”
    â€œSomebody cleaned it up.”
    â€œNo. He had those tissue rings around his neck.”
    â€œThe sanitary seat covers.”
    â€œRight. 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.”
    â€œNegative. 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?”
    â€œRoger that.”
    â€œWho? The janitor?”
    â€œDoubtful.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œToo soon to say.”
    â€œJesus!”
    â€œRest assured, Sergeant, we are going to investigate our suspicions further. That’s why we need to examine Smith’s vehicle. Specifically, the trunk.”
    â€œYou think the killer hid in the trunk?”
    â€œNo. 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.”
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œWhat?” says Dixon. “Fucking pirates?”
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘may’?”
    â€œI cannot guarantee that the Burlington County prosecutor’s office will welcome our interest in what they consider a closed case.”
    Dixon leans forward.
    â€œLet 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?”
    â€œActually, 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.”
    â€œHow long are we staying?” asks Lieutenant Worthless.
    â€œAs long as necessary.”
    â€œJust a moment,” Ceepak tries. Dixon isn’t listening.
    â€œWe