Hell Hole Read Online Free

the head or grab a snack in the shop where everything hangs in bags on pegs. They look at the giant wall map or stand in cafeteria lines so they can guzzle jumbo-sized sodas to refill their bladders and be primed to hit the next head, which, according to that wall map, is thirty-six miles down the road.
    Most of the plastic-scooped seats in the food court are empty. I see some sleepy kids in Burger King uniforms scraping down the grills. A few cold slices of pizza sit under infrared lamps at Sbarro. Tables
clustered near the Cinnabon outpost are occupied by what looks like a busload of losers on their way home from Atlantic City.
    The troopers at the entrance to the men’s room see my badge and give us the nod that says it’s okay to head in.
    â€œWhere is he?” Dixon’s voice echoes off the tiled walls in the bathroom entryway.
    â€œShit,” shouts somebody around the corner up ahead. “Who the fuck is it now? Tell’em to go take a leak in the ladies’ room.”
    I recognize the voice. Can’t figure out why.
    â€œThis is Sergeant Dale Dixon,” he barks.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œOne of the Army guys,” says some other voice up ahead.
    â€œAbout fucking time he showed up.” Again, I can’t see who’s talking. Just tiles and a mirror and one of those hand-blower deals mounted to the wall near a barrel of crumpled hand towels. “You think I got all night to stand around in a shitty crapper scraping your buddy’s brains off the fucking walls?”
    Up ahead, the corridor hits a T . There are urinals, stalls, and sinks to either side. We turn right, step into the side where all the men are. Some women too. State police. Burlington County CSI. They’re clustered in front of an open toilet stall and block our view at whoever is inside. A state trooper raises his hand, suggests we wait where we are. He also shakes his head in a way that tells me he can’t believe his bad luck in catching this call.
    I look back toward the toilet stall and see feet under the partition: one pair of scuffed black shoes facing in, one pair of high-tech sneakers facing out. The sneakers are spotted with paint. Brown paint. No. Blood.
    That would be the dead man.
    Someone in a backwards Jersey Devils cap hauling a boxy camera steps toward the open door and triggers a lightning storm of fa-whomping flashes.
    â€œJesus!” says the guy standing inside the stall. “You want to fucking blind me? Enough with the pictures, already. We don’t need’em! This thing is open-and-shut. Mr. Smith here stuck a pistol in his mouth, pulled
the trigger, and sprayed his brains against the back wall. End of story. Now move out of the way. I’m fucking starving.”
    The photographer retreats. Starts breaking down his gear.
    A fat man steps out, pulls the stall door shut behind him.
    Saul Slobbinsky.
    Actually, his real name is Saul Slominsky but everybody calls him Slobbinsky because he’s the sloppiest crime scene investigator in the state of New Jersey, maybe the world. Once he blew a county prosecutor’s whole case by smearing chocolate from a Snickers bar on the lift tape of the only fingerprint found at the scene of a pretty heinous crime.
    â€œIt’s summer,” Slobbinsky told his bosses. “It melted.” It became known as the Snickers bar defense: you screw up on the job, it’s not your fault. Blame it on the nearest candy bar.
    I met Slominsky a couple summers ago on the Tilt-A-Whirl in Sea Haven. At the time, he was with the state’s major crime unit. Usually worked a desk job but we were lucky enough to have him come out into the field that particular Saturday and muck up our evidence.
    â€œAnybody know if that Burger King out there is still open?” he asks the room, wiping his hands on his pants.
    He’s even fatter than I remember. Still has a floppy mustache. Looks like a walrus working on his winter coat of