Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

“Just another … you know … kid with a paintball gun. Maybe the same guy … from the beach.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I'm fine. Just a bruise. Olivia was a little less lucky, though.”

  “What do you mean? Olivia?”

  “She was in the parking lot with me and Ceepak. She took a shot in the ribs.”

  “Ohmigod.”

  “Don't worry. Jess took her to the hospital. Mainland Medical.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Jess says so. Treated and released.”

  “I should call her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you guys know who's doing this stuff?”

  “We're working on it but, you see—I'm not supposed to talk about it too much.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Grab that box there.”

  “The Junior Mints?”

  “Yeah.”

  Before I bend over, Katie frowns.

  “You've got to catch this guy, Danny.”

  “I know.”

  “No matter what. I mean it. It's not funny. People shouldn't get their kicks like that, hurting other people.”

  I try to make her smile.

  “We should all play nice.” I put it in kindergarten terms.

  “Yes. We should.”

  “Don't worry. We'll get him.”

  “Good.” She surprises me with a kiss on the lips. Mook may have kissed her first, back in the fifth grade, but I doubt little Katie Landry lingered on his lips like big Katie's lingering on mine. It's the sweetest kiss of my whole life, in fact, and not because we're in this candy shop and there's chocolate fumes and sugar dust in the air.

  When we're done, Katie looks into my eyes.

  “Do your job, okay, Danny?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “I mean it!”

  “I will.”

  “Good.” She checks her watch. “Eight twenty-five. I better hustle.”

  “Okay. Ceepak's meeting me here in, like, five minutes.”

  She moves some rainbow-colored suckers around on the top of the counter. I rip open another cardboard box.

  “Where do these go?”

  “Second shelf.”

  I bend down, lift out the plastic bag.

  I hear a crack. Cinnamon hearts start to trickle down to the floor behind me. I see their Plexiglas bin has a tiny hole bored in its bottom so it's paying off like a slot machine, raining down a steady stream of red beads.

  I look to my left.

  Katie's on her back on the floor.

  There's a small circle of red seeping through her white blouse like a leaky pocket pen.

  “Katie …”

  I cradle her head.

  “Daaa.” she can only croak out half my name, the gurgling in her chest cuts off the rest. Her eyes go swimming before they roll up white and flutter shut.

  “Hang on, Katie.”

  I can barely say it.

  “Hang on.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ihear knocking on the glass door.

  Ceepak. I raise my head above the counter and scream. “Call nine-one-one! Call nine-one-one!”

  Ceepak reads my lips and slams his palm against the lock above the doorknob. When the lock won't pop, he slams the door's steel frame with his shoulder. He bounces back and does it again, putting his bulk behind it. I see him wince at the impact but the door flies open.

  “She's hit!” I call out.

  Ceepak punches the shoulder mic to his walkie-talkie.

  “This is Officer Ceepak. Urgently request Medevac helicopter. Schooner's Landing. Saltwater Tammy's. Gunshot wound.” He peers over the counter and sees Katie sprawled on the floor, her head cradled in my lap. “Severe chest trauma. Send the helicopter now. Over.”

  “Ten-four,” I hear our dispatcher say. “I'll check with the chief and—”

  “Now! Do I make myself clear, over?”

  “Roger. But Medevac is state and—”

  “Do it. On my say-so. Over.”

  “Roger. But—”

  “Send the chopper, Helen. Send it now.”

  “Roger. Wilco.”

  When you ask Ceepak to call 9-1-1, he calls 9-1-1. He crouches behind the counter, looks at Katie's chest.

  “A,B,C,D, Danny,” he says. “Make sure her Airway is open.” He scoops some pinkish foam and chunky vomit out of Katie's mouth. “Second, monitor Breathing.” He bends down to listen to her nose and mouth. “Shallow but steady. Check Circulation.” He grabs her wrist and flicks over his watch so he can monitor her pulse. “Weak. Check for any Disability.”

  “Disability? He fucking shot her!”

  “Danny? Focus.”

  I hear sucking sounds echoing Katie's short, hollow breaths. Every time her chest expands, I hear a gurgling wheeze, like someone's Hoovering the bottom of a milkshake.

  “Is there any Saran Wrap in the shop?” Ceepak asks. “Perhaps a plastic bag?” Ceepak tears open Katie's blouse. I see blood has seeped into and stained the bottom of her left bra cup. The one over her heart. “Danny? We need a sheet of plastic. ASAP.”

  Ceepak pumps Katie's chest.

  “Any plastic will do.”

  I pull the half-empty bag of Junior Mints out of its box, dump the chocolates on the floor, hand Ceepak the plastic bag.

  “That'll work. See if you can secure some tape.”

  “Tape.”

  “Roger that.” He keeps pressing down on Katie's chest at regular, rhythmic intervals. In between pumps, he spreads and smooths the plastic bag over her chest wound.

  I head for where I see a stack of foldable white boxes near a candy scale. There's a roll of “Saltwater Tammy's” cellophane sealing tape.

  “Exhale, Katie.” Ceepak waits for her to expel a breath. “That a girl.” He stretches the plastic sheet taut over the bullet hole. “Tape. Three long pieces.” He extends his right hand like a surgeon calling for a scalpel. My hands shake but I'm able to rip three pieces off the roll using my teeth. Ceepak tapes down three sides of the bag. “We need to leave one corner open to create a makeshift flutter valve,” he says after securing the plastic to Katie's bloody chest. “We don't want air becoming trapped in the chest cavity.”

  He leans in close to Katie's ear.

  “Help is on the way,” he says, lightly stroking damp hair out of Katie's eyes. “Help is on the way.”

  I sink back on my haunches. Scared. But I know: help has already arrived.

  A helicopter landing at the entrance to Schooner's Landing wasn't listed on the schedule of “Special Labor Day Weekend Events,” so the noisy arrival of the whirlybird draws a crowd when it touches down. Paper cups and napkins and newspaper sheets scatter like grass clippings in the wake of an enormous leaf blower.

  Ceepak and I run beside the gurney as they wheel Katie out. We move into the air wash under the blades. The EMTs have strapped an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. IV bags dangle off poles welded onto the sides of the rolling stretcher. The helicopter is thumping and whumping so I can't hear everything Ceepak's saying to the paramedics, but it sounds like he's giving them a rundown of Katie's vital signs. They give Ceepak the thumbs up and slide Katie into the chopper.

  “Danny? Go!” Ceepak tilts his head to tell me to climb in and ride in the helicopter with Katie.

  But I remember what Katie said: “Do your job.”

  “No,” I yell to Ceepak. “I can do more here.”

  Ceepak slaps the side of the chopper.

  “Go!” he yells to the pilot and, hunched over, we trot away as the helicopter lifts off, swoops south, banks west, and zooms across the bay.

  “She'll be at Mainland Medical in under five,” Ceepak says. “The trauma team is standing by at the ER and will be fully briefed by the incoming EMTs.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “We need to notify her family.”

  “She … doesn't have any. Her parents are both dead.”


  Ceepak nods.

  “She's strong, Danny.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Real strong.”

  “Yeah.”

  “John?” It's Chief Baines. “Inside.” He does a quick head tilt toward the candy shop. “Now!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ithought you said this guy only attacked at night?”

  “Yes, sir. Until this morning.”

  The chief looks flustered. Ceepak looks like his mind is twirling as fast as those helicopter blades. The shooter just changed the rules of the game. Ceepak needs to adjust. Anticipate the next move.

  “And why the hell did you call in the chopper? The state police are going to start asking questions. Medevac is state!”

  “I assessed field conditions and determined the airlift to be the most prudent course of action given the severity of the situation.”

  “Jesus, John. You could've called an ambulance. Or isn't an ambulance dramatic enough for you?”

  “Drama did not enter into the equation, sir.”

  “Well, what the hell were you thinking?”

  “Sir, holiday weekend traffic patterns suggest the causeway will be gridlocked at this time on a Saturday morning. Even with an ambulance's siren, flashing lights, and a bridge full of cooperative motorists, the land route would have taken too long. We are in what search-and-rescue teams call ‘the golden hour.’ How quickly Ms. Landry receives thorough medical attention will determine her chances for survival.”

  Jesus. Survival?

  “I see,” Baines says, sucking in a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Good call, John. Good call.”

  I hear brakes squeal outside and see the police department's flatbed truck pull up in front of Tammy's. It's the truck we use to haul parade barricades and detour signs and stuff like that around town. There are six guys in the back with a tall stack of full plywood sheets. The guys lower the tailgate and slide off the first twelve-foot panel. I see the cop in charge pointing to Saltwater Tammy's plate-glass windows, one of which now sports two bullet holes. One for me. One for Katie. The guys outside will seal off the scene of the crime. Hide it from public view. Keep what happened in here a big, fat secret.

  “We need to keep the evidence chain clean for Dr. McDaniels,” Chief Baines explains to Ceepak when the crew leans the first sheet of plywood against the plate glass windows. “Need to discourage the looky-lous from congregating outside, contaminating the crime scene.”

  “Right,” Ceepak says. I don't think he's even listening to the chief. I think he's thinking, working the mission. I also think Chief Baines may have his own mission. He wants to stop anybody from guessing what really happened in here before he has a chance to spin the story the way he wants it to go.

  “The shooter has undoubtedly fled the scene,” Ceepak says. “We need to immediately canvass all potential sniper sites.” He does his three-finger hand-chop in the direction of all the possible locations.

  Tammy's is situated in a valley shadowed by the shopping center's three-tiered boardwalk, the fake lighthouse up on the third floor, and the crow's nest atop that schooner's mast. Plus, there's a water slide across the street and about a hundred balconies being built onto condos across the parking lot at that construction site. Potential sniper sites, all.

  “You think he left another calling card?” the chief now asks.

  “Yes, sir. Unless he's changed that part of his M.O., too.”

  “Mook was upstairs,” I say.

  “Come again?” Ceepak says.

  “Who the hell is Mook?” The chief is a step or two behind.

  “Mook did this.” I have everybody's attention now. “Him and his friends. He was upstairs at the coffee shop. He has a buddy who's ex-army with a white minivan. A sharpshooter.”

  The chief jams his hands against his hips. “How do you—?”

  “Last night,” I interrupt the chief. I'm probably not supposed to do that but I'm new on the job. “I ran into Harley Mook at the diner. He's someone I know. He said his friend was a better shot than Ceepak. Mr. Mook also gave some indication he was jealous about the nature of my relationship with Ms. Landry.” I'm trying my best to say it like Ceepak would say it.

  “Where did you see him, Danny?” Ceepak asks. “Where was he this morning?”

  “Sun Coast Coffee. Upstairs.”

  I point out the front window. I never had any reason before to notice that you can see the tops of Sun Coast's caf, umbrellas from down here, that Saltwater Tammy's was a stone's throw away from the coffee shop upstairs.

  A stone or a bullet—take your pick.

  Ceepak and I walk purposefully up the boardwalk ramps to the third level. Other cops are scouting all the other possible sniper locations. We're only walking when we'd rather run because the chief specifically ordered us not to run, not to draw any “undue attention” to ourselves.

  “Where was he?” Ceepak asks.

  “Over there. That table. Closest to the door.”

  I notice Ceepak's eyes scanning the horizon. I do the same. Mook is long gone.

  “Was the other one here?” Ceepak asks. “His soldier friend?”

  “No. Not that I saw.”

  We reach the café table and do a quick visual survey of the scene. No plastic-wrapped trading cards. Ceepak feels around underneath the table.

  Stops.

  “What's wrong?”

  “I forgot to put on my gloves.”

  Ceepak pulls his hands out from under the table, reaches into his cargo pants, pulls out a pair of white evidence gloves, slips them over his hands, and goes back to work, patting under the bottom of the circular table.

  He finds something, drops to his knees, fishes out his tweezers. He peels whatever it is from the underside of the table.

  “Baseball card.” Ceepak shows me his tweezered treasure. “Derek Jeter. New York Yankees.”

  “Excuse me? Officers?”

  We look over. It's this guy wearing a chef's apron and bow tie. He has colorful buttons pinned up and down his apron straps. I recognize the costume. It's what the waiters wear at The Chowder Pot. I check out their outdoor dining deck. If you kneeled behind the wooden railing, you'd have another clean shot down at Saltwater Tammy's windows.

  “I was setting up tables on the deck, and I think somebody might've lost this. Sorry it's wet. The sprinklers must've hit it this morning.” He holds another baseball card with water beads dotting its plastic sleeve. “It's Jeter's rookie card. 1996. Could be pretty valuable. Figure I better turn it in.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ceepak uses his tweezers to take it from him. “Thank you for doing the right thing. This card might prove very valuable, indeed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Thirty minutes later, the municipal brain trust from the Sea Haven Chamber of Commerce and the mayor's office is assembled inside Saltwater Tammy's.

  Good thing the candy shop has bright fluorescent bulbs. Because the plywood walls the police crew propped against the windows have totally blocked out any natural light. Two cops are posted in front of the makeshift door—a sheet of plywood that wasn't screw-gunned into place with all the others. Tammy won't be very happy when she sees what we've done with her place.

  Mazzilli is behind the counter. He helps himself to free malted milk balls. Mayor Sinclair is next to him nibbling nervously on a foot-long gummi worm, taking it in a centimeter at a time, like Bugs Bunny working his way down a carrot. I'd write them both up for shoplifting, but we're kind of busy.

  “I still feel we can safely assume no immediate threat to the general population,” Baines says, mostly to hear himself say it.

  “You're right,” Mazzilli says and pops another malted milk ball in his mouth. “It's some kind of vendetta against one young man and his friends.” He points at me. There's melted chocolate smeared all over his fingers.

  “He's right,” says Mr. Weese, the mortgage broker. “We can't risk everything we've worked for all year long to protect one individual. Sorry, son.
”

  Yeah, as long as your kids and grandkids are safe, who cares about everybody else?

  “Boyle here is a professional,” Chief Baines says. “He understands that this town cannot and will not be held hostage by terrorists.”

  Baines is strutting again. His flop sweat is gone. Somebody must've brought him a fresh shirt from the office. It also looks like he nipped into Tammy's washroom and slicked down his hair after a refreshing head dunk in the sink.

  “Officer Ceepak and his team will continue their investigation. Right, John?” Baines doesn't give Ceepak time to answer. “Meanwhile, we'll tell anybody who asks that what happened here this morning was the work of intoxicated college students armed with BB guns.”

  BB guns, my ass.

  We found another one of those special ball cartridges buried in the cinnamon-hearts tub. It had been meant for me, but I'd just happened to duck down to open a crate of candy when it whizzed past. The good news? Ceepak says the hole in the window coupled with the hole in the Plexiglas Red Hots tub will enable us to calculate a pretty precise trajectory. Two points make a straight line, he reminded me.

  Dr. McDaniels is also on her way. She'll probably point out something we don't see, probably something that's right under our noses.

  Ceepak has been working his phone. I told him what Mook told me this morning: that he'd been paying for his Sea Haven stay with a credit card. Ceepak just asked our computer people back at the house to track Mook's recent transactions and tell us which motel.

  Other calls are also going out from headquarters to sporting goods stores and eBay on account of all the Derek Jeter baseball cards. So far, we have seven, one Jeter taped in almost every possible sniper location. Upstairs at the coffee shop and The Chowder Pot, across the street at the water slide, on top of the schooner mast—the Derek Jeters were everywhere. The ones near any kind of shrubbery were wet, spritzed by sprinklers.

  “Our doer placed them prior to six A.M.,” Ceepak concludes. He's talked to some maintenance people and found out when Schooner's Landing automatically flips on the waterworks every morning. “The hydration moves across the mall in a series of contiguous zones. Each zone is sprayed for an interval of ten to twelve minutes. The timers initiate the spraying cycle at five A.M., complete it at six-oh-two.”