Mad Mouse js-2

by Chris Grabenstein

  “We'll get him, Danny. You have my word.” He turns around. “Mark?”

  “Yeah?” Malloy stops unrolling yellow tape.

  “We need units there and there.” He does this three-finger air chop pointing at the two corner houses. “ASAP. I'm taking Danny inside.”

  I hear sirens, see two more cop cars swing into the lot.

  “Come on, Danny. Inside.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  I clutch my chest. It hurts more than I let Ceepak know, but not as much as seeing my friend Olivia crying like that.

  I guess this is what they mean in all those cop movies:

  Now it's personal.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Was this a bias incident? A hate crime?” The one asking the question is Penny Jennings. She writes for the Sea Haven Sandpaper, our weekly newspaper and fish-wrapper.

  Chief Baines doesn't answer. He's busy pacing and rubbing his mustache. Two hours after the incident, we've set up a command center in one of the function rooms Morgan's rents out to private parties. It's where the Rotary Club meets on Mondays-there's a small podium with their Golden Gear seal taped to its front lying in a corner near a stack of booster chairs.

  Baines has called in Penny and several of the town's top citizens in an effort to stop any hysteria about “this unfortunate incident” before it gets started.

  “If we link the attack tonight to the earlier incident at The Pig's Commitment,” our reporter continues, “does that mean our shooter is some sort of white supremacist?”

  “You mean because the waitress tonight and Grace Porter are both Negroes?” says Mr. Weese, my mortgage broker buddy. Weese, I've just learned, is chairman of the Chamber of Commerce's Labor Day Celebration Committee, though he seems unlikely to be the one who came up with that Boogaloo BBQ idea. Anyhow, I can tell he wants all this stuff that's not listed in the official program to go away. “That's patently preposterous!”

  There are six distinguished citizens here, including Mayor Sinclair, who's dressed in his usual uniform of khakis, polo shirt, and sunglasses draped around his neck with a red Croakie string, even though it's almost midnight. Ceepak, me, and a couple of other boys in blue are here, too-just waiting for the chief to give us our marching orders. Morgan's will provide all the free coffee we want. It figures to be a long night.

  Olivia is at the hospital. She wasn't hurt all that badly but Ceepak insisted she go get checked out. She didn't need an ambulance. I called Jess on his cell, and he came and drove her over to Mainland Medical. He'll stay with her all night if they keep her.

  “What about the FBI? Should we call them?” Mr. O'Malley asks. Skipper's dad.

  Baines ponders this. Paces.

  “Can we wait until Tuesday?” Now it's Bruno Mazzilli. He owns half the buildings on the boardwalk. “I've got a shitload of money tied up in this damn MTV thing.”

  “We all do,” says O'Malley.

  “Yeah, but I'm talking perishables,” says Mazzilli. “Ribs. Chicken. Burgers. Not to mention fifty-gallon drums of cole slaw, baked beans, and potato salad. We call off the damn beach party, I'm not gonna be too happy.”

  “Get it through your heads,” the mayor says, suddenly smelling the twenty-ton gorilla in the room, the giant ape they've all been tiptoeing around. “We cannot call the FBI! Not again. Not twice in one summer.” Our mayor is also the proud proprietor of a couple of motels, a car wash, and two ice cream shops. He doesn't want G-men scaring people away from his cash registers again the same way they did back in July. “Jesus. This could kill us!” He swipes his finger across his throat to help paint the picture. “We'd never recover!”

  The chief stops pacing. He holds up both his hands, palms out.

  “Okay. Take it easy, folks. Sea Haven will remain safe, secure, and serene. This is something we can handle ourselves.”

  The chief is acting like the stalwart sea captain in a bad storm. Everybody else is freaking out, scrambling for lifeboats, and he's keeping his hand steady on the tiller.

  The business people nod their heads when they hear what they wanted to hear. They need to believe, so they do. Everything is going to be okay.

  Ceepak stands up.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “a rifle was fired at two off-duty police officers and a female civilian this evening.” As he recites these cold facts, you can see it send a fresh chill through the assembled dignitaries.

  “No need to be melodramatic, Officer Ceepak,” says Mr. Weese, the way he probably says it to his wife when she squeals after seeing a bug skitter near her open-toed shoe.

  Mazzilli agrees. “You sure it wasn't one of those paintballs or whatever? You sure it was a bullet?”

  “I am,” I say. “I heard it.”

  “What? A bullet sounds special?” Mazzilli flaps his hand at me. “How does this kid know it was a bullet? What does Danny Boyle know from bullets?”

  “Our officers working the scene have retrieved the slug,” Ceepak corrects him flatly. “It's a seven-six-two millimeter special ball cartridge.”

  “So? What's that supposed to mean?” Mazzilli leans back in his chair and drapes his arms across his gut. “What's this seven-six-two special ball crap?”

  “Means it's the same cartridge the United States Army issues to its snipers.”

  Skipper's dad moans. “The army?”

  “So the kid borrowed his dad's hunting rifle and stole some ammo from the army.” Bruno waves the air in front of his face like it's all no big deal. “Besides, if you already got the bullet, it's a cinch to catch the guy. I see it on TV all the time. You use your ballistics. It's like a science. So just do the damn ballistics and haul the kid in.” He wipes his hands together to signify that's all there is to it.

  “Are we sure it's a kid?” A new voice is now heard. Keith Barent Johnson-or KBJ, like it says on the monogrammed hanky he's dabbing across his damp forehead. Mr. Johnson owns a slew of motels, most of which probably have their No Vacancy signs lit up for Labor Day weekend. I know he'd hate to have to flip off that first glowing word.

  “Of course it's a kid, you schmuck!” Mazzilli practically screams. “Who else leaves a comic book as his calling card?”

  “All right.” Chief Baines has heard enough debate. “Here's what we're going to do.”

  The mayor raises his hand. “You're not gonna call the FBI are you, Buzz?”

  Baines shoots an exasperated glance at him. The mayor raises both hands as if to say, “Sorry-I'll shut up now.”

  Baines turns to Ceepak.

  “John?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you to intensify your investigation. Make sure you've got something besides circumstantial evidence. We either catch him red-handed or else you need to build a rock-solid case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Meanwhile, Santucci and I take charge of securing the boardwalk for the Labor Day event. If you need additional resources, ask.”

  “I need Boyle.”

  “He's your partner. If you need him for this, you've got him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now the chief turns his attention to me.

  “Did you sustain any injuries in the assault?”

  “I'm good to go,” is all I say.

  Fortunately, I was able to clean myself up in Morgan's restroom before the meeting started. I washed most of the paint gunk out of my hair and Rita gave me a souvenir Morgan's Surf and Turf T-shirt with a goofy-looking cow and crab dancing together on the back. When I changed shirts, I noticed I was a little bruised, but nothing serious. The worst part was drying my hair underneath the hot-air hand blower in the bathroom. I had to duck down, punch the button, and let the thing whirr on my scalp about seven different times.

  The chief leans on the table, props himself up with his fists.

  “Run this thing down, John. I'm counting on you.”

  “I'd like to call in Dr. McDaniels. State CSI.”

  Ceepak worked with McDaniels back in July. She's
tops in her field-practically wrote the book on forensic investigation techniques. In fact, she did write one. A standard textbook. Ceepak showed it to me. He keeps a copy in the patrol car's glove compartment and another on his nightstand. Variations in blood-splatter patterns make for soothing bedtime reading.

  “Call her,” the chief says, “but not officially, is all. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I think this means Dr. McDaniels can help but only if nobody catches on that she is. Keep it local, keep it quiet. That's the message.

  Baines now clears his throat, makes sure he still has everybody's attention. “We need to put a stop to whoever's doing this. Simultaneously, we need to throw a publicity blanket over our efforts. We must not engender panic. We will tell anyone who asks that tonight's incident was the reckless act of juvenile delinquents, the tragic consequence of underage drinking. Penny?” He turns to the local reporter. “Will you work with me on this?”

  Since The Sandpaper mostly runs front-page stories about walkathons and unicyclists, the closest Penny Jennings has ever come to muckraking was this three-part series on “Cable TV Lineup Under Scrutiny.” She'll play along.

  “People witnessed the attack,” she reminds him.

  “Well, keep it vague, then. Just a prank that got out of hand. That kind of thing. No bullets or snipers, okay?”

  “Are you issuing a gag order?” she asks.

  “No. More like a gag request.” He gives her a special smile.

  “Well, in that case …”

  “Thank you. John?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Speedy results are what I'm looking for. Anything you need, call.”

  “Roger that. Danny?”

  Ceepak motions for me to follow him out of the dining room.

  “Do that ballistics shit,” Mazzilli screams after us. “Works all the time.”

  We hit the hallway.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “Let's swing by my apartment. I need my kit.”

  His evidence kit. His crime scene tools. His cargo pants.

  “Then we need to hit the beach.”

  “Which one?”

  “I believe you called it Tangerine.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Qwick Pick Mini Mart on Ocean Avenue is a cop's paradise. They have a dozen different pots of coffee going at once, everything from Decaf Ginger Espresso to Chocolate Macadamia. They also have Krispy Kreme doughnuts that are supposedly fresh, even at one in the morning, which is what it is now. There's nothing like a chocolate-iced-glazed-with-sprinkles and a cup of hazelnut to jolt you into your second or third wind, especially if you also grab a Mountain Dew from up front, the ice barrel that looks like a big Pepsi can.

  We came here after stopping at Ceepak's apartment because I need Advil. My ribs ache. I walk past the aisles filled with Combos and Chex Mix and Taystee Cakes to the one where the individual-serving-size medicine packets dangle on metal pegs. Heartburn, headache, hangover: they've got all the pain bases pretty well covered. I notice Ceepak over in Beach Needs rummaging around in the inflatable balls and sand buckets until he finds a spool of kite string.

  At his apartment, he ran upstairs to grab his gear. Five minutes later, he hustled back down the steps in his cargo pants lugging an aluminum attaché case and his Surfmaster II metal detector.

  This is what he does on his days off. He takes his metal detector down to the beach and hunts for buried treasure. You know: loose change, Rolexes, pirate booty.

  “It helps me sharpen my forensic skills,” he says. “I unearth metal objects and attempt to construct a plausible history for them. Every found item has its own story. I try to decipher it.”

  I hand a twenty to the cashier, get my change, then tear open two packets of Advil, swigging the caplets down with some cold, caffeine-rich Dew.

  “All set?” Ceepak asks, paying for his string.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Roger that. Let's hit the beach.”

  We head out the door.

  On the way over to Ceepak's, we stopped by the house and left my minivan in the parking lot, taking the Ford Explorer we normally patrol in on the job. We also heard from Kiger and Malloy. They had talked to the folks in both residences on either side of the water tower. Nobody had heard anything. Nobody saw anything. Our guys found nothing. No spent cartridges, no fingerprints, no more trading cards. Our shooter is holding on to his Phantom status.

  “You think there's any significance to the comics he's choosing?” I ask as we pull off Ocean onto Tangerine.

  “Certainly.”

  “What?”

  “Perhaps he sees himself as some sort of avenger. A mystery man lurking in the shadows, righting past wrongs.”

  “Not your typical Sea Haven hobby.”

  “Or”-Ceepak ignores me-“he could just be a kid with too many trading cards he can't sell on eBay. It's too early to connect all the dots.”

  “So, what are we looking for down on the beach?”

  “More dots.”

  I park at the end of Tangerine where it dead-ends against the dunes. We walk up the sandy slope, past the bench, down to where we had our little bonfire Wednesday night. I carry our digital camera and the aluminum attaché case. Ceepak has his metal detector, the kite string, and whatever else he tucked into his multiple pockets tonight.

  “Are we looking for anything in particular?” I ask.

  “Thus far, we have three paintball incidents. Here, The Pig's Commitment, Morgan's. Crime scenes one and three are linked by the shooter's calling cards. Hits one and three took place at night and involved glow-in-the-dark paintballs.”

  “You think there might be more links? Between one and three?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Ceepak slips on these earmuff-style headphones and flicks on his metal detector. He walks in an expanding circle around the small pit where my crew toasted marshmallows Wednesday night. He widens out with every sweep. I get a little dizzy, watching him march around and around, increasing his circle's diameter in measured increments each time he repeats the sweep. Then, on the thirteenth or fourteenth circle, he finds something. Ceepak switches off the metal detector, kneels on the sand.

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “In my attaché case, you'll find a photographer's squeeze-bulb brush. Could you please bring it over here?”

  “Sure.” I open the case. I quickly see what I think he's looking for. I pull it out of its little foam nook and hustle over to Ceepak.

  “Careful,” he cautions me.

  “Sorry.” He's digging a hole in the sand like a kid starting the moat for his castle.

  “Do you have your Maglite?”

  In fact, no. But I pull out my keyring. I have this tiny Bud Light flashlight hanging off it. I squeeze it and aim its dim beam into Ceepak's pit while he brushes and blows away some sand.

  “There it is,” he says.

  I see the glint of metal. Gold. Copper. The butt end of a bullet.

  Ceepak takes the digital camera and snaps some photos. Then, reaching into his hip pocket, he pulls out a pair of tweezers and a paper evidence envelope.

  “Seven-six-two millimeter special ball,” Ceepak says after examining the bullet. Because it landed in the sand, the tip isn't bent or crushed. It's pointy. Like a pencil or maybe a lipstick. “Note the gliding metal jacket. It is, as you see, boat-tailed.”

  Okay. Fine. If he says so. I have no idea what boat-tailed means. But I'm sure I'll find out.

  “See how the rear is tapered for a tight, targeted flight? This is the preferred cartridge for the army-issue M-14 series as well as the M-21 and M-24 SWS's.”

  Sniper Weapon Systems.

  “You think our shooter's an army guy?”

  “It's one possibility.” Ceepak marks the spot where he extracted the bullet with this little plastic putt-marker he had stowed in his knee pocket. He looks up toward the road.

  “Interesting.” Ceepa
k moves toward the oil drum trash barrel. He leans over and looks inside it.

  “Danny? Your flashlight.”

  I hand him my keyring.

  “You squeeze it to make it glow,” I explain.

  He gets it working and shines it around inside the trash can. Thankfully, there's not much in it besides some empty soda bottles and one disposable diaper.

  “Obviously it's been emptied and moved since Wednesday night.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think they empty it every day.”

  “They should. They should also recycle these plastic bottles.”

  I'm sure Ceepak recycles. I'm sure he separates his number ones and number twos-doesn't let his liquid detergent bottles mingle with his milk jugs.

  He flashes my little keychain gizmo against the inside of the barrel. From the outside, I see a pinprick of white. He swings it to the other side; I see another light hole, a little lower.

  “Help me here, Danny.” Ceepak pulls out the kite string. “Rotate the barrel.”

  We twist the can so the side with the lower hole is facing Ceepak's putt-marker. Then, he threads the kite string through that hole and out the other.

  “Hold that. Right against the hole.”

  “Okay.”

  Ceepak lets out a little more kite string and walks backwards. Kneeling down, he pulls the string taut and places it on top of the putt-marker.

  “Rotate the can. Two degrees north.”

  I do.

  “A little more.”

  I comply.

  “Excellent. Slide the can toward the street two inches.”

  “Right.”

  “Hold the string.”

  Ceepak tugs. The kite string goes taut. We have a straight line.

  “Now, step aside. Good.” Ceepak pulls out some kind of chubby ballpoint pen. He lies down on the sand. “Look toward the street, Danny.” I turn. “See it?”

  There's a small red dot on the back of the bench, right near the edge of the top board. Ceepak's using a laser pointer to recreate the bullet's trajectory. It shoots up from the sand, through the two holes in the trashcan, hits the back of the bench. I'll bet he learned how to do this on one of his TV shows. Anyway, we just more or less confirmed where the sniper was Wednesday night.