Mad Mouse js-2

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Of course, we can't be certain as to the exact location,” Ceepak says. “A lot depends on where the trash can was previously positioned.”

  “That's pretty close to where it was Wednesday,” I say.

  “Danny?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Pretty close is never very precise.”

  “Yeah.”

  “However, we can confirm the approximate positioning of our shooter.”

  We have also confirmed that a bullet was fired here Wednesday night. A seven-six-two millimeter special ball cartridge. The same pointy little number I heard whiz past my ear tonight.

  “Pop, snap, pop,” I mumble.

  “Come again?”

  “Wednesday night. There were all these pops and then a different sound. More like a snap.”

  “Was there a long pause between the pops and the snap?”

  I feel like a Rice Krispies commercial.

  “Maybe. Yeah.” I say it mainly because I think that's the answer Ceepak wants to hear. “Yeah, a pause. A slight one. And then the pops started up again.”

  Ceepak nods.

  “The pops and the pause present a new puzzle. Are we dealing with two shooters or a single sniper switching weapon systems?”

  “Is that possible? To change rifles that fast?”

  “If you're set up to do so. If you're good.”

  “You could do it? Couldn't you?”

  He nods.

  I look at the tiny hole the bullet ripped through the trash can, see how it splayed jagged sheet metal edges inward. It's no wonder we didn't see it before. You could fit six on top of a quarter. I can only imagine what would have happened if that same small hole was in my chest. My ribs would probably hurt even worse, but I wouldn't need Extra Strength Advil because I'd also be dead.

  “Now what?”

  “Tomorrow, we'll have Dr. McDaniels work her magic, confirm the two bullets were fired from the same weapon. I need to call some old friends. Request all potentially useful information regarding sniper training-including known sharpshooters discharged in this area, with a special focus on those who washed out.”

  That's pretty heavy-duty, I think, but I don't say anything.

  “We also need to talk to young T. J. See if he'll confess to the incident at The Pig.”

  “You don't think he did this?”

  “No. I think the paintballing of Grace Porter's sign was a random act of juvenile vandalism.”

  I just listen. He's not done yet.

  “Here and at the restaurant we see a pattern.” Ceepak starts enumerating: “Night attacks. Glow-in-the-dark paint balls, the sniper bullets.”

  “Yeah.” I scrape up a chuckle. It's one of those nervous little ones you only produce when you're starting to get totally freaked out with fear. Why do I have a hunch I know where Ceepak's going? I'm not in any hurry to go there with him.

  “I believe our shooter fired the glow balls to light up his targets. Make them easier to spot. Then he switched weapons or his accomplice opened fire.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ceepak looks at me. His lips are a straight line, his eyes narrow. I'm pretty sure I know what he's going to say next.

  “There's one more thing,” he says.

  “Yeah?” I try to sound like I'm surprised even though I'm not. “Another link? Besides the trading cards?”

  “Yes, Danny.” He pauses again.

  Oh, let's get it over with.

  “The target in both episodes,” he says. “That's what we're talking about.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

  Me and my friends.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Remember how I said the Mad Mouse roller coaster on the boardwalk is so much fun because it makes you feel like you're gonna die every time the little car zips around one of those tight curves?

  I take that back.

  Thinking you're going to die, thinking it could happen any second, having your life become an out-of-control Mad Mouse isn't that much fun, especially when some of your best friends are crammed into the roller-coaster car with you and you don't know who's manning the controls.

  The shooter wants me. Or my friends. Or both.

  Why?

  You tell me.

  “We need to discern motive,” Ceepak says as we trudge through the sand and make our way back to Tangerine Street.

  “We sure as hell do,” I say, not sounding nearly as professional as maybe I should.

  “You know, Danny …” Ceepak stops walking and looks at me with sincere concern. “I'd understand if you asked to be relieved of this duty. To be temporarily reassigned. Even if you went out on disability with PTSD. Posttraumatic stress disorder.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You wouldn't think I was a coward if I went home and hid under my bed?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Would you do it?”

  He doesn't need to answer. I know he wouldn't run away from danger because he didn't, especially not when his buddies needed him most.

  I've heard stories about some of the stuff Ceepak did over in Iraq. How he risked his own life to run up an alley under heavy fire and drag a guy to safety-some artillery gunner he didn't even know. That was back in Sadr City, the slummy section of Baghdad where they still liked Saddam. Ceepak saved that soldier's life because to him his duty is about doing more than his duty, if you catch my drift. The army gave Ceepak one of its biggest medals for that one. The Bronze Star, awarded for “heroic service” in combat.

  Ceepak never wears any of his medals, of course. He never even talks about them. When he first joined the force here back in the spring, the guys all thought he was kind of a joke on account of his Code. I heard Sergeant Santucci even called Ceepak a special kind of MP-not Military Police, but a “Missy Prissy.”

  Then some of the guys called their buddies in the army and National Guard. Asked around. They heard the stories. About that rescue in the alley. And the time Ceepak single-handedly held off this ambush outside Fallujah. Or the one about the unconscious, dehydrated Iraqi kid on a stretcher Ceepak saved with IV fluids because he was the only one who could tell the boy was suffering from heat stroke.

  When the guys at the house heard all this stuff, they quit calling Ceepak “Dudley Do-Right” and “Goody Two-Shoes,” which is one of those expressions I never understood, since everybody I know, good or bad, usually wears two shoes.

  Anyhow, I know what Ceepak does when his buddies are in danger. He does not run away. He does not hide under his bed.

  “What I might do in your situation is irrelevant, Danny,” Ceepak now says, offering me some wiggle room.

  As you may have already guessed, I've never won any medals. Not even at camp. Not even for Popsicle-stick hot-plate making-and I was pretty good at it. I don't have much practice being heroic, acting brave. Bravery for me used to mean chugging a yard of beer on a stomach full of chicken wings while my buddies chanted, “Go, go, go!”

  I have to admit, the thought of someone out there who has my pals and me in his sights makes me think maybe I was too quick to dismiss that telemarketing gig with the mortgage broker. But then I'd have to call people during dinnertime, and I guess you have to be pretty brave to do that, too.

  I look at Ceepak.

  “I might know something that'll help us catch this guy,” I say. “And I might be the only one who could possibly know it.”

  “You might also get yourself killed.” He says it grimly. “You're putting yourself in harm's way.”

  “Hey, that kind of comes with the job, right?”

  Ceepak nods.

  “Do I get a little sermon about my life being on the line Tuesday during orientation?”

  Ceepak smiles.

  “Probably not,” he says. “Mostly, it's W-2s and medical forms.”

  “Does our insurance cover bullet wounds?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then, I'm good to go. Besides, I c
an't hide under my bed. It's a mess down there. Dust bunnies. Dirty underwear. Dirty magazines.”

  Ceepak doesn't blink. So I do.

  “Come on,” I say, leading the way. “We need to get busy.”

  I figure there's no better way to start my new career. Someone wants to hurt my friends, they have to answer to me.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When we reach the street, a guy is standing near our cop car.

  It's the same one who came out when the ambulance arrived Wednesday night-the potential witness we never interviewed because it was so late. Well, it's almost one A.M. now, here he is, up and walking around.

  “More trouble?” he asks.

  “No, sir,” Ceepak answers. “You live around here?”

  The guy gestures over his shoulder to the three-story house on the corner, the one closest to the beach and, therefore, probably the most expensive rental on the block.

  “We rent. Two weeks every summer. Always the same place. We have four kids. There's satellite TV.”

  I can't quite make the connection between the number of kids and the number of digital channels at his disposal.

  “I'm a night owl,” he says. “When the kids call it quits and the wife sacks out, I watch old movies.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ceepak says. “We didn't stop by Wednesday night because your house was dark.”

  “Blackout blinds.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The TV room has blackout blinds. Makes the picture sharper. Room's soundproof, too. Nice in there. Like a movie theater.”

  Our friend's probably late thirties, early forties. Short. Ferret-faced. He's wearing a T-shirt so I can see he has a wooly patch of hair growing up his back and extremely fuzzy forearms. In fact, he has hair everywhere except, of course, on the top of his head. Up there he's got only a few thin wisps trying desperately to crawl across a vast desert of shiny skin. I peg him to be an accountant.

  “Is this a good time to ask you a few questions?”

  He checks his watch.

  “Sure. Dirty Harry doesn't start till one thirty.”

  “Wednesday night.” Ceepak pulls out his notepad.

  “The Dirty Dozen.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It was on Turner Classic Movies. Wednesday. You like The Dirty Dozen?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, what guy doesn't, am I right?”

  “On Wednesday-”

  “Wednesday was Beach Blanket Bingo. Animal House.”

  “I thought you said it was The Dirty Dozen.”

  “No. I mean those kids down on the beach having some kind of beer blast. I could hear them. Laughing. Listening to loud music.”

  “You heard them? I thought your television room was soundproof.”

  “Had to hit the head. Put the movie on pause. We have TiVo, too.”

  “So why don't you catch these late-night movies during the day?” I ask. I know TiVo. Wish I had it. Watch what you want when you want to watch it. For instance, I could watch The Simpsons all day long.

  The guy looks my way. “You don't have any kids, am I right?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Just wait. You'll see. They change everything. Kids show up. Your life is basically over. Anyhow, I was on my way to take a whiz and I heard all this rap music. That's illegal, isn't it?”

  Ceepak looks confused. “Rap music?”

  “No. Beer parties on the beach.”

  “Yes, sir. Consumption of alcoholic beverages is against posted beach regulations.” Ceepak says this without giving me a dirty look. But that doesn't mean he's forgotten it. He's already given me a ticket for that illegal left turn. He probably has a few blank citations left in his pad. Then again, I'm not the guy going around town shooting at people with two rifles. Maybe he'll let me off with a warning.

  “Did you notice anything else?” he asks the man.

  “You mean when the ambulance came?”

  “Or before.”

  “No. Just that the kids making all the noise parked over there.” He points to the spot right in front of the wooden walkway. “That's also illegal. See?” Now he points at the No Parking sign. “I wasn't going to make any big stink about it. It was late.”

  “When did you see this vehicle?”

  “When I went into the kitchen to make more popcorn.”

  “Did you notice the time?”

  “Around midnight.”

  “You sure about the time?”

  “Positive.”

  “You checked your watch?”

  “No. The microwave. It has one of those automatic popcorn buttons but I prefer to enter the time manually to insure proper poppage.”

  “Because microwave oven temperatures may vary.” Ceepak understands. Of course he does. He also follows the instructions-the rules-plainly written on the side of every Orville Redenbacher box.

  “Exactly. I can see this no-parking zone from the kitchen window. I guess I should've called you guys. Told you to bring your tow truck. People shouldn't park in no-parking zones.”

  “Sir, do you happen remember the type of vehicle you saw parked out here?”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because people park there all the time even though they're not supposed to. Maybe you guys need a bigger sign or more tow trucks.”

  “What sort of vehicle was parked there Wednesday night?”

  “One of those minivans. I don't know the make or model. They all look pretty much the same to me.”

  I agree. Try finding one in a mall parking lot. Try finding mine. I never can.

  “Do you remember the color?”

  “White.”

  Just like mine. Just like half the vans in Sea Haven.

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “There's one thing,” I say.

  They turn to look at me, surprised.

  “I didn't park there.”

  “You drive a minivan?” The guy stares at me like I've got a big “L” pasted on my forehead.

  “That wasn't your van?” says Ceepak.

  “Couldn't be.”

  “You're certain, Danny?”

  “Hey-I'm a cop. I saw the sign. You think I'd do something illegal? Besides, I couldn't afford another ticket.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Awhite minivan?” The chief shakes his head. “Well, that certainly narrows things down, now doesn't it?”

  It's close to two A.M. We've set up a war room at the house. It's actually the interrogation room in the back part of the police station, but since we don't have any suspects to chat with right now we're using it as our situation workroom. Ceepak has stuck these big paper sheets on the walls, keeping track of what we know or suspect.

  I cringe every time I see “Danny Boyle + Friends = Targets?” scribbled up there in one of the columns.

  The chief and Santucci were already here when we came back. They're pulling an all-nighter, going over their Labor Day security plans for about the ten millionth time. I think they even have helicopters flying down for the day. And they're borrowing the airplanes that usually buzz the beach towing banners advertising the New Jersey State Lotto.

  “We can't put out an APB for white minivans,” the chief says. “They're like seagulls. Too many to count.”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak. Then he places the plastic sheets holding the shooter's two different “calling cards” on the table in the center of the room. The two recovered bullets are sitting on the table in labeled evidence envelopes next to folders lined with digital photographs detailing the site of each slug. I've never seen so many close-ups of a shattered lamp or a hole in the sand. Some of the photos have black lines and angles drawn on them, like they've been used for geometry homework.

  “Did you reach Dr. McDaniels?” the chief asks.

  “She'll be here at noon tomorrow to help us make positive matches on the slugs and determine more exact trajectories.”

  “N
othing official?”

  “She understands. I'm also hoping she can give me her opinion on these.”

  “What about them?” The chief leans down to study the two trading cards.

  “They're similar, but different.” Ceepak points to the Phantom card. “Here we have a photograph. An actor or model costumed like the comic book hero posing with this woman.”

  “Is that Lois Lane?” the chief asks.

  “No, sir. Lois Lane is a character from the Superman stories. This is the Phantom.”

  “Well, she's got that Lois Lane look, you know?”

  “Note also how she is standing behind the Phantom, peering over his shoulder,” says Ceepak. “I wonder if that is psychologically significant.”

  “Could be,” the chief says. “You never know with these nutballs.”

  So much for sophisticated psychological analysis.

  “This second card,” Ceepak says, “has a more traditional comicbook look. It appears to be a cover illustration.”

  The chief peers at it.

  “Why is one card an illustration, the other a photograph?” Ceepak asks rhetorically. “I'm hoping Dr. McDaniels might offer a theory.”

  “Fine. Maybe she can lift some prints off those things, too.”

  “Possible. But doubtful.”

  “Yeah. This guy hasn't made a lot of mistakes, has he?”

  “They all make mistakes, sir. For instance, he parked in a no-parking zone. But the biggest mistake thus far committed is the violence he and/or his accomplice have perpetrated against our citizens and their property.”

  “You really think there could be two shooters?”

  “It's a possibility.”

  “Yeah.”

  It's one of the questions Ceepak listed on the Post-it sheet labeled “Unknowns.” We also don't know what kind of sniper rifle he or they used: an M14, M21, M24, or M40A1. The army has a lot of M's.”

  “So, Boyle,” the chief says, “we know who your friends are. Some of them, at least. Now we need to think about your enemies. Who hates you enough to try to kill you?”

  It's weird to hear him say it out loud like that, even though I've been asking myself the same question.