Weese delivers this lesson as if he's talking to two-year-olds. Ceepak could care less.
“Why did you step out of the van?”
“Excuse me?”
“Oak Street. The garage. While you waited for Harley Mook, you stepped out of the minivan and walked around the front of the vehicle, went to the rear wheel well on the passenger side.”
Weese's face flashes surprise. He didn't expect Ceepak to know that little footprint factoid. But he doesn't let it faze him.
“I suppose I needed to stretch my legs. The minivan provides inadequate legroom for someone of my stature.”
“How'd you switch weapons? On the beach. Outside Morgan's.” Ceepak zigs and zags, jumbles up the crime scenes. “How did you switch from the paintball rifle to the M-24?”
“I'm quite fast with my hands,” Weese says, sounding proud. “I practiced for months.”
“We know. You practiced at Paintball Blasters on the boardwalk.”
“That is correct. Good work, detective.”
“You wore surfer gloves.”
“Who told you that?”
“It makes no difference.”
“Was it that handsome lad with the spiky hair? Is he still so sullen and surly?”
“Why did you leave fingerprints on the M-24?”
“I'm sorry?”
“The gloves? How did your fingerprints end up on the rifle if you were wearing gloves?”
“Simple, moron. I took them off.”
“Before you switched weapons?”
“That's right.”
“Why?”
“They were extremely hot.”
The lawyer? His head is flipping back and forth like he's watching Forrest Gump at that Chinese Ping-Pong tournament.
“You put down the paintball rifle …”
“Correct.”
“… took off the gloves …”
“Yes.”
“… picked up the M-24, aimed it, shot.”
“That's right.”
“All in a manner of seconds?”
“As I said, I'm quite speedy. Practice makes perfect.”
Pop, snap, pop? Weese is no Ceepak. He's not that fast.
“How tall are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“How tall?”
“Why do you wish to know?”
Ceepak digs through a stack of folders piled on the table near his elbow, finds what he's looking for, slips it out, flips over Weese's booking shot, the one where you stand in front of a scale marked off in feet and inches.
“Six feet, three inches,” Ceepak says.
“Can I see that?” The lawyer says it like he's in court and needs to examine State Exhibit A or whatever. Ceepak doesn't care. He slides the photo over. The lawyer pulls out his reading glasses. “Let the record show-”
Ceepak cuts him off. “Tell me, George. How did you shoot your weapons?”
“Let's see … oh, I remember. I pulled the triggers.”
“How were you set up?”
“Excuse me?”
“Were you prone? Standing? Did you use the bipod on the SWS?”
The look on Weese's face? I'm not sure he knows what a bipod is, that it's the little leg thingie up front to steady the nose of the rifle.
“Yes. I used a bipod.”
“Where did you shoot from?”
“Different locations.”
“The minivan?”
“Obviously.”
“Where?”
“What?”
“Out the front windshield?”
“No, I did not shoot out the front window. The glass would be shattered if I did. Imbecile.”
Ceepak smiles. “Where then? I know you didn't use the sliding door when you killed Harley Mook. If you did, all you would have hit is a garage wall and some gardening supplies.”
“Brilliantly deduced, detective.”
“So, when you shot from the minivan, how did you do it?”
Weese hesitates before answering. “I stepped outside the van, propped my weapon-”
“You mean weapons.”
“That's right. I stand corrected. I propped my weapons, both of them, in the window of an open door. That's why you found my footprints. I was walking around, looking for the best shooting position. Decided to open the front door, use the window to brace myself.”
“So you positioned your bipod on the driver-side window?”
“That's right.”
“Did you have the paintball rifle in one hand, the M-24 in the other?”
“Maybe.”
“So you were only wearing one glove? Right or left hand?”
“Both. Then I took them off.”
The lawyer and I? We're both trying to imagine how Weese would look doing what he's telling us he did: juggling two rifles, balancing them on a car door, removing gloves. Playing Twister is less complicated.
“Was the window rolled down?”
“Of course.”
“All the way?”
“Yes. I wanted to position my bipod on the crack where the glass goes down into the door. There's a rubber sealing-strip there. Good support surface for my bipod.”
“I see.”
Ceepak stops. Waits. Starts in again.
“How tall is the bottom edge of the window on your minivan?”
“I haven't a clue. Do you? Did you, perchance, take a mug shot of my minivan?” Weese seems pleased with this little zinger.
“We can.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“Would you agree that the driver-side window ledge is shorter than you?”
“Well, obviously.”
“So you crouched down? While you balanced the two rifles?”
“Yes. I practiced at the gym. Did squats with weighted poles balanced upon my shoulders.”
“Your quadriceps didn't cramp up?”
“No.” Weese eyes dart left then right while he tries to remember what quadriceps are. “My thighs were fine. I did fifty squats every morning.”
“Fifty?” Ceepak curls his lips and raises his eyebrows like he's mightily impressed.
“Sometimes I'd do a hundred.”
Ceepak nods. Pauses. Weese smiles. He figures he's won this round, maybe the whole bout.
Ceepak finds a manila file folder in the pile of papers. Looks inside. Closes the folder.
“Mr. Weese,” Ceepak says, “I try to conduct my life guided by certain principles.”
“Really? I'm impressed.”
“I will not lie, nor will I tolerate those who do.”
“Then we should get along just fine.” Weese smirks some more. “I am not a liar. And I've answered each and every one of your questions, no matter how insipid.”
“I would concur,” the lawyer says. “My client has been very frank and forthcoming.”
“Bullshit.”
I have never heard Ceepak use those two words together like that.
“Excuse me?” The lawyer is acting offended, like his dainty tanned ears aren't used to hearing such coarse language.
Ceepak stands and leans his considerable weight on his balled-up fists. He's mad enough to drill holes through the table with his knuckles.
“Everything you have told me thus far is a bald-faced lie.”
“Is not,” Weese says, sounding like he's six years old.
“Danny, do you know how you can tell when George Weese is lying?”
“His lips are moving.” I give Ceepak the punch line to the old lawyer joke so the lawyer doesn't have to.
“I am not lying!”
“Of course you are.”
“Prove it!”
Ceepak opens the folder.
“We know from trajectory analysis done at Schooner's Landing and the Oak Street location that the M-24 weapon was fired from a height between six and a half and seven feet.”
“So? You just said I was six three.”
“What did you do, Mr. Weese? Hold the rifle up over your head?”
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“You tell me.”
“Hard to aim that way.”
“I leaned the rifle on top of the van.”
“I thought you were squatting?”
“Sometimes.”
“Behind the driver-side window, which I would estimate to be, what? Four feet off the ground?” Ceepak looks to me for some kind of confirmation.
“Four. Maybe four and a half,” I say.
“Maybe I didn't use the van. Maybe, I found sniper posts … different places each time … maybe I fired off the porch there on Oak Street.”
“No. Sorry, Mr. Weese. That is not what the trajectory path would indicate. See?” Ceepak slides a drawing across the table. Weese doesn't look at it.
“You figured it out wrong. Used flawed geometry.”
“Why didn't we find any cartridges? Over by the porch where you now say you fired from?”
“I picked them all up.”
“I see. You stood, no, you crouched in the parking lot at Schooner's Landing-”
“I was talking about Oak Street!”
“But you had to use the minivan at Schooner's Landing because there wasn't any porch. In fact, there was nothing in the trajectory path but a parking lot, automobiles, and blue sky. So there you were with a rifle propped up on the open door of your minivan. You fired your two shots, strolled around the asphalt casually picking up spent shell casings like they were cigarette butts.”
“It didn't take long. There were only two.”
“That's right. Only two. Even though most M-24s hold five cartridges in a single clip.” Ceepak lets it hang there for a second. “When you fired, which side of the M-24 barrel did the empty cartridges eject from?”
Weese hesitates.
“Which side, Mr. Weese? Right or left?”
Weese's eyelids blink like crazy.
“Right or left?
“The right.”
“Sorry. Left. And you had a fifty-fifty chance on that one. So tell me, George. Who is the sniper? Who are you working with?”
“I need to take a break now.”
“No,” Ceepak says.
“I need to take a break!”
The lawyer suddenly realizes his client is actually asking him to do something.
“We need to take a break,” the lawyer says.
“No.” says Ceepak. “No breaks.”
Weese folds his arms across his chest, settles back into his chair.
“Uh,” the lawyer says, “I think, we, you know … I think George is done talking … for a while.”
Ceepak surrenders.
“Fine. Fifteen minutes.”
“I need an hour.” Weese says
“We need an hour,” the lawyer echoes.
Ceepak looks at his watch. I look up at the clock on the wall. It's almost eleven. Weese won't talk again until noon.
Right when the party's getting started on the boardwalk.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Clever bastards,” Dr. McDaniels says with just a hint of admiration. “Handed us one guy on a silver platter so the other guy could run free, ready to rock.”
We're in the empty office with the evidence. McDaniels just finished on the phone with the state ballistics expert who did the tests on the M-24 found in Weese's duffel bag.
“Is it our weapon?” Ceepak asks.
“Of course,” McDaniels says. “But that only means Dude Number Two has Rifle Number Two. Probably another M-24. They gave us the gun from the first attacks, plastered Weese's prints all over it, made us think our work was done, that we could go pig out on the beach. Bastards.” Again, just a touch of grudging respect.
I also notice that the good doctor is wearing shorts and a tee shirt with some kind of Save the Dolphins art airbrushed on the front, like she was thinking about hitting the big boardwalk shindig herself since her work here was basically done.
“So, Ceepak,” she says, “what do the bastards want?”
“Not knowing, can't say. However, I suspect we'll learn more at noon.”
“You're gonna talk to Weese again?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good. Poke him in the eye once or twice for me.”
“Will do.”
“How can I help?”
“The van.”
“It's secure in the garage.”
“Let's take a second look. It might be the only place where our two shooters were together. Perhaps there's something inside we didn't catch on the first pass. Something outside.”
McDaniels nods. “We'll double-check every nook and cranny. Might find some fibers. A stray hair. Something that'll help identify Bastard Number Two.”
“Thanks. We'll join you the minute we're done with Mr. Weese.”
“Right.” McDaniels shakes her head. “Two shooters. One on the paintball gun, the other on the M-24. One to plaster the trading cards all over the place, another to do the serious shooting. Good thing they had a van. Sounds crowded.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
We're back in the interrogation room at 11:58.
Weese sits silent
We wait.
When George Weese says “noon” he means noon.
When the big hand and little hand are finally facing skyward, he sighs.
“Touché, Officer Ceepak,” he says. “Touche! Perhaps you aren't quite the ignoramus I assumed you to be. That bit with the trajectory? That was good. Hadn't expected that one.”
“Who is your partner?”
“I enjoyed our little pas de deux. Did you?”
“Who is he?”
“You mean my friend? Once upon a time, when I was younger, this obnoxious beach bully sprayed grape soda on my swim trunks. He warned me not to tell anyone. Said he had friends who would get me even if he couldn't. Friends such as Daniel and the buff lifeguard, Jess, who, one would think, should have been duty-bound to come to my assistance that day.”
“I want a name. Who is he?”
Weese shakes his head.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Officer Ceepak. Shame. Are you really such a male chauvinist pig? Remember: behind every great man, there is a woman. Why, I believe … yes … I believe I even handed you several clues that should have pointed you in that general direction. Perhaps my subtle allusions were a tad too sophisticated for someone of your limited abilities. The Phantom card? The first one?”
“Yes?”
“Why, I believe there was a woman standing behind the man. And card number two? The Avenger? Why, look-another woman, wreaking revenge. Third card? Another from The Phantom and our hero is standing with another woman. And, if you look carefully, which is something I suggest you do the next time someone so graciously drops evidence into your lap, you will notice that, yes, indeedy-the woman is standing behind the man!”
Weese has this shit-eating grin on his face like he's oh-so-fucking-clever.
“But none of that really matters now does it? It's high noon. All is in readiness. The multitudes have assembled on the beach and boardwalk. I understand from my father that the Chamber of Commerce is expecting quite a turnout. Thousands and thousands of happy holiday revelers, none of whom, I'll wager, are particularly interested in dying today. But, alas, some may have to. For it is time for the triumph of the son! Time for the world to experience life under the son, as they say!”
“Who is she?”
“Someone quite capable of doing her job as well as I have done mine. You see, Mr. Ceepak, I did everything I could to help you catch me so you'd drop your guard and open the big Boogaloo BBQ on schedule. What a stupid name. Boogaloo BBQ.”
“Who?”
“Tell me-when you were with the army, did you study much military history? Specifically, Russian military history?”
“Some.”
“Then you must know about the legendary Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko, the greatest female sniper who ever lived! I'm certain you've heard of her fabled exploits, how, during World War Two she single-handedly killed hundreds and hundreds of Germans.”
“Your wife?”
“Did you know that the Russians still encourage their little girls to become snipers? Oh, yes. Quite a proud tradition of it, actually.”
“Your wife?”
“I met her on the Internet, you know. Russian Brides Dot Com. The new world order of mail-order brides. My father helped, paid for everything. He was rather desperate for grandchildren but feared I couldn't bed a wife on my own, not given what he perceived to be my overwhelming lack of manliness. So, he bought me a wife when I graduated from college. Some children get a year in Europe, other a flashy sports car. Me? I got a Russian virgin.”
Ceepak heads for the wall phone.
“Natalia Shevlyakova Weese,” Weese continues, his eyes glazing over.
“Gus? Ceepak.”
“Oh, she's no beauty, I'll grant you that.”
“We need to find George Weese's wife.”
“Squat. Homely. Rather dour. But then again, the poor girl grew up in Kemerovo. It, I assure you, is a squalid armpit even more dreadful than fetid Sea Haven.”
Ceepak concentrates on the phone, blocks out Weese. “Malloy was with the wife yesterday,” he says to Gus.
“All she was looking for, like so many Russian girls these days, was a ‘nice, generous, American man.’ Translation? She wanted money. Preferably, cash. Hard currency. U.S. dollars.”
“Have Kiger check to see if any of the Weese family vehicles are missing.”
“Now, that would be stupid, Officer Ceepak, and Natalia is not stupid. Ugly, yes. Stupid, no.”
“Have them run her photo past any and all rental car agencies within a twenty-mile radius.”
“We're actually quite smart. Brilliant, really. You'll see. Natalia's tough, too. Scrappy. Resourceful. And, as you might suspect, she's also very heavily armed.”
Ceepak hangs up the phone.
“Where is she?”
“So much of this was her idea-a way to make our American fortune while simultaneously wreaking revenge on my childhood tormenters and my father. Natalia is something of a tactical genius.”
“Where is your wife?”
Weese glances up at the clock again.
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