Free Fall

11

Luckily, there is a bright yellow chain blocking access to the StratosFEAR, so Ben can’t really take anybody for a ride.

A sign reading “Opening Soon!” dangles off the barrier.

“We’ll see about that,” mumbles Ceepak as he unclasps the chain.

We enter the switchbacks where customers will patiently wait to have the crap scared out of them.

The base of the StratosFEAR is painted with white, wispy clouds filling a blue sky. A squared-off white tower, with crisscrossing diagonal support struts and trusses, rises 140 feet to a blinking lightning-bolt pole topper.

A fresh-faced guy, maybe thirty, wearing a bright blue polo shirt and khaki pants, an accordion file tucked under his arm, comes ambling around the base. He sees us. Gives us a friendly finger wave. Then turns to the mayor’s son in his controller seat.

“Blast her off, Ben.”

“Whatever.”

Ben, who’s also dressed in a bright blue polo shirt with a “StratosFEAR” logo embroidered where the polo pony usually gallops, slaps his chunky green button.

Twelve empty chairs-three on each side of a boxy blue car-slowly elevate up the tower. The shoulder restraints are in the down and locked position.

Ceepak and I crane our necks to watch the ride in action.

Not that there’s much action to watch. Just that clump of chairs slowly climbing the tower.

“When the car finally reaches the top,” says Professor Ceepak, “it will pause momentarily. And remember, Danny, a body at rest tends to stay at rest.”

True. When I’m on the couch, I tend to stay on the couch.

“The cable holds the chairs, the chairs hold the riders. So when the mechanism suspending the car lets go, the chairs will fall but there will be a slight delay before your body feels it is also falling.”

“So you think you’re falling all on your own. That you’re not even sitting in your seat.”

Ceepak nods.

“What fun.”

“Only if you enjoy experiencing vertical acceleration upwards of three G’s.”

The empty ride reaches the blinking lightning bolt. It pauses and just hangs up there for a second.

And then, BOOM!

If there were people riding the ride, they’d be screaming their heads off and kicking their dangling legs. Because the thing plunges 120 feet in eight seconds flat. Your stomach would be in your nose, which is why you should never eat funnel cakes right before riding this ride. There is a quick puff of white mist. The car slows. Impressively. Then it eases itself down to the loading platform.

“Pretty neat, huh, guys?” cries the over-caffeinated dude as he bounds over to greet us. He shoots out his hand to Ceepak. Ceepak shakes it.

“Detective Ceepak. We’ve been expecting you.”

“This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”

“Well, hey there, Danny. I’m Bob.”

I knew that already. It says “Bob” on his plastic nametag.

Ceepak pulls a sheaf of paper out of his sport coat’s inside pocket.

“As you may know, Mr. …”

“Please, Detective-call me Bob.”

“Very well. As you may know, Bob, this ride was formerly erected at a small amusement park in Troy, Michigan.”

Bob clucks his tongue. “Tragic what happened. But that’s ancient history. Water under the bridge.”

Guts on the ground, I want to add, but don’t.

“We’ve cleaned the ol’ gal up. Given her a new paint job. Jazzed up the lights and sound effects. Added some additional safety devices.”

Bob hands Ceepak the thick accordion file.

“Here’s all our paperwork. The engineers’ reports. Structural analysis. Maintenance reports. Everything the state requires for a passed-with-flying-colors pre-season, pre-operational inspection. As you’ll see, Sinclair Enterprises is in full compliance with title five, chapter fourteen-A of the New Jersey Administrative Code as it pertains to Carnival and Amusement Rides.”

Bob is rocking back on his heels, proud to be the smartest kid in the class.

Ooh. He memorized a law book.

Ceepak flips through the documents tucked into little slots inside the file holder. He skims and scans them. Lets Bob sweat some.

“Good work, Bob,” Ceepak finally announces. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“Thank you. Now, if you fellows are on the same page …”

“How did you score on section five-fourteen-A dash four point eight?” says Ceepak.

“Come again?”

“The section pertaining to training and certification of ride operators.” Ceepak nudges his head toward the control booth where Ben Sinclair sits, thumbing a text message into his phone.

“I believe the State Inspector was fine with our setup. Should be a paper in there …”

“Is Benjamin your proposed ride operator?”

“Yes. And you guys can thank me later for finding a way to keep him off the streets this summer. I hear he had another run-in with the law this morning? Some kind of misunderstanding in the Olde Mill?”

“No, Bob,” says Ceepak. “There was no misunderstanding. Benjamin Sinclair attempted to snatch a purse. He then resisted arrest. He should be sitting in a jail cell right now, contemplating the consequences of his actions, not operating a potentially dangerous ride.”

“Whoa, ease up, detective. There’s nothing ‘dangerous’ about this ride.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ryan would disagree.”

“What? Who are they?”

“The parents of the fourteen-year-old girl who died on this Free Fall ride when it was called the ‘Terminal Velocity’ up in Michigan.”

Ceepak lets that sink in as he pulls a laminated card out of another sport-coat pocket.

“Was Benjamin Sinclair trained by Sandusky Amusements, the manufacturer of this ride?”

“Huh?”

“Does he have a certification from the manufacturer, Sandusky Amusements, in a format prescribed by the New Jersey Department of Community Affairs?”

“They didn’t really ask for anything like that …”

Ceepak turns to face the control booth.

“Mr. Sinclair?” he calls out.

Ben is so startled, he nearly drops his cell phone.

“What?” It’s amazing how he can make one word have so much snarky attitude.

Ceepak glances down again at his laminated card. “What is the weight limitation on this ride?”

“Huh?”

“The weight limitation.”

“You don’t have to answer that, Benjamin,” says Bob.

“Yes, he does,” says Ceepak. “Mr. Sinclair? The manufacturer’s suggested weight limitation?”

Sinclair shrugs. “I dunno. Two fatties and one dude with a big butt?”

Ceepak turns to face Bob again.

“You will not be opening your ride any time soon.”

“Wait a minute … the State.…”

“We will inform the State of your failure to comply with five-fourteen-A dash four point eight.”

“Do you know how much money …”

“I’m not interested in financial details. But, rest assured, Bob, this ride will remain closed until such time as you hire a certified operator who has been trained by the manufacturer to operate the ride in accordance with the manual and any supplemental safety bulletins, safety alerts, or other notices related to operational requirements.”

Poor Bob. Ceepak memorized more of the rulebook than he did.

“Danny?”

“Sir?”

“We’re done here.”

We turn to leave.

“Sore losers!” mutters Bob.

We turn back around.

“I beg your pardon?” says Ceepak.

“I know what’s going on here. You two are still upset about the election. First you haul Hugh’s kid off to jail on a trumped-up charge. Now this crap about operator certificates? Face it, boys, you backed the wrong horse. Adkinson lost. Sinclair won. Get over it.”

Ceepak simply smiles.

“Hire a certified operator, Bob.”

“We will.”

“Then it’s all good.”

And this time when we turn to leave, we turn and leave.

All the other rides we inspect during the week pass, even the ones owned by Sinclair Enterprises.

His other operators all know their height requirements and weight limitations. “Two fatties and one dude with a big butt” is never the correct answer.

After work on Friday, Ceepak invites me to join him at his mother’s condo for dinner.

“If you have no other plans this evening.”

I don’t. So I do.

Ceepak’s wife, Rita, is working the Friday night dinner rush at Morgan’s Surf and Turf, so it’ll just be Ceepak, Adele, and me.

Mrs. Ceepak lives in an Active Adult Retirement Community called The Oceanaire. You have to check in at the gatehouse and be announced before the guards will even let you drive along the winding road that snakes around The Oceanaire’s clubhouse and meanders through its manicured landscape of 25 semi-identical cape-style homes.

Mrs. Ceepak is waiting for us on the front porch of her unit. It’s brand-new; neat and tidy.

“You like spaghetti and meatballs, Daniel?” she says when we climb out of my Jeep.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“Good. I know John does. Come on in. Let’s eat. And then you boys need to help me find a good lawyer.”