Mad Mouse

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.”