Mad Mouse

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.” Ceepak 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.

“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.