Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“John Ceepak.”

“Well, good morning, John. How’s Barkley?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Good to hear. Rita called. Said you folks just adopted a cat, too.”

“Yes, ma’am. Gizmo. He used to belong to Mrs. Jacqueline O’Malley. With her passing, the family decided they were no longer able to keep the animal in their home. Allergy issues.”

“Mrs. O’Malley was a wonderful woman,” says Dr. Langston. “She was one of our top volunteers. Helped us socialize the feral kittens, get them ready for adoption.”

“Did her son often accompany Mrs. O’Malley to the shelter?”

“Skippy? Yep, he sure did. I’m hoping he’ll carry on his mother’s good works. Maybe he can come out here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday like she used to do. He did come out this week by himself. Said it’s what his mom would’ve wanted.”

Uh-oh. Not if he came out to grab some potassium chloride.

“Tell me, Dr. Langston, have several vials of potassium chloride gone missing from your pharmacy recently?”

“Wow. You’re good, Officer Ceepak. We just discovered it last night. An equestrian client called about a horse to be put down at his stables. He, of course, didn’t want to bring the sick animal in. We were going to go out there to euthanize the horse in its stall.”

“How many ampoules were missing?”

“All of them. We had a half dozen doses. But, we don’t use it that often. Just when we’re called on to do livestock euthanizations in the field. Of course, we always anesthetize the animal first.”

“Yes, ma’am. When was it stolen?”

“You think somebody stole it?”

“Yes, Dr. Langston.”

“Well, like I said, we noticed that it was missing last night. But, we use it so infrequently it could have been removed any time in the last month or so. We did inventory at the end of April. All six ampoules were here then.”

“Thank you,” says Ceepak.

“Sure. Hey, pet Barkley for me. And rub Gizmo’s butt. He likes that.”

“Roger. Will do.”

Ceepak is in total military automaton mode now. He would not typically say “roger” to an order to rub a cat’s hiney.

He punches off the speakerphone.

“Skippy?” I say.

Ceepak nods.

“Did he kill his mom, too?”

“Doubtful. He most likely stole the potassium chloride when he went to South Shore this week. I suspect his sister gave him the idea to frame his father, make Mr. O’Malley look guilty for both murders.”

“Crazy Mary told Skippy what to do?”

“In a roundabout way. His mother suffered a massive heart attack on the Rolling Thunder due to her underlying health issues. While the family was stranded on that roller coaster hill, Mary started chanting ‘Daddy did it.’”

“And Skippy decided to make it look like he really did do it!”

“Exactly. He knew about the potassium chloride because, as Dr. Langston just confirmed, he often accompanied his mother on her visits to South Shore Animal Shelter. After what he considered a lucky lightning strike on Saturday, Skippy formulated a plan to frame his father.”

“Why?”

“Because, as he told us, he and his father weren’t very close. In fact, I sensed a great deal of animosity between the two men. As you might recall, Skippy felt that I would be sympathetic to his anger, given my own strained relationship with my father.”

Yeah. Ceepak’s dad’s an a-hole, too. But, I don’t think Johnny C would ever try to frame the dirty bastard for murder.

“Skip must’ve felt totally humiliated,” I say, “when he learned that his dad was dating his ex-girlfriend.”

Ceepak nods. “I am quite confident his obnoxious younger brother Sean, who is in the employ of Mr. Mazzilli and privy to everything that goes on at number One Tangerine, teased Skip mercilessly about his father having relations with Ms. Baker. Lightning struck a second time late Thursday when she texted Skippy.”

“You mean when she texted Mr. O’Malley.”

“Danny, I am quite confident that, last Thursday, Skippy was the one with the cell phone usually assigned to his father. Remember when we were there last Sunday?”

“The battery on Mr. O’Malley’s cell died and he asked Skippy to toss him a fresh phone.”

“Exactly. I should’ve realized sooner that Mr. O’Malley and his businesses would employ numerous cell phones. I should’ve also paid closer attention to the fact that Skippy was the one in charge of maintaining the phones, handing them out.”

“Hey, I should’ve seen it, too,” I say so Ceepak will quit should-ing all over himself, something he always advises against.

“We are where we are,” Ceepak says with a sigh.

“But why would Skippy kill his old girlfriend? Jealousy? Revenge?”

Ceepak shakes his head. “Patricide.”

“Huh?”

“It means killing your father. Skippy was hoping to trick us into doing what he himself could not: Make the father he hates go away.”

Okay, I’ve heard of suicide by cop, where a whacko deliberately does something so outrageously hostile it provokes a lethal response from law enforcement officers, gets them to kill him because he can’t pull the trigger on himself. This is something new: patricide by cop. Getting the police to haul away your old man when you’re too chicken to deal with him yourself.

“We need to talk to Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak, who’s up and out of his seat so fast, the chair goes rolling backward and knocks over a wastepaper basket.

Yeah. Big Paddy needs to know his third son has the worst Oedipus complex since, well, Oedipus, the Greek dude who killed his father and married his mother and became his own stepdad. Hey-it was on Jeopardy once.

We barge back into the interview room.

“Mr. O’Malley?” says Ceepak. “We need your permission to search your miniature golf establishment. Immediately.”

“What?” fumes the lawyer just because he’s a lawyer and we’re cops who asked for something. “Why?”

“We have reason to suspect that your son may be involved in the murder of Gail Baker.”

“Now wait a goddamn minute,” sputters Kevin, the only son currently in the room.

“Sorry,” says Ceepak. “I should have been more specific. Your son Skippy.”

Mr. O’Malley actually laughs. “Skippy? A murderer? Impossible. The boy’s too soft. It’s why he washed out with you guys.” He flaps a hand to take in the entirety of the Sea Haven Police Department.

Ceepak presses on: “Do we have your permission to search the King Putt premises?”

“You’re wasting your time, but sure-go ahead.”

“Be careful,” says Kevin. “Skippy’s there right now.”

Mr. O’Malley laughs. “Careful? Dealing with Skippy? Kevin-the boy’s a wuss. A washout.”

“He has guns, dad.”

“Since when?”

“Since they kicked him out of that police academy.”

Because he cheated on an exam. Skippy. Always looking for a shortcut. For somebody else to do his dirty work. Probably why he stuffed that business card in the bag with the drug bottles. Thought we’d appreciate a big hint on the final exam, too.

“Are they legal?” Big Paddy asks Kevin, as if proper gun permits are Skippy’s biggest problem right now.

“Yeah.”

“Mr. O’Malley?” Ceepak says to Kevin. “Do you know the number and type of weapons your brother may possess?”

“I know he has a couple of shotguns. Something he called FN SLPs. And a semiautomatic pistol. A Beretta.”

“What the hell is an FN SLP?” asks Mr. O’Malley.

“FN is a manufacturer and distributor of firearms including the Winchester and Browning brands,” says Ceepak while unclipping the radio unit from his belt. “SLP means self-loading police.”