Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“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?”