Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“Yes, sir,” Ceepak says. “We didn't stop by Wednesday night because your house was dark.”

“Blackout blinds.”

“Excuse me?”

“The TV room has blackout blinds. Makes the picture sharper. Room's soundproof, too. Nice in there. Like a movie theater.”

Our friend's probably late thirties, early forties. Short. Ferret-faced. He's wearing a T-shirt so I can see he has a wooly patch of hair growing up his back and extremely fuzzy forearms. In fact, he has hair everywhere except, of course, on the top of his head. Up there he's got only a few thin wisps trying desperately to crawl across a vast desert of shiny skin. I peg him to be an accountant.

“Is this a good time to ask you a few questions?”

He checks his watch.

“Sure. Dirty Harry doesn't start till one thirty.”

“Wednesday night.” Ceepak pulls out his notepad.

“The Dirty Dozen.”

“Pardon?”

“It was on Turner Classic Movies. Wednesday. You like The Dirty Dozen?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, what guy doesn't, am I right?”

“On Wednesday-”

“Wednesday was Beach Blanket Bingo. Animal House.”

“I thought you said it was The Dirty Dozen.”

“No. I mean those kids down on the beach having some kind of beer blast. I could hear them. Laughing. Listening to loud music.”

“You heard them? I thought your television room was soundproof.”

“Had to hit the head. Put the movie on pause. We have TiVo, too.”

“So why don't you catch these late-night movies during the day?” I ask. I know TiVo. Wish I had it. Watch what you want when you want to watch it. For instance, I could watch The Simpsons all day long.

The guy looks my way. “You don't have any kids, am I right?”

“No, sir.”

“Just wait. You'll see. They change everything. Kids show up. Your life is basically over. Anyhow, I was on my way to take a whiz and I heard all this rap music. That's illegal, isn't it?”

Ceepak looks confused. “Rap music?”

“No. Beer parties on the beach.”

“Yes, sir. Consumption of alcoholic beverages is against posted beach regulations.” Ceepak says this without giving me a dirty look. But that doesn't mean he's forgotten it. He's already given me a ticket for that illegal left turn. He probably has a few blank citations left in his pad. Then again, I'm not the guy going around town shooting at people with two rifles. Maybe he'll let me off with a warning.

“Did you notice anything else?” he asks the man.

“You mean when the ambulance came?”

“Or before.”

“No. Just that the kids making all the noise parked over there.” He points to the spot right in front of the wooden walkway. “That's also illegal. See?” Now he points at the No Parking sign. “I wasn't going to make any big stink about it. It was late.”

“When did you see this vehicle?”

“When I went into the kitchen to make more popcorn.”

“Did you notice the time?”

“Around midnight.”

“You sure about the time?”

“Positive.”

“You checked your watch?”

“No. The microwave. It has one of those automatic popcorn buttons but I prefer to enter the time manually to insure proper poppage.”

“Because microwave oven temperatures may vary.” Ceepak understands. Of course he does. He also follows the instructions-the rules-plainly written on the side of every Orville Redenbacher box.

“Exactly. I can see this no-parking zone from the kitchen window. I guess I should've called you guys. Told you to bring your tow truck. People shouldn't park in no-parking zones.”

“Sir, do you happen remember the type of vehicle you saw parked out here?”

“Wednesday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because people park there all the time even though they're not supposed to. Maybe you guys need a bigger sign or more tow trucks.”

“What sort of vehicle was parked there Wednesday night?”

“One of those minivans. I don't know the make or model. They all look pretty much the same to me.”

I agree. Try finding one in a mall parking lot. Try finding mine. I never can.

“Do you remember the color?”

“White.”

Just like mine. Just like half the vans in Sea Haven.

“Anything else?”

“No. Not really.”

“There's one thing,” I say.

They turn to look at me, surprised.

“I didn't park there.”

“You drive a minivan?” The guy stares at me like I've got a big “L” pasted on my forehead.

“That wasn't your van?” says Ceepak.

“Couldn't be.”

“You're certain, Danny?”

“Hey-I'm a cop. I saw the sign. You think I'd do something illegal? Besides, I couldn't afford another ticket.”

Awhite minivan?” The chief shakes his head. “Well, that certainly narrows things down, now doesn't it?”

It's close to two A.M. We've set up a war room at the house. It's actually the interrogation room in the back part of the police station, but since we don't have any suspects to chat with right now we're using it as our situation workroom. Ceepak has stuck these big paper sheets on the walls, keeping track of what we know or suspect.

I cringe every time I see “Danny Boyle + Friends = Targets?” scribbled up there in one of the columns.

The chief and Santucci were already here when we came back. They're pulling an all-nighter, going over their Labor Day security plans for about the ten millionth time. I think they even have helicopters flying down for the day. And they're borrowing the airplanes that usually buzz the beach towing banners advertising the New Jersey State Lotto.

“We can't put out an APB for white minivans,” the chief says. “They're like seagulls. Too many to count.”

“Roger that,” says Ceepak. Then he places the plastic sheets holding the shooter's two different “calling cards” on the table in the center of the room. The two recovered bullets are sitting on the table in labeled evidence envelopes next to folders lined with digital photographs detailing the site of each slug. I've never seen so many close-ups of a shattered lamp or a hole in the sand. Some of the photos have black lines and angles drawn on them, like they've been used for geometry homework.

“Did you reach Dr. McDaniels?” the chief asks.

“She'll be here at noon tomorrow to help us make positive matches on the slugs and determine more exact trajectories.”

“Nothing official?”

“She understands. I'm also hoping she can give me her opinion on these.”

“What about them?” The chief leans down to study the two trading cards.

“They're similar, but different.” Ceepak points to the Phantom card. “Here we have a photograph. An actor or model costumed like the comic book hero posing with this woman.”

“Is that Lois Lane?” the chief asks.

“No, sir. Lois Lane is a character from the Superman stories. This is the Phantom.”

“Well, she's got that Lois Lane look, you know?”

“Note also how she is standing behind the Phantom, peering over his shoulder,” says Ceepak. “I wonder if that is psychologically significant.”

“Could be,” the chief says. “You never know with these nutballs.”

So much for sophisticated psychological analysis.

“This second card,” Ceepak says, “has a more traditional comicbook look. It appears to be a cover illustration.”

The chief peers at it.

“Why is one card an illustration, the other a photograph?” Ceepak asks rhetorically. “I'm hoping Dr. McDaniels might offer a theory.”

“Fine. Maybe she can lift some prints off those things, too.”

“Possible. But doubtful.”