Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“Yeah. This guy hasn't made a lot of mistakes, has he?”

“They all make mistakes, sir. For instance, he parked in a no-parking zone. But the biggest mistake thus far committed is the violence he and/or his accomplice have perpetrated against our citizens and their property.”

“You really think there could be two shooters?”

“It's a possibility.”

“Yeah.”

It's one of the questions Ceepak listed on the Post-it sheet labeled “Unknowns.” We also don't know what kind of sniper rifle he or they used: an M14, M21, M24, or M40A1. The army has a lot of M's.”

“So, Boyle,” the chief says, “we know who your friends are. Some of them, at least. Now we need to think about your enemies. Who hates you enough to try to kill you?”

It's weird to hear him say it out loud like that, even though I've been asking myself the same question.

“I didn't know I had any enemies.” I'm not kidding. I really didn't.

“Anybody spring to mind?” Baines sits down. “Anybody at all?”

Nobody leaps out.

Until yesterday, I thought I had only friends. Lots of them. I grew up in Sea Haven. Lived here my whole life. I've always been kind of laid-back, never too ambitious, never a claw-your-way-to-the-top type. Springsteen tells us, “Everybody wants to be the man at the top.” Not me. I'm happy in the middle. That's where the crowd is. And where there's a crowd, there's usually a party.

“Anybody at all?” Baines asks again.

“Well, there was this crazy guy on the boardwalk,” I say. “Remember him, Ceepak? The skinny dude in the desert-camo?”

“I remember him.”

“Remember how he said he could take us down? Take me down? Then there were these college guys at Schooner's Landing.”

“What about them?” The chief sounds excited, thinks maybe I'm onto something.

“They were playing rough with this kid in a wheelchair. I intervened. Remember, Ceepak?”

“Yes, Danny. I recall the incident. Thursday afternoon.”

“Yeah. Ceepak came by. These guys, and they were huge, like football players, like the whole front line, they told me to watch my back.”

“They did?”

Ceepak nods.

Of course, those five New Jersey Giants don't know who I am. They also don't seem to be the sort with attention spans long enough to remember I pissed them off. This sort of logic doesn't slow the chief down. He's happy to finally have a list of possible suspects. He's jotting notes on a legal pad. Whole paragraphs-with circles and arrows.

“These football players. Are they locals? Visitors?”

“I'm not sure. Never saw them before.”

“Well we need to find them.”

“Then there's the ring toss guy. T. J.'s boss. And Bones-the skinny dude. He was there, too. At the Lord of the Rings Toss. He flipped me the finger.”

“Slow down.” The chief starts scribbling on a second sheet of paper.

“Danny?” Ceepak says it in a soft way that makes the chief look up from his notes.

Ceepak shakes his head.

The chief lays down his pen. “What?”

“The incident on Tangerine Beach took place Wednesday-before we met up with any of these individuals.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

He's right. I've got nothing.

“Well,” the chief says, thinking a moment. “What if crimes one and three aren't linked?”

“They are,” I say.

I glance at the two pointy bullets. They look like identical twins, only one's a little more smushed-the one that hit the lamp instead of sand.

“Ceepak's right. It's got to be somebody else.”

The chief sighs. Rubs his eyes. “I'm not sure you should remain active on this investigation, Officer Boyle.”

“I feel he's safe until tomorrow night,” Ceepak says. “Danny's the key to identifying motive, which will, I'm certain, eventually lead us to our perpetrator.”

The chief looks me in the eye. “You okay with this, Boyle?”

“Yes, sir.”

He checks his watch. “What's your plan for tomorrow, John?”

“It's falling into place, sir. Do my sniper background checks. Work ballistics with Dr. McDaniels. Swing by the boardwalk. Get T. J. to own up to the Pig incident so we can take it off the board. See who else might stick out in the paintball crowd as a sharpshooter-level player. Ask if anyone's been spending an inordinate amount of time at the range honing their skill set. I'd also like to run these trading cards by an expert. Find out where they come from, who sells them, who buys them. I might need logistical support for some of this legwork. There are a lot of questions to ask of quite a few people.”

“I'd like to see Katie tomorrow morning,” I blurt out.

“Miss Landry?” The chief knows her last name because it's on the Possible Targets list. Danny Boyle. Becca Adkinson. Olivia Chibbs. Jess Garrett. Harley Mook. Katie Landry.

“I think I should warn her.”

“No,” the chief says. “You can't do that.”

“Sir?” It's Ceepak.

“I'm sorry.” The chief stands up. “We have to play this thing by the book. No leaks. No dissemination of unsubstantiated information, even perceived threats.”

“You want me to pretend like I don't know what's going on?” I ask.

“No. I want you to act in a professional manner, Officer Boyle. We never discuss ongoing investigations except through officially sanctioned channels.”

“I think Danny has a duty to tell her the truth,” Ceepak says, his back getting stiffer. “She may be in serious danger.”

The chief's spine goes ramrod straight, too. “We don't know what the truth is, John. Not yet. We have some evidence. Maybe a theory or two about a military sniper. But what we really have are merely half-truths. Half-truths encourage rumors, rumors incite public panic. Besides, if your shooter or shooters get wind of what we suspect, he or they may simply skip town in something other than a white minivan.”

“We could be putting Danny's friends, all of whom are innocent civilians, in jeopardy.” Ceepak refuses to back down. “We should encourage all four individuals to leave town or at least take precautionary measures.”

“No. If we blow our chance at catching our perp, we're not really protecting Danny's friends or anybody else, are we?”

What's going on here? Is the chief really doing what's best for the investigation, or is he more concerned about protecting Sea Haven's public image for the Chamber of Commerce types who sign his paycheck?

I can't tell.

“Sir, I'm sorry,” Ceepak says, “but this makes no sense to me.”

“Listen, I'm simply telling you and Officer Boyle to follow established protocol, as well as the proper chain of command. Am I not making myself clear enough?”

Ceepak takes a minute, then finds his answer.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Boyle? Talk to Miss Landry in the morning. Let her know you're okay.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But if you two had any plans for tomorrow night-cancel them.”

It's two thirty in the morning when Ceepak tells me to go home.

“Get some sleep. We both need it.”

He's right. We won't be much good stumbling around town zombiefied.

“I'll meet you at Schooner's Landing,” he says. “When will you be seeing Miss Landry?”

“I guess around eight. She has to open everything up because her boss is taking the day off.”

“Then I'll see you around eight thirty. I'd like to talk to T. J. on the early side.”

“Too bad you didn't get her number.”

“Whose number?”

“His mom. Rita. You don't even know her last name, do you?”

“Lapczynski. She's never been married. Works days at a bank, nights at Morgan's. They live in Avondale.”