Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

He lets that hang there for dramatic effect.

“‘Jesus,’ my father said. Not ‘What happened to you, son?’ Not ‘Did somebody hurt you, my boy?’ No. He invoked the holy name of his lord and savior-in disgust. Because he was examining my penis through the dampened cloth and was disappointed by what he saw. ‘Go change your damn pants,’ he said. Then, he shook his head. He was disgusted. He started digging out more dirt, concentrating on the cleats. He didn't wish to see how minuscule a man his son had grown to be.”

Okay. This is weird.

“I wanted to say something. That my member was momentarily shrunken because it was wet and cold. That it grew substantially when I achieved an erection. But I couldn't say a word. My insufficient size only confirmed what my father already suspected: I could never become the kind of man he wanted me to be. No, sir. Not with my mouse. Yes, I believe someone once called my penis a mouse. I believe it was the little girl with the red hair. Katie. Katie the Cunt.”

“Is that why you shot Ms. Landry?” Ceepak asks. “Because of what she said that day on the beach?”

“You don't have to answer that, George,” the lawyer advises.

“I read all about you, Daniel,” Weese says. “My father sent me your newspaper clippings. Several magazines, as well. Local boy makes good. Part-time cop cracks big murder case.”

For the record, that is not what any of the headlines said. In fact, my name was always kind of buried about twenty paragraphs down in all the Tilt-A-Whirl case stories.

“Imagine my father, sitting in his favorite chair, reading of your heroic exploits, taking the full measure of your manhood, picturing the overwhelming enormity of your penis.”

Okay. It's getting even weirder.

“Let's talk about Saturday morning at Schooner's Landing,” Ceepak says.

“Oh, that was a good day,” Weese says. “Saturday was such a blessing.”

“How so?”

“George, again I advise you-”

“Will you please be quiet? I am quite certain my father will pay you your exorbitant fees whether you say anything or not. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.”

“As your lawyer-”

“Does this cretin even need to be here?” Weese asks Ceepak.

“Legal representation is always advisable in these situations,” Ceepak replies.

“Fine. Then just sit there and dream about all the money you're making. Now then, where was I?”

“Schooner's Landing?”

“Oh, right. I knew Katie the Cunt worked at the candy shop because, earlier in the week, I had seen her pushing a retard around the ramps in a wheelchair, taking him out for an ice cream cone. Later, I approached the same child, myself. Acted quite chummy. Even bought him an ice cream. ‘Will Katie be working Saturday?’ I asked him. He told me she would indeed be at the shop.”

He pauses, remembering.

“And there you were as well. Two for the price of one! Buy one, get one free! No lie, free pie! Tell me, Daniel. How is Miss Landry faring? Has she had the decency to die yet?”

I don't say a word.

Ceepak leans in, elbows on table, hands coming together in a finger-locking grip. I think he's making sure his hands don't reach across the table to throttle this sick bastard.

“So you discharged your weapon at both Miss Landry and Mr. Boyle?”

“Yes. Missed him. Got her. I only wish I had more bullets. One more and I could've ended your whole Superhero career.” He points a finger-pistol at me and brings down the thumb-hammer. “Bam! No more newspaper clippings for young Daniel Boyle.”

Ceepak's hands slowly sink to the table. He is thinking. Weese is now silent. That smirk permanently plastered on his face. The hate making his eyes bulge again.

“Danny,” Ceepak finally says. “We need to take a break. Outside.”

“Are we finished here?” the lawyer wants to know.

“No.”

I follow Ceepak toward the door and shoot Weese a quick glance over my shoulder.

He's staring back at me.

Where's the chief?” Ceepak asks Gus at the front desk.

“Down at the boardwalk for the big show.”

“We have a situation.”

The way Ceepak says “situation,” I know we're in trouble. Big time.

“What kind of situation?” Gus grabs his radio microphone, ready to call the boss on Ceepak's say-so.

“Our sniper is still at large and potentially targeting today's festivities.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Gus says. “That's a freaking situation.”

“Roger that. We also need to contact Dr. McDaniels. She's staying at a motel on-”

“I got her numbers.”

“Let me know when she arrives.”

Gus nods and gets busy.

“Come on, Danny.”

We march up the hallway, back to the interrogation room.

“What's up?” I finally ask. “What did Weese say that tipped you off?”

Ceepak stops outside the IR door.

“He said he wished he had another bullet. To shoot at you.”

“He was just talking tough. Mouthing off.”

“He fired twice.”

“Right. One for me. One for Katie.”

“The standard M-24 SWS clip holds five cartridges. Meaning there were, most likely, three rounds remaining after Miss Landry went down. Weese would know that if he were the shooter. Someone else manned the M-24.”

Ceepak leads the way back into the room.

George is sitting rigidly upright, once again silent. The lawyer doodles on a yellow legal pad because I guess that's what lawyers get paid to do.

“Mr. Weese. Tell us about your partner.”

“What?”

“Your partner.”

Weese laughs.

“Maybe you two morons need another potty break. Maybe you shitted your brains out your asses on the last one.” I catch his eyes making a swing up to the wall. There's a clock on it. “You are both so stupendously stupid. Did you check the rifle? Find any fingerprints?”

“Of course,” Ceepak says. “Yours.”

“Anybody else's?”

“Negative.”

Weese's grin grows wider. His eyes balloon, magnified again by those nerd glasses. “Allow me to give you two boys a helpful little hint. When you find someone's fingerprints on a weapon? That means he's the one who fired it. When you don't find anybody else's? That means he acted alone.”

Weese delivers this lesson as if he's talking to two-year-olds. Ceepak could care less.

“Why did you step out of the van?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oak Street. The garage. While you waited for Harley Mook, you stepped out of the minivan and walked around the front of the vehicle, went to the rear wheel well on the passenger side.”

Weese's face flashes surprise. He didn't expect Ceepak to know that little footprint factoid. But he doesn't let it faze him.

“I suppose I needed to stretch my legs. The minivan provides inadequate legroom for someone of my stature.”

“How'd you switch weapons? On the beach. Outside Morgan's.” Ceepak zigs and zags, jumbles up the crime scenes. “How did you switch from the paintball rifle to the M-24?”

“I'm quite fast with my hands,” Weese says, sounding proud. “I practiced for months.”

“We know. You practiced at Paintball Blasters on the boardwalk.”

“That is correct. Good work, detective.”

“You wore surfer gloves.”

“Who told you that?”

“It makes no difference.”

“Was it that handsome lad with the spiky hair? Is he still so sullen and surly?”

“Why did you leave fingerprints on the M-24?”

“I'm sorry?”

“The gloves? How did your fingerprints end up on the rifle if you were wearing gloves?”

“Simple, moron. I took them off.”

“Before you switched weapons?”