Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“That's right.”

“Why?”

“They were extremely hot.”

The lawyer? His head is flipping back and forth like he's watching Forrest Gump at that Chinese Ping-Pong tournament.

“You put down the paintball rifle …”

“Correct.”

“… took off the gloves …”

“Yes.”

“… picked up the M-24, aimed it, shot.”

“That's right.”

“All in a manner of seconds?”

“As I said, I'm quite speedy. Practice makes perfect.”

Pop, snap, pop? Weese is no Ceepak. He's not that fast.

“How tall are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“How tall?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

Ceepak digs through a stack of folders piled on the table near his elbow, finds what he's looking for, slips it out, flips over Weese's booking shot, the one where you stand in front of a scale marked off in feet and inches.

“Six feet, three inches,” Ceepak says.

“Can I see that?” The lawyer says it like he's in court and needs to examine State Exhibit A or whatever. Ceepak doesn't care. He slides the photo over. The lawyer pulls out his reading glasses. “Let the record show-”

Ceepak cuts him off. “Tell me, George. How did you shoot your weapons?”

“Let's see … oh, I remember. I pulled the triggers.”

“How were you set up?”

“Excuse me?”

“Were you prone? Standing? Did you use the bipod on the SWS?”

The look on Weese's face? I'm not sure he knows what a bipod is, that it's the little leg thingie up front to steady the nose of the rifle.

“Yes. I used a bipod.”

“Where did you shoot from?”

“Different locations.”

“The minivan?”

“Obviously.”

“Where?”

“What?”

“Out the front windshield?”

“No, I did not shoot out the front window. The glass would be shattered if I did. Imbecile.”

Ceepak smiles. “Where then? I know you didn't use the sliding door when you killed Harley Mook. If you did, all you would have hit is a garage wall and some gardening supplies.”

“Brilliantly deduced, detective.”

“So, when you shot from the minivan, how did you do it?”

Weese hesitates before answering. “I stepped outside the van, propped my weapon-”

“You mean weapons.”

“That's right. I stand corrected. I propped my weapons, both of them, in the window of an open door. That's why you found my footprints. I was walking around, looking for the best shooting position. Decided to open the front door, use the window to brace myself.”

“So you positioned your bipod on the driver-side window?”

“That's right.”

“Did you have the paintball rifle in one hand, the M-24 in the other?”

“Maybe.”

“So you were only wearing one glove? Right or left hand?”

“Both. Then I took them off.”

The lawyer and I? We're both trying to imagine how Weese would look doing what he's telling us he did: juggling two rifles, balancing them on a car door, removing gloves. Playing Twister is less complicated.

“Was the window rolled down?”

“Of course.”

“All the way?”

“Yes. I wanted to position my bipod on the crack where the glass goes down into the door. There's a rubber sealing-strip there. Good support surface for my bipod.”

“I see.”

Ceepak stops. Waits. Starts in again.

“How tall is the bottom edge of the window on your minivan?”

“I haven't a clue. Do you? Did you, perchance, take a mug shot of my minivan?” Weese seems pleased with this little zinger.

“We can.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“Would you agree that the driver-side window ledge is shorter than you?”

“Well, obviously.”

“So you crouched down? While you balanced the two rifles?”

“Yes. I practiced at the gym. Did squats with weighted poles balanced upon my shoulders.”

“Your quadriceps didn't cramp up?”

“No.” Weese eyes dart left then right while he tries to remember what quadriceps are. “My thighs were fine. I did fifty squats every morning.”

“Fifty?” Ceepak curls his lips and raises his eyebrows like he's mightily impressed.

“Sometimes I'd do a hundred.”

Ceepak nods. Pauses. Weese smiles. He figures he's won this round, maybe the whole bout.

Ceepak finds a manila file folder in the pile of papers. Looks inside. Closes the folder.

“Mr. Weese,” Ceepak says, “I try to conduct my life guided by certain principles.”

“Really? I'm impressed.”

“I will not lie, nor will I tolerate those who do.”

“Then we should get along just fine.” Weese smirks some more. “I am not a liar. And I've answered each and every one of your questions, no matter how insipid.”

“I would concur,” the lawyer says. “My client has been very frank and forthcoming.”

“Bullshit.”

I have never heard Ceepak use those two words together like that.

“Excuse me?” The lawyer is acting offended, like his dainty tanned ears aren't used to hearing such coarse language.

Ceepak stands and leans his considerable weight on his balled-up fists. He's mad enough to drill holes through the table with his knuckles.

“Everything you have told me thus far is a bald-faced lie.”

“Is not,” Weese says, sounding like he's six years old.

“Danny, do you know how you can tell when George Weese is lying?”

“His lips are moving.” I give Ceepak the punch line to the old lawyer joke so the lawyer doesn't have to.

“I am not lying!”

“Of course you are.”

“Prove it!”

Ceepak opens the folder.

“We know from trajectory analysis done at Schooner's Landing and the Oak Street location that the M-24 weapon was fired from a height between six and a half and seven feet.”

“So? You just said I was six three.”

“What did you do, Mr. Weese? Hold the rifle up over your head?”

“You tell me.”

“Hard to aim that way.”

“I leaned the rifle on top of the van.”

“I thought you were squatting?”

“Sometimes.”

“Behind the driver-side window, which I would estimate to be, what? Four feet off the ground?” Ceepak looks to me for some kind of confirmation.

“Four. Maybe four and a half,” I say.

“Maybe I didn't use the van. Maybe, I found sniper posts … different places each time … maybe I fired off the porch there on Oak Street.”

“No. Sorry, Mr. Weese. That is not what the trajectory path would indicate. See?” Ceepak slides a drawing across the table. Weese doesn't look at it.

“You figured it out wrong. Used flawed geometry.”

“Why didn't we find any cartridges? Over by the porch where you now say you fired from?”

“I picked them all up.”

“I see. You stood, no, you crouched in the parking lot at Schooner's Landing-”

“I was talking about Oak Street!”

“But you had to use the minivan at Schooner's Landing because there wasn't any porch. In fact, there was nothing in the trajectory path but a parking lot, automobiles, and blue sky. So there you were with a rifle propped up on the open door of your minivan. You fired your two shots, strolled around the asphalt casually picking up spent shell casings like they were cigarette butts.”

“It didn't take long. There were only two.”

“That's right. Only two. Even though most M-24s hold five cartridges in a single clip.” Ceepak lets it hang there for a second. “When you fired, which side of the M-24 barrel did the empty cartridges eject from?”

Weese hesitates.

“Which side, Mr. Weese? Right or left?”

Weese's eyelids blink like crazy.

“Right or left?

“The right.”

“Sorry. Left. And you had a fifty-fifty chance on that one. So tell me, George. Who is the sniper? Who are you working with?”