Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“Suggesting the minivan had been parked there prior to the shooting.”

“Only empty space in the whole damn lot,” Dr. McDaniels says. “And it wasn't there earlier when Officer Boyle went hunting for a spot.”

“We can surmise the shots were fired from this vehicle. The perpetrator then drove away while Danny and I tended to Ms. Landry's wounds.”

“I'm certain of it,” McDaniels says. “The shot came from this goddamn minivan. There's a little bit of an oil leak underneath. We could go back to Schooner's Landing, take samples of any fluids pooled in that parking space.”

“No time. Won't help.”

“Yeah. I know. Got my shorts dirty for nothing.”

“What about the roof?” Ceepak suggests.

“The van is six-six.”

“The bipod would add another two inches.”

“Six-eight.”

“She could have stood on the rear bumper,” Ceepak says. “Rested her rifle on the rooftop.”

McDaniels nods. “Steadied her shot.”

We all walk around to the back of the van.

“Maybe,” McDaniels says, shaking her head, disappointed at what she sees. “Maybe not. Be damn difficult.”

There's a bulky bike rack rigged to the rear of the minivan. Maybe the older kid brought his tricycle with him down the shore. Maybe George and Natalia have his-and-hers trail bikes. The rack's arms poke out at least two or three feet and spread sideways. They'd get in your way if you wanted to stand on the rear bumper and squeeze off a few rounds from a rifle resting on the roof.

I think about those two screaming kids back at the Weese house. They're going to have a lot more to scream about if they wind up being raised by their grandparents when mom and dad are locked up in the state pen, that's for sure. Not only that, they'll grow up knowing their parents were cold-blooded killers.

“Poor kids,” I mumble aloud. “That's a lot of crap to carry around.”

“Danny, what did you just say?” Ceepak demands.

Busted. I feel like I'm back in grade school: if you have something to say, Mr. Boyle, why don't you share it with the whole class?

“Nothing. I was just thinking. My mind kind of drifted.”

“Danny, just repeat what you said.”

“I'm sorry. I know I should be focusing on the task at hand.”

“Danny -what did you say?” Ceepak isn't fooling.

“‘Poor kids. It's a lot of crap to carry around.’ That's all. I figure their two kids will have-”

“Crap. Kid's crap,” McDaniels echoes, sounding like she's in some kind of trance. “Carrying it around.”

“Suitcases.” Ceepak sounds like he's in the trance with her. “Collapsible crib, playpen, stroller …”

“Bingo!” Dr. McDaniels hollers. “Guys?” she calls out to her CSI crew. “We need a ladder. Pronto! I need to be taller!”

The two CSI guys root around in the garage, push aside rakes and shovels. Something heavy and metal crashes to the floor.

“Whoops. Sorry.”

More rummaging. Steel scrapes against concrete.

“Here we go.”

One of the guys digs out a three-step aluminum ladder from behind this clump of signs and poles.

“That'll work,” Ceepak says.

The guys set it up alongside the minivan.

“Doctor?” Ceepak offers McDaniels the first look.

“You do it,” she says. “I'm afraid of heights.”

Ceepak climbs up the three short steps, puts his hands on his hips, looks up and down the roofline.

“You were right, Danny.”

“How tall is Mrs. Weese?” Dr. McDaniels asks up to Ceepak. “The Russian one, I mean.”

“Five-two, five-one. Short. Maybe four-eleven.”

“Good thinking, Boyle.”

I have no idea what I've said or thought that deserves so much praise.

“It explains the foot steps,” she continues. “Why Weese got out at Oak Street, walked along the side of the vehicle. Probably checking up on her.”

“Definitely,” says Ceepak. I still have no idea what the two of them are so excited about. “Weese seemed to have a vast knowledge of the D.C. sniper case.”

“So he knew how the shooter, usually the kid Malvo, hid in the trunk,” McDaniels adds. “Had that special rifle hole bored through the rear of their Chevy Caprice.”

“Affirmative. Weese also intimated that he and Natalia were smarter and potentially more lethal than the D.C. team.”

“He could be right,” McDaniels says. “This is pretty damn clever.”

“What?” I have to say it.

Ceepak climbs down off the stepladder.

“Take a look.”

I climb up. Look at the roof. It's got a rack on it. Black bars running up the sides, two adjustable struts spanning the width. You could put lumber or a Christmas tree up here and tie it down with bungee cords.

“Look closely, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Examine the details.”

Okay. Fine. I look closer. I see dust splotches. Rain stains. The roof looks like my windshield does after a thunderstorm, speckled with dirt splats, the residue left behind when the raindrops dry. The top is freckled like a leopard skin of spattered sand-dust.

Except on one side. The passenger side.

Over there, there's a clean patch, a rectangle that covers most of the roof. The front edge is somewhat rounded at the corners.

I lean back. Take in the big picture.

Kids’ crap.

Somebody used to have a cargo carrier lashed down up here to haul all the suitcases and cribs and stuff they couldn't jam into the wayback or hang off the bike rack over the bumper.

“A cargo carrier?” I say.

“Roger that.” Ceepak is beaming. “Nice call, Danny.”

“Any idea what make, Officer Boyle?” McDaniels asks.

“No. I've never, you know, really studied-”

“I suspect a Thule or Yakima,” Ceepak says. “Judging by the rounded nose up front. Perhaps the Thule Cascade model, which is one of the largest on the market: seventeen, eighteen cubic feet. Opens on the side.”

“Could our Russian friend fit inside?” McDaniels asks.

“Easily. The Thule box I'm thinking about is almost six feet long, maybe three feet wide, a foot and a half tall. She'd be cozy inside but quite capable of operating her weapon system in an efficient manner-with plenty of room left over for ammunition and provisions. Water. Food.”

“Which might be why Weese walked up the side of the car on Oak Street,” McDaniels says. “He wanted to make sure his honey wasn't baking inside the plastic casket while they waited for Mr. Mook. Maybe George brought Natalia a cold Coke. The sweet bastard.”

“The sniper was up here?” I say. “Hidden in a cargo holder?”

“Quite clever,” Ceepak says.

McDaniels agrees. “Yep. Young Mr. Weese and his wife built themselves a handy-dandy gun turret on top of the family van.” No admiration in her voice this time, just disgust. “Completely innocuous. Seemingly harmless. Just another minivan with a box strapped on the roof. Only, this minivan turns out to be a minitank.”

“More like an armored personnel carrier,” Ceepak says.

McDaniels shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

I climb down.

“It also explains why we never found any shell casings,” says Ceepak. “They ejected from the rifle, hit the sides, stayed inside the box.”

McDaniels nods.

I wonder if this is why Natalia, the sniper with the real bullets, missed us on the beach and outside Morgan's. Maybe firing from inside a cargo carrier takes some getting used to. Maybe she was still getting the hang of it on Wednesday and Friday and only got her groove going Saturday morning at Saltwater Tammy's. By Saturday afternoon, she could place one in the center of Mook's forehead.

“I'm certain they've now attached their customized cargo carrier to the top of the rental van. Well done, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Excellent work.” He says that, but he looks worried. So does Dr. McDaniels.