Chris Grabenstein - Tilt-a-Whirl

The sidewalk ends, and now we have to walk up planks laid across the sand dune to reach the beach.

“Three minutes,” Ceepak says. I can tell he's trying not to walk too fast or too slow-he's just walking with what they call a sense of purpose.

We're up and over the dune and on the beach.

The first thing I notice is how empty it is for a hot Sunday afternoon. Guess folks weren't listening when the mayor told them Sea Haven was open for fun in the sun again. As far as I can see, there are only maybe five umbrellas, and the little kids are building their sand castles pretty darn close to where mom and dad sit in their beach chairs, terrified to take their eyes off their children.

We head left a gain. The ocean's on our right. Playland's chain-link fence is on our left.

Behind the fence, I can see parts of Playland. First, the Kiddie Rides: “Hot Doggers Hot Rods,” tiny race cars shaped like hot-dog buns that putter around in a circle; “The Beachball Express,” a little train that chugs around in a circle; “The Sandpiper Cub High Flyer,” little airplanes that sort of fly around in a circle.

When you're a little kid, having fun at an amusement park involves a lot of riding around in circles.

Now I see the Italian sausage stand, the funnel cake and zeppole wagon, the French-fry and Coke stands.

Next come the bumper cars, and the Flying Fish Boat, which rocks you back and forth and swings you higher and higher until you wish you had skipped the sandwich with peppers and onions back at the Italian sausage stand.

Finally, I see the Turtle-Twirl Tilt-A-Whirl.

We're standing outside the fence, near the little plywood trapdoor, still covered with sand. I see the yellow police tape I hung fluttering in the breeze. I also see that Sunnyside Clyde has sent out his cleaning crews. Gone is any trace of Mr. Hart's last bloody thrill ride. The turtle's all green again, no red anywhere.

“Seven minutes, forty-five seconds.” Ceepak says, stopping his digital watch with a beep. “Two or three more minutes to crawl under the fence, get in position.”

“So we're what? A ten-, fifteen-minute walk from the bank?”

Ceepak nods.

“We need to talk to the medical examiner. Calibrate a more precise TOD.”

Time of death.

Looks like Betty is this close to becoming another possibility.

“Yo! Someone planted that, man!”

Mr. Virgilio Mendez is none too happy about what young Officer Kiger found in the trunk of his El Dorado.

Gus's gun is sitting on the table in front of him and his lawyer, Cynthia Stone. It's a Smith amp; Wesson 9-mm semi-automatic with an evidence tag tied to it so it looks like it's on sale at some cop's yard sale.

“We're running the ballistics,” the chief says. “I'm sure it'll match the slugs we found at the Tilt-A-Whirl-”

“Like I'm really gonna be leaving my piece in the trunk like it's a beer cooler or some shit-”

“I agree with Mr. Mendez,” Ms. Stone says. “In fact, I find this crude attempt to frame him laughable.”

“Then why the hell aren't I laughing?” The chief and Kiger are the only cops in the interrogation room with Mendez and Ms. Stone. Ceepak and I are watching from the little room on the other side of the one-way mirror. Morgan from the FBI is with us.

“Why don't you advise your client to come clean?” the chief says to the attorney. “Tell us how he hired Squeegee to kill Reginald Hart. Then, him and his friends? Ramirez? Echaverra? They rented a boat-”

“What the fuck you been smokin’?”

Ms. Stone stands up.

“Chief Cosgrove.”

“Sit down.”

“Sir, I am an officer of the court.”

“Not right now. Right now you're just a suspect.”

“Excuse me?”

“Co-conspirator.”

“What?”

“Do you have a lawyer, Ms. Stone?”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, let's see. We know you were sleeping with the deceased.”

“Okay,” Ms. Stone says. “That's it. We're done here-”

“No we're not. I'm just getting started. Sit down.”

“You can't question me without my attorney being present.”

“Fine,” the chief says. “No more questions. You won't tell me, so I'll tell you. We'll work it that way.”

The chief hikes up his pants. I can see sweat stains under his arms. The guy hasn't had much sleep since Saturday, and all the strain is starting to show. He might rip somebody's head off today.

“I think you were the brains, Ms. Stone,” he says, raising his thumb, like he's going to start counting stuff down. “You set the whole thing up because you realized Mr. Hart would never marry you. So you worked out this other way to get at his money. His real estate. Ten million dollars in ransom money-”

“Mr. Hart was my employer. That is as far as our relationship went. As such-”

“I'm not asking you questions, so you don't have to say anything. Deal?” Now the chief's first finger pops up; the countdown continues. “You partnered with Mendez here, who was tired of doing nickel-and-dime work for Hart. Wanted a bigger slice of the pie.”

Mendez drops his jaw. The chief stares him down.

“Mr. Mendez proceeded to hire Squeegee. What'd you pay him? A free condo in your time-share hotel? A dime bag of dope? The same shit you sell to kids up and down the beach?”

“You're out of your fucking mind … out to fucking lunch….”

“Me? No, Mr. Mendez-I checked your record. Your rap sheet. You sell drugs to little children.”

He slides a folder across the table. Mendez refuses to open it or even look at it.

“I done my time for that.”

“You sell drugs to children!”

“Only them that wants it.”

Wrong thing to say in front of John Ceepak.

I look over and Ceepak's squinting again, like he's lining up Mendez in his sniper sights.

“Did you know Squeegee was a sexual predator?” The chief sends another manila folder across the table. “Pulled his record, too. Did you two talk about how he likes to expose himself to twelve-year-old girls under the boardwalk?”

“I don't know shit about this Squeegee.”

“Did you promise Squeegee he could have his fun with Ashley? Is that how you got him interested in the trigger job?”

“I told you I don't know this Squeegee. Maybe I run into him once or twice up at The Palace Hotel, but….”

“Where is Ashley Hart? Where did your gang take her, Mr. Mendez?”

“Hey! I don't do no kidnappin’-”

“Where the hell did you take her?”

“I don't do that kind of shit!”

And they keep going around and around-just like those kiddiecar rides over at Playland.

In the back room, Morgan turns from the window when Mendez says he “ain't no kidnapper” for the umpteenth time.

“Neither is our ransom note writer,” the FBI guy says.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, there's some indication he may want us to think he's more experienced at this than he actually is.”

Ceepak twists down the volume knob in the wall so the ranting in the other room becomes soft Muzak in ours.

“What do you mean?”

“The ransom note?”

“Yeah?”

“Something about it. It sounded familiar. So I had my guys do a quick check.”

“And?”

“Jon Benet Ramsey.”

“Colorado? The six-year-old beauty queen?”

“Right. After she disappeared, the Ramsey family received a ransom note. Lot of people think it was a fake. Just a way for the killer to cover some tracks, misdirect the investigation.”

Ceepak nods. He's obviously familiar with the case.

“Anyhow, I always remembered the phrasing. Sort of stuck in my head because I thought some of it sounded odd, you know? Ridiculous, even.”

“And?”