Rolling Thunder

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Well, like I said, we noticed that it was missing last night. But, we use it so infrequently it could have been removed any time in the last month or so. We did inventory at the end of April. All six ampoules were here then.”

  “Thank you,” says Ceepak.

  “Sure. Hey, pet Barkley for me. And rub Gizmo’s butt. He likes that.”

  “Roger. Will do.”

  Ceepak is in total military automaton mode now. He would not typically say “roger” to an order to rub a cat’s hiney.

  He punches off the speakerphone.

  “Skippy?” I say.

  Ceepak nods.

  “Did he kill his mom, too?”

  “Doubtful. He most likely stole the potassium chloride when he went to South Shore this week. I suspect his sister gave him the idea to frame his father, make Mr. O’Malley look guilty for both murders.”

  “Crazy Mary told Skippy what to do?”

  “In a roundabout way. His mother suffered a massive heart attack on the Rolling Thunder due to her underlying health issues. While the family was stranded on that roller coaster hill, Mary started chanting ‘Daddy did it.’”

  “And Skippy decided to make it look like he really did do it!”

  “Exactly. He knew about the potassium chloride because, as Dr. Langston just confirmed, he often accompanied his mother on her visits to South Shore Animal Shelter. After what he considered a lucky lightning strike on Saturday, Skippy formulated a plan to frame his father.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, as he told us, he and his father weren’t very close. In fact, I sensed a great deal of animosity between the two men. As you might recall, Skippy felt that I would be sympathetic to his anger, given my own strained relationship with my father.”

  Yeah. Ceepak’s dad’s an a-hole, too. But, I don’t think Johnny C would ever try to frame the dirty bastard for murder.

  “Skip must’ve felt totally humiliated,” I say, “when he learned that his dad was dating his ex-girlfriend.”

  Ceepak nods. “I am quite confident his obnoxious younger brother Sean, who is in the employ of Mr. Mazzilli and privy to everything that goes on at number One Tangerine, teased Skip mercilessly about his father having relations with Ms. Baker. Lightning struck a second time late Thursday when she texted Skippy.”

  “You mean when she texted Mr. O’Malley.”

  “Danny, I am quite confident that, last Thursday, Skippy was the one with the cell phone usually assigned to his father. Remember when we were there last Sunday?”

  “The battery on Mr. O’Malley’s cell died and he asked Skippy to toss him a fresh phone.”

  “Exactly. I should’ve realized sooner that Mr. O’Malley and his businesses would employ numerous cell phones. I should’ve also paid closer attention to the fact that Skippy was the one in charge of maintaining the phones, handing them out.”

  “Hey, I should’ve seen it, too,” I say so Ceepak will quit should-ing all over himself, something he always advises against.

  “We are where we are,” Ceepak says with a sigh.

  “But why would Skippy kill his old girlfriend? Jealousy? Revenge?”

  Ceepak shakes his head. “Patricide.”

  “Huh?”

  “It means killing your father. Skippy was hoping to trick us into doing what he himself could not: Make the father he hates go away.”

  Okay, I’ve heard of suicide by cop, where a whacko deliberately does something so outrageously hostile it provokes a lethal response from law enforcement officers, gets them to kill him because he can’t pull the trigger on himself. This is something new: patricide by cop. Getting the police to haul away your old man when you’re too chicken to deal with him yourself.

  “We need to talk to Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak, who’s up and out of his seat so fast, the chair goes rolling backward and knocks over a wastepaper basket.

  Yeah. Big Paddy needs to know his third son has the worst Oedipus complex since, well, Oedipus, the Greek dude who killed his father and married his mother and became his own stepdad. Hey—it was on Jeopardy once.

  34

  WE BARGE BACK INTO THE INTERVIEW ROOM.

  “Mr. O’Malley?” says Ceepak. “We need your permission to search your miniature golf establishment. Immediately.”

  “What?” fumes the lawyer just because he’s a lawyer and we’re cops who asked for something. “Why?”

  “We have reason to suspect that your son may be involved in the murder of Gail Baker.”

  “Now wait a goddamn minute,” sputters Kevin, the only son currently in the room.

  “Sorry,” says Ceepak. “I should have been more specific. Your son Skippy.”

  Mr. O’Malley actually laughs. “Skippy? A murderer? Impossible. The boy’s too soft. It’s why he washed out with you guys.” He flaps a hand to take in the entirety of the Sea Haven Police Department.

  Ceepak presses on: “Do we have your permission to search the King Putt premises?”

  “You’re wasting your time, but sure—go ahead.”

  “Be careful,” says Kevin. “Skippy’s there right now.”

  Mr. O’Malley laughs. “Careful? Dealing with Skippy? Kevin—the boy’s a wuss. A washout.”

  “He has guns, dad.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since they kicked him out of that police academy.”

  Because he cheated on an exam. Skippy. Always looking for a shortcut. For somebody else to do his dirty work. Probably why he stuffed that business card in the bag with the drug bottles. Thought we’d appreciate a big hint on the final exam, too.

  “Are they legal?” Big Paddy asks Kevin, as if proper gun permits are Skippy’s biggest problem right now.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. O’Malley?” Ceepak says to Kevin. “Do you know the number and type of weapons your brother may possess?”

  “I know he has a couple of shotguns. Something he called FN SLPs. And a semiautomatic pistol. A Beretta.”

  “What the hell is an FN SLP?” asks Mr. O’Malley.

  “FN is a manufacturer and distributor of firearms including the Winchester and Browning brands,” says Ceepak while unclipping the radio unit from his belt. “SLP means self-loading police.”

  “It’s the shotgun SWAT teams use,” I add, because I got to fire one the last time I was on the range.

  “This is Ceepak for Detective Botzong,” he says into his handheld radio.

  We wait for Botzong to respond.

  “Give me the goddamn phone,” Mr. O’Malley snarls at the lawyer. “I’m going to tear that boy a new asshole.”

  Ceepak holds up a hand. “No phone calls, sir.”

  The lawyer actually nods. Wow. He’s on our side?

  “You don’t want to tip him off, Patrick,” Rambowski mumbles. “Let these gentlemen take care of it.”

  “He tried to make it look like I killed that girl and my wife!”

  “Let them handle it.”

  There’s a burst of static out of the radio. “This is Botzong.”

  “John Ceepak.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We require further forensic assistance at a new location.”

  “Where?”

  “Ocean Avenue at Oyster Street. Miniature golf course called King Putt. We’re on our way there to apprehend a prime suspect in the murder of Ms. Gail Baker.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. O’Malley’s son Skippy.”

  “When do you need us there?”

  “As soon as we secure the location.”

  “Okay. We’ll stand by.”

  “Quick question: Would the signature of the rake used to cover up the footprints near the garbage cans where the two suitcases were discovered correspond to the tines on a sand trap rake?”

  “Probably. We know it wasn’t a leaf rake. Teeth were too far apart. I’ll check with Carolyn Miller. She’ll be on the go team to the golf course.”

  “That’ll work. Hang tight. We hope to be bac
k to you in five minutes.”

  “Ceepak?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful.”

  “Roger that.” He clips the radio back to his belt. Sticks his head out the door. “Forbus? Bonanni?”

  Officers Jen and Nikki, gun belts jangling, hustle into the room.

  “Sir?” says Jen Forbus.

  “Stay with these gentlemen. They are not to make any phone calls or leave this room until we confirm that we have our suspect in custody.”

  “We’re gonna make the collar?” I ask.

  “We’ll call for all available units, but I’d like to be the first unit on the scene, Danny.”

  Right.

  The golf course. King Putt.

  The place where T.J. and his buddies went for that Farewell to Sea Haven party.

  35

  “LIGHTS AND SIRENS?” I ASK.

  “Negative.”

  Yeah. I didn’t think so.

  We’re peeling wheels out of the parking lot, spewing a flume of gravel back at all the guys’ personal cars lined up behind us. Ceepak’s at the wheel. I’m riding shotgun as we race off to apprehend Oedipus Skippy, who actually has a shotgun, a tactical shotgun, one with ghost-ring sights for easy acquisition of targets at short distances, not to mention the ability to dump a full magazine of seven rounds before the first empty shell casing hits the ground.

  We don’t want a man pumping that kind of shotgun to know we’re coming because we blared our siren and swirled our roofbar.

  We stopped by the locker room on our way out of the house. Pulled on our level III body armor before we jumped into the car—heavy vests that go on over our shirts and have POLICE written across the front and back with reflective yellow lettering, I guess to turn us into light-up targets.

  “All units, all units. Code eight.” On the radio, Dorian Rence, our dispatcher, is putting out the call for backup. “Ocean Avenue and Oyster Street. King Putt Golf. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous.”

  She could’ve added the word “extremely” in front of both armed and dangerous.

  We fly the nine blocks up Ocean Avenue from police headquarters.

  I work my personal cell. Call Ceepak’s house.

  “Rita says the guys finished their game, went across the street to grab a burger at The Pig’s Commitment.”

  Ceepak nods. His immediate family is safe. Now he just has to save the rest of the world.

  He slides the vehicle into an empty parking place near the entrance to the pink pyramid. For the first time in his life, he’s parking in a handicapped space.

  We’re both up and out of the car. Fast.

  “Office,” says Ceepak, going for his sidearm.

  Mine’s already up and aiming at the door. I use the two-hand cup-and-saucer grip—wrapping the nonfiring fingers around the back of my firing hand. I get more bull’s-eyes that way.

  Ceepak does a series of hand signals that, after working with the guy for a couple years, I finally understand. He’ll kick open the door. I’ll cover him.

  He kicks.

  The front door flies open.

  “Down!” I shout.

  Three kids, about eleven years old, picking out their putters, hit the deck. Three colorful golf balls bounce like bouncy kangaroos across the wooden floor.

  “Clear!” shouts Ceepak.

  Skippy is not behind the counter, but a row of blinking chargers and cell phones sure is.

  I’m also figuring one of the hundred or so putters lined up in the wooden racks along the walls might be the “blunt force impact” weapon Skippy used to bash in Gail Baker’s skull. He puts it back in the rack, we’d never find it. Be like trying to find one particular needle in a needle box. And, if we do, it’s covered with a week’s worth of teenaged boys’ fingerprints.

  A second patrol car screeches into the parking lot.

  “Murray,” says Ceepak.

  He strides out the door.

  I talk to the three kids lying on the floor. One’s whimpering, one’s breathing hard, and the third guy’s horrified eyes are about to gumball out of his head.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” I tell them. “We’re just looking for someone.”

  “Did he do something bad?”

  Figuring “Well, duh!” would be an inappropriate answer, I go with, “Yeah. Just keep down.”

  Ceepak returns with Dylan and Jeremy Murray, the only brother act currently serving on the force in the Sea Haven. Guess Santucci, Murray’s usual partner, is working his side job, running Italian Stallion security for Mr. Mazzilli at the grand opening of the roller coaster.

  “Secure this area,” Ceepak says to the Murrays, chopping the air with his hand as he spells out the master plan. “We’ll direct any golfers still on the course down to this location.”

  “Got you,” says Dylan.

  “Watch those windows.”

  Jeremy Murray nods, takes up a defensive position at the plate glass window overlooking the course. As he crouches down, I scan the horizon. I can see the River Nile and Victoria Falls—a sculpted mountain with foamy blue water bubbling up out of the peak—but no Skippy.

  Just a tumbling ribbon of blue, blue water.

  “Ceepak?” I say.

  He cocks an eyebrow.

  “He did it here!” I say. “In the river.”

  Ceepak peers through the window. “Why is that water so blue?”

  “They probably dye it,” says Dylan Murray. “To fight algae and weeds. My uncle has a pond up in Pennsylvania. He dumps in this stuff called Aquaclean. The blue blocks the sunlight.”

  “Thank you, Dylan.”

  “No problem.”

  “We’ll call our supposition into the medical examiner,” says Ceepak, adding, “as soon as we get a chance.”

  “Roger that,” I say. Holding a locked and loaded pistol always makes me talk much more militaristically.

  “We need to clear the course, Danny.”

  “You want to split up?”

  “Swing right, I’ll head left. Any golfers you encounter send them down here to the Murrays.”

  The pink pyramid is about to become Fort Apache.

  We dart through the back door, the one that takes you out to the first hole.

  “We’ll want to search inside that utility shed,” says Ceepak, head gesturing toward the smaller pyramid tucked behind a clump of fake palm trees. “Later.”

  “Right.”

  He heads to the eighteenth hole.

  A family foursome is clomping down the hill to play the final hole, where if you can run your ball up the ramp so it flies into the crocodile’s snout instead of his wide-open mouth, you win a free game.

  “Sir? Ma’am?” says Ceepak. “You and your children need to head into the office. Immediately.”

  They give him no guff. People seldom do when you’re wearing what they’d call a bulletproof vest and have your semiautomatic weapon out and up.

  The mom’s good. She calmly ushers everybody down the winding concrete path before they have time to panic. While Ceepak clears the back nine, I make my way up to the front. It’s a little after noon so King Putt isn’t very crowded. In fact, it’s almost deserted. Must be why T.J. and his pals opted for an early tee time: They’d have the course to themselves.

  I cross a sand trap (more like a kidney-shaped sandbox, but it goes with the whole Sahara Desert theme) and come to the Python Pit. Hole number six. Three high school girls are giggling every time the cobra head pops up out of his basket.

  “Girls?” I say.

  They shriek. I came up behind them.

  “You need to head back to the office. Now.”

  They squeal and scamper away.

  “In here, girls!” Jeremy Murray screams from the office doorway. “Now! Move!”

  Guy could be a lacrosse coach.

  I swing around holes seven and eight, remembering when I came here as a kid how much fun I had. Hoping I don’t see it all again when my life flashes in fro
nt of my eyes two seconds after Skippy pops out of the cave with one of his tactical shotguns. Or his Beretta. Or whatever else he’s got.

  A towering mountain sculpted out of plaster on chicken wire looms at the center of the course, linking holes nine and ten. Up top is the fake Victoria Falls, with tons of water the color of windshield washer fluid fountaining up through its crater top, then tumbling down over craggy outcroppings until it splashes into the mighty blue Nile snaking through the labyrinth of holes.

  There is a tunnel cutting through the fake mountain. It’s dark and dank.

  It’s where I’d hide if I were Skippy.

  The civilians on my side are all safe. I see Ceepak gesturing at an elderly couple at the eleventh hole. Both seem to need new hearing aid batteries.

  Meaning I need to take the cave alone.

  I suck down a deep breath and grab the Maglite off my utility belt. I use what some guys call the Arnold Technique when juggling a flashlight and a Glock: Maglite coming out of the bottom of my left hand, fist held to my collar bone, gun pointed at the ground when searching, at the target as needed.

  I’m pretty fast on the upswing.

  I creep forward, shine the light into the darkness. I see nothing but slick walls. I step into the mouth of the mountain.

  “Skippy?” I shout.

  My voice rings off the sculpted rock.

  No answer.

  I swing the flashlight left, to where I know there’s a recessed nook, a ledge where you can sit and make–out with your date in the dark.

  Nothing.

  I swing it right.

  The blinding beam bounces back at me.

  Reflected off the POLICE letters on Ceepak’s chest.

  This is why I like to keep my gun pointed at the ground in the flashlight searching situations. You shoot fewer partners.

  Ceepak radios in a BOLO APB.

  That’s a “be on the lookout” all points bulletin. We assume Skippy hightailed it off the golf course two minutes after his dad called him up to ask who had the magic cell phone on Thursday night. He knows we’re onto him.

  “Request all available assistance, local and state, police, fire department, sanitation workers: anyone with eyes on the street. We need to locate Skip ‘Skippy’ O’Malley. Male Caucasian. Sandy hair. Freckled face. Approximately six feet tall, hundred and thirty pounds. Slight build. Stooped shoulders. No known distinguishing tattoos or scars.”