Fun House (John Ceepak Mystery)

by Chris Grabenstein

  “I hope someone finds my car,” says Mandy when they cut back to her. “I hope it helps the police catch Skeletor.”

  Up comes a black-and-white title: WHO IS SKELETOR?

  Back comes Mandy with the answer: “He’s the man who murdered Paulie Braciole.”

  Boom! She’s wiped off the screen by the “To Catch a Killer” graphics.

  “More from the funeral,” says the breathlessly excited announcer, “and how you can help the police catch Paulie’s killer—after the break!”

  Then, believe it or not, they roll a Ford car commercial.

  For their new Mustang model.

  I’ve seen enough. I’m ready to head for home.

  But when I turn to leave, Mr. Deep Fried Pepsi Balls is standing there, two beers in one hand. He head-bobs toward the other chair at my table.

  “Anybody sitting there?”

  “Nope. You can have both seats. I’m out of here.”

  He holds out one of the beers.

  “I bought you a beer.”

  I check out the bottle gripped between his fingers, mostly so I can check out those knuckles Ceepak noticed. Yep. They’re both there. 8 and 8.

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I’m not really thirsty.”

  “I talked to Thomas.”

  “Who?”

  “Skeletor.”

  22

  OKAY.

  The guy knows how to get my attention. I sit back down.

  The man from the All American Snack Shack looks exhausted and sort of sick. Maybe he has a queasy stomach from inhaling coconut-oil fumes all day. He’s wearing a navy blue polo shirt, his bottle-brush white hair looks like it’s wilting and needs watering, and, when he takes off his black-rimmed glasses, I can see bright red marks the nose pads have left behind. He takes the seat across from me.

  On the TV screen over his head, I can see Elton John playing the pipe organ inside Our Lady of the Seas Catholic Church. Wow. He was really there.

  Now my unexpected visitor takes a long pull on his beer. It’s beechwood-aged Budweiser, of course. No fancy European import brewskis for this patriotic American. I guess as the day drags on, I’m losing my edge. I don’t bust his chops about Bud being a Belgian beer, seeing how the folks in St. Louis sold out to InBev, a company based in some place called Leuven, which I’m told is near Brussels, home of the sprouts. And their CEO is a Brazilian.

  “Thomas did not kill Mr. Braciole,” the guy says when the beer has given him enough courage to talk.

  “So why doesn’t he turn himself in?”

  “He’s scared.”

  “How come?”

  “They ostracized him.”

  “The Creed?”

  He nods.

  “So,” I say, “what exactly does that mean? Ostracization or whatever.”

  “They cut him loose. No one is covering his back. Thomas is completely on his own.”

  “How come?” I ask, even though I think I know the answer.

  Mr. America tips his white fuzzy head toward the closest plasma-screen TV glowing with more somber footage of Paulie’s casket being carried up the center aisle of the church.

  “This much publicity is bad for business,” he says. “We like to keep a low profile. That thing in the parking lot at Morgan’s? Well, that was fun. Nobody got busted. But this? This is bad. Thomas is attracting way too much heat.”

  I peer at the guy. Something about this isn’t right.

  “You know I’m a cop, right?”

  “Yeah.” His lip can’t help but curl a little, like he just smelled sour milk.

  “So, you talking to me. The Creed finds out, won’t they ostracize you, too?”

  “Maybe. But it’s the chance I have to take for my brother.”

  “You’d go against all your Creed brothers for the sake of one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause he’s my brother.”

  I must look confused, because I am.

  Bushy-head helps out: “My real brother.”

  Now my face telegraphs that I’m not buying it. I see absolutely no physical resemblance between this tubby guy and the towering Skeletor.

  “Same mother. Different fathers. His was tall. Very tall.”

  Oh. Okay.

  “Why’d you think I let him sell that shit out of the back of my booth after some asshole torched his Hell Hole hideout?”

  Ah, brotherly love. It knows no limits. No wonder they named a city after it.

  “So, what does Thomas want?” I ask.

  “The same thing you want: to turn himself in. Before something horrible happens. Before some hardass state trooper guns him down in cold blood.”

  Man. This guy actually believes all the conspiracy crap on cable TV.

  “How soon can Thomas surrender?” I ask.

  “You and your partner free Saturday?”

  “Why Saturday? Why not tomorrow? Why not tonight?”

  “He’s got some shit to take care of.”

  “What kind of ‘shit’?”

  “There’s this lady friend. Maybe a baby. I’m not sure.”

  Geeze-o, man.

  “Look,” I say, “the sooner Thomas turns himself in, the sooner we can start protecting him.”

  “I know, but my baby brother has an extremely thick skull.”

  I take a sip of the beer the guy brought me and think about the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, and his brother, David, the guy who, basically, turned the nutjob in. It can’t be an easy thing to do.

  “Is Thomas in immediate danger?” I ask.

  “No. If the Creed wanted him dead, he’d already be dead. They’re just cutting him loose. Letting you guys do their dirty work for them.”

  I glance up at the TV screen.

  Bill Botzong, head of the New Jersey State Police Major Crimes Unit, is on. He looks very professional in his starched dress uniform, golden shoulderboards, and admiral-style hat. He asks the public for any and all assistance they can offer as to the whereabouts of the drug dealer known to state and federal law enforcement authorities only as Skeletor, a prime suspect in the murder of Peter Paul Braciole.

  And, it turns out, to make things even more interesting, the producers of Fun House are offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of “this man.”

  When Botzong says that, the screen fills with a very scary sketch of our gaunt-faced friend in his floppy-billed Boonie hat.

  “Did Thomas serve in Vietnam?” I ask his half-brother, who’s swigging from his beer bottle, not even glancing at any of the dozen TV screens surrounding us. “Is that why he likes the hat?”

  “No. The Army wouldn’t take him.” He taps the side of his head. “He has issues, you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.” I push my beer bottle away. “Look, I need to talk to my partner. Organize things.”

  “Sure.” Mr. America stands up. Extends his hand. “I’ll bring Thomas to the police station first thing Saturday morning. How’s eight? Too early?”

  “No. Eight is cool.”

  I guess we’re making a deal here, so I go ahead and take his hand. Shake it. “You want us to arrange for a lawyer?” I ask.

  “You know a good one?”

  “Couple. Yeah.”

  “He can’t afford to pay much.”

  “I know somebody good in the public defender’s office.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it. I’m Gabe.”

  “Danny.” Then I remember my official position and how this isn’t just some dude I’m meeting over a cold one. “Officer Boyle.”

  “Okay. Officer Boyle.”

  We break out of the handshake.

  “You know where to find me if your partner has a problem,” he says.

  “Yeah. We’ll probably swing by your stand tomorrow. Iron out any logistics.”

  Gabe nods. “Thanks. Enjoy the rest of the show.”

  He slips out of the bar as Chip Dale strides onto the sundeck of t
he house on Halibut Street.

  “And so we say farewell to Paulie. The Thing. The young man who lived his life with such joy, such gusto, such … liveliness. Sad to think that, only a few short weeks ago, Paulie was right here, on this sundeck, doing what he liked best: playing beer pong with his buddies, making them smile.” Chip gives a sincere shuck of his head. “Let’s hope they have a pong table for him up in heaven. Next week?” Man, this guy can shift gears faster than a drag racer stoked on methamphetamines. “It’s double elimination time! The four remaining contestants all had immunity tonight. But next week? Two contestants will be seven days closer to a quarter-million dollars while two of their housemates will be packing their bags and heading home. We hope you’ll be watching. We know Paulie will. Until then, this is Chip Dale for Fun House. Be safe, be who you are, and be sure to have some fun at your house! Good night, America.”

  As they roll the credits, they put up Skeletor’s image again and superimpose a title done up in Wild West type: “WANTED. REWARD: $50,000.”

  I don’t call Ceepak right away to tell him about Skeletor’s brother. Hey, they gave the show two full hours tonight, pushed back the local news. It’s eleven o’clock. The Ceepaks have lights-out at twenty-two hundred hours. I don’t think he actually blows Taps on a bugle, but they’re pretty rigid about it.

  On the drive home, I start wondering about the $50,000 reward. Maybe Gabe will get it for turning in his brother. He could do a lot of good with the money. Donate it to a Clogged Artery Charity.

  I stop thinking about the reward money when my phone rings at 6 A.M. Friday morning.

  It’s Ceepak.

  The TV show worked.

  Somebody found Skeletor.

  There’s only one problem: he’s dead.

  23

  CEEPAK TELLS ME TO MEET HIM AT OAK BEACH.

  In Sea Haven, we name our beaches after the streets they dead-end into. I have a lot of history on this particular plot of sand: it’s where my friends and I used to hang out when we were teenagers, born to run, like Springsteen says, from everything we knew in New Jersey.

  Of course, I never did run. I’m still here.

  But Oak Beach was where we plotted our escape and talked big about what we’d do and who we’d become. I think I was going to become a rock star. More specifically, I was going to play trombone with the E Street Band, even though, as my late girlfriend Katie pointed out, “they only have a saxophone player.”

  “That’s why they need me!” I told her.

  But I quit blowing the bone before the end of my freshman year in high school. There was an unfortunate marching band incident. My slide took out the tuba player. Spit valve to the neck.

  We laughed about that all summer long.

  Every day in June, July, and August, after working our various crummy jobs catering to tourists, we’d all march down to Oak Beach and hang out together. We’d plant our umbrella in whatever patch of bare sand we could find, hide the cooler of beer we were too young to legally drink under a beach towel, and spend the end of the day shooting the breeze, smelling the salt air, dashing up to the dunes every time the guy with the ice cream truck tinkled his bell, honestly thinking we would live that Dylan song Springsteen sings sometimes and stay “forever young.” Our glory days would be like the waves crashing against the shore. Endless.

  Oak Beach is also where I fell in love. Several times each summer.

  If I want to re-connect with my first girlfriend from seventh grade, I don’t have to do it on Facebook. She’s just up Shore Drive, at the Mussel Beach Motel, fluffing pillows and wrapping crinkly sanitary paper on top of bathroom glasses. Becca Adkinson is kind of like me: we swore we’d get out when we were young and, instead, ended up hanging around town forever.

  I guess I’m clinging to my memories because I’m about to march into another crime scene that, I’m pretty sure, will make me hate Oak Beach for the rest of my life.

  Thomas, a.k.a. Skeletor.

  Dead. In a lifeguard chair.

  It’s still early. Too early for much beach traffic. In time, the scrubby sand alongside the boardwalk path cutting through the dunes will be cluttered with kicked-off sandals and flip-flops. People just leave them here when they first hit the beach, pick them up on their way back to their rental houses for lunch—probably a sandwich made with cold cuts from the supermarket deli on a nice soggy roll.

  Surprisingly, nobody ever steals the footgear. It’s the shore’s unwritten code. This is a place to escape all that, all the pushing and shoving and stealing and lying.

  Well, in my memory it is.

  I can see Ceepak standing on the other side of a corral of fluttering yellow police tape stretched out between flagpoles, the ones the lifeguards stake in the sand to mark how much beach they’re keeping an eye on. My partner is staring up at the lifeguard chair, a bright yellow perch about six feet off the ground. A lanky body is flopped sideways in the wooden seat, its legs and arms dangling down like a rag doll a kid has tossed on the edge of a couch. The head droops sideways.

  Whoever put Skeletor in his high chair must’ve cinched up the chinstrap on his Boonie hat: it’s buffeted by the sea breeze, but it’s not blowing off his dead head.

  I duck under the police tape, check out the pattern of footprints in the sand, and find the path most likely left by Ceepak’s shoes so I can use his trail like stepping stones. I’m sure Bill Botzong and his MCU crew will be plaster-casting all these dimples and divots, hoping the killer left us some kind of footwear impression we can use to track him down.

  “MCU is on the way,” says Ceepak.

  I nod. “Who found the body?”

  “Early-morning joggers.” He points to a waffle-wedge impression in the sand. “They like the Nike LunarGlide running shoes.”

  “How’d he die?” I ask.

  Ceepak taps his left temple. “Single bullet, shot from a distance of two to three feet. Exit wound slightly lower on the right side, suggesting a downward firing angle.”

  “Just like Paulie Braciole.”

  “Roger that.” Ceepak has shifted into his more robotic mode. He usually does this when confronted with the horrors of death. I think it’s how he made it through Iraq without totally losing his mind.

  “Was this where he was killed?” I ask.

  “Doubtful. The beach, although officially closed at midnight, still attracts quite a few night visitors.”

  True. I’d say fifty percent of my Oak Beach memories took place after dark.

  “Also, Danny, as you can see, there are no bloodstains on the lifeguard stand itself.” Right. If they shot Skeletor while he was sitting up in the elevated chair, there’d be blood splatter stains and dribble marks all over the bright yellow paint.

  “Most likely,” Ceepak continues, “Skeletor’s body was dumped here sometime shortly before dawn. The joggers called 9-1-1 at 5:30 A.M. When the first responders realized who the victim was, they immediately notified Chief Baines at home. The chief called me.”

  And Ceepak called me.

  Before I could call him. Geeze-o, man. I almost forgot.

  “His name is Thomas,” I say.

  “Come again?”

  “Skeletor. His first name is Thomas. He’s Gabe’s brother.”

  “And who is Gabe?”

  This happens sometimes. My mouth races ahead of my brain.

  “The guy with the Heil Hitler knuckles from the candy stand.”

  Okay. The brain still hasn’t quite caught up.

  “You mean the gentleman we spoke with yesterday at the All American Snack Shack booth?”

  “Yeah. I bumped into him at the Sand Bar last night. I went there to watch Fun House. He came over with a peace offering of a couple beers. Said he wanted to arrange his brother’s surrender.”

  “May I ask why you didn’t notify me immediately?” Ceepak asks, more puzzlement in his voice than criticism.

  “I would have, but Gabe said Thomas couldn’t turn himself in until tomorrow mo
rning, Saturday. Lady-friend problems.”

  “I see.”

  “This all happened around eleven o’clock,” I say, without adding, “after your bedtime.”

  “Did Gabe suggest that his brother, Thomas, a.k.a. Skeletor, had reason to fear for his life?”

  “No. Not really. He said the Creed had ostracized Skeletor. But if they had wanted him dead, he’d be dead already.”

  “Indeed,” Ceepak says thoughtfully. “Do you know his last name?”

  Damn.

  “No,” I say. “Sorry. Should’ve got that. Sorry.”

  “Don’t ‘should’ on yourself, Danny.”

  Ceepak slips a digital camera out of the thigh pocket on his cargo shorts, puts the viewfinder to his eye, and activates the zoom.

  “Fascinating,” he says.

  “What?”

  “There is a square of folded paper pinned to the Boonie hat with a beach badge.”

  Beach badges are what people pin to their swimming suits or beach bags to prove they’ve paid their way onto the sand. They cost like five bucks a day or thirty-five for the whole season. The money collected pays for stuff like lifeguards, cleanup crews, and the salaries of the beach patrol kids who come around to see if you have your beach badges.

  “You want me to climb up and see what it says?” I offer.

  “Negative. We shouldn’t disturb the body until MCU’s had a chance to examine it.”

  And so we wait.

  For Botzong and his crime-scene investigators to literally comb the sand for clues. Yes, they find some footprints—but, in truth, there are far too many to be of any use to us.

  They dust the lifeguard chair and Skeletor’s clothes for fingerprints. They find none. Just like with Paulie’s body in the Knock ’Em Down booth.

  They drag all sorts of high-tech gizmos out of the back of their van. Hanging on to the high chair, they vacuum the dead man’s clothes, hoping to pick up a stray hair or fiber. They take their own photographs. They check under his fingernails.