Fun House (John Ceepak Mystery)

by Chris Grabenstein

  But mostly, Bill Botzong, dressed in a Windbreaker and baseball cap instead of the dress blues he wore on TV last night, shakes his head.

  “Whoever did this is good,” he says grudgingly.

  “Do you suspect, as I do, that we are looking for the same person who killed Paul Braciole?” asks Ceepak.

  “Yeah. The gunshot wounds are almost identical.”

  Ceepak nods. “And both bodies were ‘dumped’ in very visible, extremely public places.”

  “What about the piece of paper pinned to his hat?” I ask because I’m hoping it’s some kind of super clue, like the killer’s business card or something.

  “Yeah,” says Botzong. “We should definitely look at that.” He calls over to two of his team. “Weitzel? St. Claire? We need to, very carefully, take the body down from the chair, get him on a gurney.”

  “We can help,” say two guys in lab coats who, I think, work for the county medical examiner.

  All four guys work their way up the side beams of the lifeguard chair like they’re climbing a jungle gym and try to figure out how to best extract Skeletor’s body from its elevated perch. Watching them work with Skeletor’s floppy but stiffening body, I’m reminded, first, of Ceepak wrestling with that sack of sweet potatoes at Gladys’s restaurant, and then that old movie Weekend at Bernie’s, the one about two young dudes who prop up their dead boss and cart him around a swanky beach resort. Hilarity ensues.

  This morning? Not so much. Nobody’s laughing.

  The whole scene is extremely grim. Like the stations of the cross, the second to the last one, the thirteenth, I think. The one where Jesus’ body is taken down from the cross. I’m reminded of a prayer the nuns taught us for Good Friday: “May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

  Hey, somebody has to pray for the Skeletors of this world.

  The dead body is laid on a black vinyl body bag supplied by the team from the morgue.

  Botzong puts on sterile gloves; works open the beach-badge safety pin.

  “There appears to be something bulky stuffed inside his shirt pocket,” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah,” says Botzong. “We’ll extract that next.”

  “What’s on the paper?” I ask.

  “Writing. A note.” Botzong fumbles in his shirt pocket for a pair of reading glasses. He studies the tiny slip of paper like it’s the fortune cracked out his cookie at a Chinese restaurant.

  “‘I killed Paulie,’” Botzong reads without emotion. “‘I killed Skeletor.”’ He hesitates.

  “And?” says Ceepak.

  Botzong finishes: “‘Next, I will kill Soozy K.’”

  24

  I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE’RE DEALING WITH HERE.

  A crazy fan? Some kind of copycat killer? Are the two murders really linked, or is it just some sicko’s warped way of glomming on to Paulie’s murder?

  I glance to my right. Ceepak is holding a pair of stainless steel forceps. They’re usually stored in the left shin pocket of his cargo pants so they don’t snap when he sits down. Yes, one day—a very slow one, as I recall—I asked Ceepak if he had a system for loading his work pants. He did. And it only took him about an hour to explain it.

  “Shall I do the honors?” he asks Botzong.

  “Yeah. I left my forceps in my other pants.”

  Ceepak crouches down, works the silver tongs into Skeletor’s right front pocket.

  “Fascinating,” says Ceepak as he extracts what, at first, looks like a tennis ball made out of green felt. Then I see the googly eyes and, finally, the yellow-and-red striped legs, the floppy webbed feet. It’s a plush, if crumpled, duck—one of the smaller prizes hanging on the wall of the Knock ’Em Down booth next to Paulie Braciole’s body.

  “Clearly,” says Ceepak, “the killer is attempting to confirm their claim by linking this death to that of Mr. Braciole.”

  One of the CSI guys holds out a paper bag. Ceepak deposits his prize.

  “We’ll do a fiber scan,” says Botzong. “Make sure it’s a match with what we found in the booth near Braciole.”

  Great, I think. All that fancy new gear in the back of the State MCU van will be utilized to positively I.D. a stuffed duck.

  “We should notify his next of kin,” I mumble, hoping nobody thinks I mean the duck.

  “Skeletor has kin?” says Botzong.

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak. “A local business owner who introduced himself to Danny last night.”

  “You want us to handle it?” asks Botzong.

  “No, thank you,” says Ceepak, looking down at Skeletor’s body, which, I swear, has stiffened in the last fifteen minutes. Lying on the ground on top of the black vinyl body bag, he looks like a cardboard Halloween skeleton somebody dressed with a camouflage Army hat. “You have enough to deal with processing this crime scene. Danny?”

  Yeah. We need to dump my Jeep at the house and then head north to the boardwalk to let Gabe know that, unfortunately, Saturday morning will be too late for his brother to turn himself in.

  Gabe has lost most of his bluster and all of his swagger.

  He’s sitting in the back of the All American Snack Shack on top of a stack of Snickers cartons. Slumped forward, he takes off his thick-rimmed glasses and rubs at his eyes.

  His booth isn’t open yet. The young fry jockeys haven’t clocked in yet. There is no sound of batter-dipped candy bars sputtering in oil. All I can hear is Gabe steadying his breath.

  “Who did it?” he asks.

  “We don’t know, Mr. Hess,” says Ceepak because he was sharp enough to quickly glance at the guy’s vendor license when we stepped up to his stall to deliver the bad news. “However, rest assured, we will find out.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Ceepak does that confused dog head-tilt of his again.

  “You two don’t give a fuck about Tommy. To you and every other fucking cop, he was just some kind of derelict drug dealer. You’re probably glad somebody else took him off the streets for you.”

  “Mr. Hess, I assure you, the Sea Haven Police Department and the New Jersey State Police will do everything in our power to track down and apprehend your brother’s killer.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Tell your lies to somebody who hasn’t heard ’em before.”

  “My partner never lies,” I say.

  Gabe stares at me. “What?”

  “My partner never lies.”

  “Oh. I see. He’s George Fucking Washington?”

  “No. He’s John Fucking Ceepak.”

  Ceepak shoots me a look. Slowly shakes his head, like I shouldn’t have given him that particular middle name. I shrug. He’s right. My bad.

  But Mr. Hess ticks me off. I would have said he “pisses me off,” but Ceepak wouldn’t like that either.

  “Here.” I say, handing Hess one of our business cards. “If you want to help, call a few of your friends, then call us.”

  “What do you mean, ‘my friends’?”

  “Officer Boyle is suggesting that you make contact with your other brothers—the members of The Creed motorcycle gang.”

  “Why?”

  “We have reason to suspect,” says Ceepak, “that your brother’s death is directly linked to that of Paul Braciole.”

  “That jerk from the TV show?”

  “The young man found murdered in the Knock ’Em Down booth.”

  “The Creed didn’t do that.”

  “Well, somebody riding a Harley sure did,” I chime in.

  “Says who?”

  “A video from a nearby security camera,” says Ceepak.

  “I don’t care what the fuck you think you saw. The Creed would not waste their time on that steroid-popping punk, and they sure as hell wouldn’t kill Thomas.”

  “Are you one hundred percent certain of that, Mr. Hess?”

  Hess doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he actually thinks before engaging his mouth. He tucks the business card I handed him into his star-spangled shirt pocket.


  “I’ll make a few calls.”

  “We’d appreciate that,” says Ceepak. “In the meantime, it would be helpful if you could come with us to Oak Beach.”

  “What? You want me to identify the body?”

  “Yes. If you’d rather wait until your brother’s body has been moved to the county morgue.…”

  Gabe stands up. “No. Let’s do it now. Get it over with.”

  We walk out of the booth.

  I can’t help checking out the deep fat fryers.

  The cold grease pits have congealed icebergs of black-flecked lard floating on the surface. Guess that’s what dead fried Oreos look like after rigor sets in.

  We shuttle Gabe Hess to the beach and, then, back to the boardwalk.

  Now the chief is back on our radio.

  “John? Swing by the Fun House. ASAP.”

  “Do we have a situation?”

  “No. We just need to discuss production details moving forward.”

  I’m behind the wheel but turn to look at Ceepak, who’s turning to look at me because we’re both thinking the same thing: moving forward?

  “Surely,” he says into the radio mic, “with the newly discovered death threat against Ms. Kemppainen, Mr. Mandrake is shutting down his show.”

  The chief hesitates before responding. “Swing by the house, John. The mayor’s waiting.”

  So I flip on the roofbar and we jet down to Halibut Street.

  In the driveway, I see Marty Mandrake, Layla Shapiro, Mayor Hugh Sinclair, and Chief Buzz Baines huddled around a foldout picnic table, jabbing at some kind of rolled-out plans. Mandrake is strutting around, making grand arm gestures. Layla is dutifully nodding her head and taking notes.

  Ceepak and I climb out of our cruiser and stroll down to join the brain trust.

  “John, good,” says Chief Baines. “I want Prickly Pear to run you through their production schedule for the next seven days.”

  “No problem,” says Layla, thumbing the BlackBerry, which, I think, has been surgically attached to her hand. “This week will be a busy one. Starting today, we shoot footage for the quarterfinals show, slated for next Thursday’s regular airdate. We also simultaneously gear up for a special Friday night finale.”

  “We’re doing it live!” says Mandrake, shooting up both hands like exploding starfish to give the word “live” a little more pizzazz.

  “Excuse me?” says Ceepak.

  “The finale,” says Mandrake. “It’ll be a live broadcast. A week from tonight.”

  “Surely you jest,” says Ceepak, because he can say stuff like “surely you jest” without people sniggering at him.

  “Huh?” says Mandrake, stuffing a sugar-coated cruller into his mouth. As usual, there are all sorts of snack food items spread out on the makeshift meeting table.

  “Surely, Mr. Mandrake,” says Ceepak, “you can’t seriously consider exposing Ms. Kemppainen to that kind of risk.”

  “We’re giving Soozy automatic immunity in the quarterfinals shows,” says Layla. “We’ll keep her under wraps and out of public places. She’ll just talk about the threat and how it makes her feel, maybe she does a one-on-one sit-down with Chip.”

  “Beautiful,” says Mandrake. “But I need her in the fucking live finale on Friday.”

  “Obviously,” says Layla. “Since she’s guaranteed to be one of the two finalists.”

  “That’s what the fuck I’m saying, Layla!” Mandrake looks around for a servant who isn’t there. “Where’s my goddamn mochachino?”

  Layla turns to Ceepak. “We’ll be out of your hair in seven days, officer. Next Friday night, we do our season closer live from the Fun House on the Sea Haven boardwalk.”

  “Fun House—live from the Fun House!” says Mandrake, seeing another movie marquee blazing across the sky. “It’s so fucking poetic.” He pivots to Baines. “Chief, I’m sure you and your men can keep Soozy safe for one more week. She thinks so, too. Soozy K is totally on board with our production plans.”

  “What a trouper,” says Mayor Sinclair, who’s bouncing up and down on his heels. “That young girl is an inspiration to us all.”

  “Again,” says Ceepak, “I must protest.”

  “Save it, John,” says Chief Baines, sounding kind of snippy, the way people do when their bosses order them to do crap they don’t really want to do. “The mayor, the town council … it’s been decided.”

  Marty Mandrake struts over to Ceepak. “Officer, I understand your trepidation. But hell—Fun House is the number one show in America. The whole country is pulling for the four kids upstairs. We can’t let America down.”

  Ceepak turns to Chief Baines, his eyes pleading for sanity.

  The chief’s mustache wiggles like a queasy dust bunny. “I need you to head this thing up, John. Unfortunately, I promised some folks down in Florida I’d swing by before the end of summer. Can’t be here for the final shows. Wish I could. But, well, I gave my word. You know how that goes.”

  Before coming to Sea Haven, Chief Buzz Baines ran a police department in the Sunshine State. Guess he needs to go home periodically to guzzle some O.J. or wrestle a gator.

  “But—” is all I can stammer before the mayor gives me The Hand.

  “Save it, Officer Boyle. You’re either with us or against us; and if you’re against us, well, you’re not who we want with us, are you?”

  Mayor Hugh Sinclair does not like me or my partner very much, not since back in June when, thanks to our crack investigatory skills, the mayor’s wife found out what he’d been doing with a few of his curvier constituents in a hot tub.

  “If we call off the show,” Sinclair continues, “the local economy will suffer an incredible blow, and, worst of all, the terrorists will win.”

  Okay. He has completely lost me now.

  Ceepak, too. “Terrorists?” he says, arching up both eyebrows.

  “This death threat. Whoever delivered it is a terrorist, trying to terrorize us. Well, this is Sea Haven. We don’t cave in to terrorist threats.”

  “Soozy wants to remain in the competition,” says Layla. “Her family could sure use the money. Her little brother needs an operation.…”

  Geeze-o, man. What next?

  “And the finale,” says Mandrake, “will raise tons of money for charity. Each contestant gets to pick their favorite. Whoever wins, their charity wins too! Big-time.”

  “Papa John’s is donating pizzas!” says Mayor Sinclair. “Budweiser’s giving us beer!”

  Fortunately, the radios on our belts start squawking.

  “Unit A-12, this is base. Base for A-12.”

  Ceepak is a faster draw than me, at least when it comes to angrily whipping a walkie-talkie up to his mouth.

  “This is Ceepak. Go for A-12.”

  “A-12, see the woman Becca Adkinson. Mussel Beach Motel. She says she has located the missing Mustang.”

  25

  THE MUSSEL BEACH IS A TWO-STORY, HORSESHOE-SHAPED motel owned and operated by the family of my friend-since-forever Becca Adkinson.

  Becca’s dad, Andrew “Andy” Adkinson, was and is his own general contractor for all renovations, which is why it took him five years to fix the crack in the swimming pool. He also handled the interior decorating, so most of the motel’s rooms come with a shellacked swordfish on the wall between two mass-produced-in-a-Chinese-factory seashore oil paintings. It’s also why the faux-marble counter in the lobby is a swirled blue you usually only see in bowling balls. I think they were having a sale at Countertops “R” Us.

  As for the five-foot-tall stuffed Batman doll with its chubby legs splayed out in the lobby window, its limp body propped against the glass so the caped crusader’s pointy ears bump into the neon NO VACANCY sign, that’s Becca’s decorating touch. Her most recent boyfriend won it for her by squirting a water pistol into a clown’s mouth. That was during the first fifteen minutes of their date. Then Becca made the guy lug it around the boardwalk all night.

  Mr. Adkinson is behind th
e counter when Ceepak and I enter the lobby.

  “Hey, John,” he says to Ceepak, “is it true what I’m hearing on the radio? Somebody killed the killer you guys were looking for?”

  Mr. Adkinson is pretty buff for an old guy (he has to be at least fifty). Works out every day. Keeps his silver hair cut short. Always wears one of those “Life Is Good” T-shirts with the stick-figure man playing golf with his dog or whatever. At the gym, he and Ceepak sometimes spot each other on the bench press. Or so I’ve heard. I don’t actually go to the gym enough to see these sorts of things.

  “Andy, to be quite honest, we were never convinced that Thomas Hess, a.k.a. Skeletor, was responsible for the death of Paul Braciole.”

  “Really? Wow. It just goes to show you, huh?”

  Ceepak nods. I guess he knows what the heck Mr. Adkinson means, even if I don’t.

  “They cancelling the show?” he asks.

  “Sad to say, they are not.”

  “Shut the front door,” says Mr. Adkinson, which is what he always says when he really wants to say something else. “Who’s the lamebrain behind that decision? Wait, don’t tell me—Mayor Hubert H. Sinclair.”

  “Indeed. The mayor is eager to have Fun House continue filming, no matter what. Apparently, the program has been very good for businesses on the island.”

  “Son of a biscuit. That arrogant idiot is gonna ruin this town.”

  Ceepak actually nods. “It’s a possibility.”

  Now Mr. Adkinson rummages around in a junk drawer under the check-in counter. He pulls out a clipboard with a sheet of paper clamped to it. Clicks a ballpoint pen.

  “What’s on the clipboard?” asks Ceepak.

  “My petition. I need two hundred signatures to get my name on the ballot for mayor this November. Somebody’s gonna have to clean up Sinclair’s mess. He’s had eight years to screw things up and, brother, that’s the one job he actually knows how to do. You two want to give me your autographs?”

  Ceepak purses his lips. “Actually, Andy, as much as I would like to support your candidacy, I do not think it is wise for public servants, such as Danny and myself, to become engaged in partisan politics.”