Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

  He's a big ol’ bear, but he has this quiet way of slipping up behind you right when you're bellyaching about him.

  “No, chief. I was just saying—”

  “Sketch artist needs coffee,” the chief says.

  “Do I look like freaking Starbucks?”

  “Go rustle her up a cup. Move it. Shake a leg.”

  Even old-timers like Gus jump when Chief Cosgrove pulls his gym-teacher act.

  “So,” the chief says to Ceepak, “how badly did Slobbinsky screw things up?”

  “Royally.”

  “Damn. Sorry he caught the call. Good thing we have the eyewitness….”

  “Yeah,” Ceepak says. “How's she doing?”

  “Not bad. Considering.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Her name is Ashley. Ashley Hart. She's been asking for you.”

  “Me?” Ceepak seems surprised.

  “Apparently you're her new hero. Says you flew over a fence or something?”

  “Playland's main gate was locked. I gained access by alternate means.”

  “She said you looked like Batman.” The chief turns to me. “Guess that makes you Robin, hunh, kid?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Sorry McDaniels was out of town,” he says to Ceepak.

  “I think we'll survive. The CSI crew is boots-on-the-ground. They're all pros.”

  The chief nods. “I'd like you to go in and talk to the kid. We're getting nowhere on the perp sketch. It's like she can't remember what happened, what the guy looked like. Either that or she doesn't want to remember.”

  “Post-traumatic stress?”

  “Maybe. I dunno. Seeing you might help.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Interrogation Room.”

  “Seems kind of severe….”

  “The windows in the other rooms spooked her. She thought the bad guy might be outside.”

  “Check. I'll see what I can do.”

  “Jane and the artist are with her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ceepak heads up the hall to the windowless cinderblock room with the one-way mirror. The Interrogation Room.

  “How's he holding up?” the chief asks when Ceepak's out of earshot.

  “Fine, sir.” I see no need to mention the M-80 incident behind The Pancake Palace. “Just fine.”

  “He hates to see kids in trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The chief leans up against the front counter and crosses his ham-hock arms across his chest. He looks like a contemplative moose resting against a stump. I've never had a heart-to-heart with Chief Cosgrove, but I think he's about to unload a monologue on me. I'm right.

  “We were stationed in Germany together,” he starts, his eyes narrowing like he can actually see what he's remembering. “There was this chaplain. Baptist minister, I think. Short guy. Little moustache. Had this soft southern twang when he spoke. Anyhow, he was accused of molesting kids at his church down in Texas, so they got rid of him by shipping him overseas with us. A year later, he starts messing around with some of the kids on base. Soldiers’ boys. Nine-, ten-, eleven-year-olds. Their moms and dads are over there serving their country, and he's … you know….”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ceepak led the investigation. I was tactical support.”

  “Did you guys stop him? The chaplain?”

  “Of course. John Ceepak? He always gets his man.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I slip into the dark room next to the Interrogation Room. It's dark because otherwise, everybody in the IR would be able to see me through the one-way mirror.

  This is one of the few times our IR has actually been used for questioning. Usually, it's where stuff like Christmas decorations gets stored or where we cut somebody's birthday cake. In fact, I can see a wrinkled red balloon lying on the floor near Ashley Hart's new shoes.

  She's also wearing a new dress with Hawaiian flowers and hula dancers on it. I figure somebody picked it up on Ocean Avenue so Ashley wouldn't have to sit around all day in a blood-soaked sundress. Her hair is damp. She probably took a shower in the women's locker room. She looks like a young girl who just finished swimming in a motel pool and went back to her room to get dressed for dinner. Her cheeks are clean and ruddy; her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. It's only her eyes that look terrified, like she found some horrible monster stuck to the floor drain in the deep end of that swimming pool.

  Ceepak is sitting at the head of the long table. Ashley is to his left. Next to her is Jane Bright, the closest thing to a child welfare officer we have on the Sea Haven Police Force—Jane has her masters degree in Social Work. Across from them both is the state police sketch artist.

  “I like your new dress,” Ceepak says, trying to break the ice.

  “Thank you,” Ashley says. “Mrs. Bright picked it out for me.”

  “She did good.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We keep the old dress?” Ceepak kind of whispers it to Jane.

  “No. But we photographed it.”

  “Good.”

  “It's in the trash if—”

  “No. That's okay.”

  Ceepak smiles at Ashley, like he's apologizing for talking shop with another cop.

  “I'm sorry I can't remember more,” Ashley says.

  “Maybe we could make it like a game?”

  “A game?”

  “You ever play Twenty Questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Was it a man or a woman?”

  “Man.”

  “Skinny or fat?”

  “Skinny.”

  The artist starts moving her pencil, swooping it around the sketch paper.

  “Okay. That's good. Was he black or white?”

  “White.”

  “Hispanic?”

  “You mean like a Puerto Rican?”

  “Or a Mexican.”

  “No. He was white-white.”

  “Handsome or ugly?”

  Ashley actually giggles.

  “Ugly. He had this, you know … dragon on his neck.”

  “A tattoo?”

  “Yeah. Like Ozzy Osborne?”

  “And it was a dragon?”

  “I think so. There were flames coming out the mouth. It stuck out from under his T-shirt.”

  “He was wearing a T-shirt?”

  “Yes, sir. With colors all over it.”

  “Was it orange?”

  “No.”

  “Pink? Purple?”

  “No. It was all kinds of colors. Like rainbow sherbet?”

  “Tie-dye?”

  “Yes! It was a tie-dyed shirt!”

  “What about his pants?”

  “Dirty blue jeans. With holes in the knees. I could smell him.”

  “How'd he smell?”

  “Like pee-pee.”

  “Urine?”

  “Yes, sir. Urine.”

  I peek at the sketch. The guy is starting to look like a bum.

  “What kind of shoes? Did you see his shoes?”

  “Yes. He had on boots. Hiking boots.”

  “Unh-hunh.”

  Nobody in the room with Ceepak knows why this is so incredibly huge. I do. The Timberland prints.

  “Were they tan hiking boots?”

  “Yeah. Kind of light brownish.”

  The chief slips into the Interrogation Room.

  “Don't mind me, Miss Hart,” he says. “You and Ceepak keep going.”

  “Is that your name?” she says. “Ceepak?”

  “Yes, ma'am. It's my last name but it's what everybody calls me.”

  “You can call me Ashley.”

  “I know. We found your bracelet.”

  “Is it broken?”

  “No. It's fine.”

  “Will I get it back?”

  “Sure you will, honey,” Jane says, patting Ashley's hand.

  “My boyfriend gave it to me.”

  Ceepak smiles.

  “You have a boyfr
iend?”

  “Kind of. Yeah. I mean, sort of. He gave me the bracelet.”

  Ah, the ID bracelet. The gift choice of cheap boyfriends for decades. Right up there with the J.C. Penney's heart locket. Major bling-bling when you're twelve, thirteen. I can remember handing out a few such baubles in my day.

  “Nice gift,” Ceepak says. “What’s your boyfriend's name?”

  “Ben. Ben Sinclair? His father is the mayor.”

  So now the mayor's son is dragged into this deal. I see the chief's big jaw popping in and out around his ears, like he's grinding his teeth, sanding them down nice and smooth, wondering how much more bad news he's going to get this morning.

  “We were supposed to hook up tonight … Ben and I….”

  “A date?”

  “No. Dad won't … I mean … he wouldn't let me date, even though I'm almost thirteen. So Ben and me just sort of hang out with everybody else….”

  “Let's get back to the sketch,” the chief says, not interested in the whole Tiger Beat Teen Romance report.

  “Yes, sir,” Ashley says.

  Ceepak sort of sighs in a way that says, “I wish you hadn't cut her off, chief.”

  “Remember this morning when you told me about a crazy man with a gun?” Ceepak gently asks the girl.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why'd you say he was crazy?”

  “I dunno. The way he looked, I guess.”

  “How'd he look?”

  “Freaky. Big eyes. Like a bug or something. Like they were going to pop out of his head.”

  “Did he have a beard?” The chief lobs in another lead balloon.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What kind?”

  “I forget.”

  Ceepak tries to help.

  “Was it a big, bushy beard—like Santa Claus?”

  “No.” Ashley closes her eyes, trying to remember.

  “A goatee?” the chief asks.

  “Yes, sir. Like a goat! It was white.”

  “Was his hair white, too?” Ceepak asks.

  “Black and white. Like he was older? You know?”

  “Sure,” Ceepak says. “Was it short? Like mine?” He playfully scratches the stubble around his ears.

  “No. It was way long. And greasy. He looked like a hippie.”

  “A hippie?” Ceepak leans back in mock surprise. “What's a hippie?”

  “I dressed up like one for Halloween this one time. You know— long hair with a bandanna, beads, flower-power sunglasses.”

  “Did the crazy man have on flower-power sunglasses?”

  “No.”

  “What about beads?” The chief seems to want to turn this into a tag-team interview.

  “No … I don't think so … maybe….”

  Ashley's getting confused.

  “Maybe. He could've had beads….” She now looks about to cry. “I can't remember.”

  “That's okay,” Ceepak says.

  Jane pats the girl's hand again.

  “I want to see my mom….”

  “Of course,” Jane says and turns to Ceepak. “We reached her on her cell. She's on the way.”

  “She was in the city,” the chief adds and looks at his watch. “Should be here soon.”

  “Hey,” Ceepak says to Ashley, “are you hungry?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Maybe we should take a little break. We've got some Pop-Tarts and stuff in the kitchen here.”

  “Okay.” Sounds like Pop-Tarts don't really cut it, though.

  “Or,” Ceepak tries again, “we could send a car over to The Pancake Palace. Pick up their chocolate-chip special. With marshmallow sauce if you want. Does that work?”

  She nods.

  “You want to wait in here while we send someone out? Maybe help Shelly work on the picture some more?”

  “Sure.”

  Ceepak stands up from the table. “One order of chocolate chip pancakes, coming right up.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ceepak.”

  “You're welcome, Ashley.”

  Ceepak and the chief head out the door. I meet them in the hall.

  “Sorry about barging in like that,” the chief says to Ceepak.

  “We survived.”

  “Yeah. I'll find someone to run out to the restaurant.” The chief looks at me.

  “I could do it,” I volunteer.

  “You need Danny in the back room?”

  “He's my partner. Second set of ears.”

  “10-4. Stick with Ceepak, kid. And John? I want you to, you know, basically head this thing up.”

  “I'm sure the State boys—”

  “I don't give a damn about the state police. I want you on point. We need to wrap this thing up quick or Mayor Sinclair's going to have another heart attack.”

  Ceepak nods. I guess you're not breaking any rules if your boss writes new ones.

  “After she eats something,” he says, “I want her to walk us through what she saw. Then, we need to talk to her mother. Find out if Mr. Hart had enemies.”

  “It'll be a long list,” the chief says

  “We'll try to narrow the field.”

  “Check.”

  “We should work out a security detail with State,” Ceepak suggests. “24-hour coverage….”

  “Done and done.”

  It's like they're back in the Army, protecting another innocent kid, hunting down another bad guy.

  Only this time, it isn't a chaplain.

  It's a crazy guy with googly eyes, a goatee, and a gun.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The pancakes delivered to Ashley look good. I can see the chocolate chips melting inside the soft, spongy flapjacks.

  The sketch artist is gone.

  They finished the composite of the killer about fifteen minutes ago and are taking a little break before moving on to the rough stuff, the “tell-us-what-you-saw” stuff.

  Meanwhile, my stomach is rumbling. It's almost noon and all I've eaten today is about six cups of black coffee. No sugar. No cream. Nada. I'd do some Oreos from the vending machine but I'm all out of loose change and the dollar slot never works, just spits your crinkled bills back at you.

  I saw the sketch before the artist hustled it out the door. Our suspect resembles a roadie for the Grateful Dead who hit rock bottom sometime around 1974. A crazy, aging hippie. A beach bum junkie.

  There's a TV mounted on the wall behind me that's usually tuned to ESPN or one of the other sports channels. Since there are few interrogations, this viewing room is mostly used for catching whatever game is on. Today, however, the set is tuned to Fox, the first network to have “live” coverage of the “Murder Down The Shore,” as they call it.

  The TV guys always like to give disasters snappy titles. I'm surprised this one isn't called “Beach Blanket Bang-o,” seeing how many bullets were used.

  They cut to State Crime Scene Investigator Saul Slominsky.

  This I have to hear.

  I turn up the TV.

  The mayor of Sea Haven, a youngish guy named Hugh Sinclair who owns a bunch of motels, car washes, and ice cream shops up and down the island, is standing next to Slobbinsky.

  I wonder if Hizzoner knows his son is dating the victim's daughter.

  Maybe. He sure looks glum, like people are checking out of his motels in droves now that there's a long-haired, bug-eyed, smack-junkie killer running amok on our pristine sandy beaches. This is bad for business, worse than riptide or pink jellyfish—even worse than that shark in Jaws because, face it, to avoid the damn shark, all you really had to do was stay out of the water.

  Slominsky has about two dozen microphones stacked in front of him. I can tell he finally dragged a comb through his greasy hair and brushed up his moustache. At the moment, no egg is visible anywhere on his face.

  “At approximately 7:15 this morning,” Slominsky starts, trying to sound solemn and serious by lowering his otherwise whiny voice, “Mr. Reginald Hart was the victim of an armed robbery here at the Sunnyside Playland Amus
ement Park. He was shot seven times at point-blank range in the chest.”

  I'm glad Ceepak's not in here listening to Slobbinsky blow it.

  I'm only a summer cop, but even I know you don't give away all the gory details of a crime when your suspect is still at large. It helps you eliminate the weirdos who'd confess to anything. Doesn't Slominsky watch any cop shows at all?

  “Mr. Hart was pronounced dead at the scene by the Ocean County Medical Examiner. Fortunately, Mr. Hart's thirteen-year-old daughter, who was with him at the time of the murder, escaped and has helped us put together this composite sketch….”

  Oh, great. Now Slobbinsky's telling the perp he needs to find Ashley and gun her down, the sooner the better.

  The kid can ID you, mister.

  Slominsky should hire one of those airplanes to buzz the beach dragging a long banner off its tail: “Hey—Don't Forget To Kill Ashley Too!”

  He holds up the charcoal sketch. The artist did a good job. The guy looks completely scary. Eyes popping out of sockets, long scraggly hair, a stringy goatee, and a dragon tattoo crawling up his neck.

  “Who is this asshole?”

  A woman in a very short skirt has entered my room.

  “The hippie?”

  “The asshole holding up the sketch.”

  “Saul Slominsky,” I tell her. “State Police Crime Scene Investigator.”

  “Jesus. What an idiot. You a cop?” She's looking at my shorts and baseball cap. She's only a year or two older than me, but she's a grownup wearing a short-skirted business suit and I'm sitting here in my playclothes.

  “Are you with the police?” she asks again, with that don't-make-me-ask-again-dummy tone underlining every word.

  “Yeah. Sort of. Part time. Yeah. Cop.”

  What is it about women with long tan legs and tiny skirts that turns me into a mushmouth? If I knew, I couldn't tell you right now, because my mouth is full of mush.

  She's got very strong calf muscles, the kind that could crack walnuts, and this light blue tribal tattoo wrapping around her ankle that lets every man who sees it know that beneath her all-business exterior, she can be a naughty girl, too.

  “I'm Cynthia Stone. Mr. Hart's attorney?”

  “Unh-hunh.”

  “They told me to wait in here. Is that right?”

  “Uh—”

  I don't know why I open my mouth. She's not waiting for me to answer anything.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.”