Probably juveniles,” Chief Baines says after taking a quick survey of the crime scene.
Everybody has a flashlight swinging around except me. The beach looks like it's hosting some kind of sand crab movie premiere.
“Punks with paintball pistols,” Sergeant Dominic Santucci shares his opinion.
“More likely a rifle,” says Ceepak.
“Because of the range?” asks Baines.
“Roger that. We can assume the shooter or shooters were positioned up there.” He points to the road. “They knew no one would hear them approach.” He points to the paint-spattered boom box lying dead in the sand. “The music was turned up to full volume.” Now he indicates the footprints circling the charred remnants of our campfire. “Danny and his friends were oblivious to any intrusion because they were busy dancing.” I haven't told Ceepak what we were doing. He can see it all in the sand.
Baines smiles. “Good work. I like the way you read a crime scene, John.”
I still can't believe the new chief is the one who caught this call. Apparently, he was riding along with Santucci on a routine night patrol as part of his “orientation process” when the ambulance call went out.
“Who do we like for this?” Baines asks Santucci.
“Well, there are these punks who hang out on the boardwalk. You know: tattoos, skateboards. Weird haircuts.”
Santucci isn't much of a profiler. He's just described half the guys who cruise up and down the boardwalk all summer long.
“There's a paintball place on the boardwalk,” I offer. “They might have a few names for us.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Baines thinks a minute. “The girl injured badly?”
“Blunt-force impact,” Ceepak says. “Possible hyphema.”
The new chief nods and thinks some more.
“Okay. Here's how we need to play this thing. Quiet. Almost like it didn't happen.” Baines flashes his Ultrabrite smile my way when he sees my jaw drop. “Take it easy, son. We'll catch the bad guys. But summer's officially over in five days. We don't want or need any more headlines, not this year. So, we all do our jobs, but- we keep it quiet.”
Baines is probably right. No need to stir up another panic. In the few weeks he's been in town, he's done a pretty incredible job of restoring faith in the local forces of law and order. Most folks, especially the visitors, have already forgotten what happened here back in July. I think that's why the town fathers hired Baines: He looks and sounds like he should be on TV telling you the truth, the handsome hunk sitting in the anchor chair. It's also why, from what I've heard, they're paying him a small fortune.
“Sergeant Santucci's theory is most likely correct,” Baines continues. “I suspect we're dealing with some bored kids who think they're being funny.”
Santucci points at my Hawaiian shirt. It looks like the flowers have exploded with neon-colored pollen.
“You got to admit, it
Santucci has been busting my chops all summer long. If I go full time with the force, he can torment me daily, seven-to-seven, the whole twelve-hour shift. Longer if I pull any overtime.
“Chief?” says Ceepak. “We could look into this tomorrow. Both Auxiliary Officer Boyle and I have the day off. Might prove a valuable field training exercise. Help our minds stay active, help us keep our investigative techniques sharp.”
Baines nods. “But you'll keep it on the q.t.?”
“Right.”
Baines puts his hands on his hips and sniffs in some salty air.
“You sure you guys don't mind? Working on your day off?”
“I look forward to it, sir,” says Ceepak. “I welcome the challenge.”
I nod. “Me, too, sir.”
“Fantastic. Here's how we play it: Ceepak and Boyle investigate. Meanwhile, we alert all units to be on the lookout. We see a bunch of kids crammed in a car looking like they're looking for trouble, we pull them over.”
“That'll work,” Ceepak says. “Provided, of course, we have probable cause.”
“Oh, we always have probable cause,” Santucci sneers, like he thinks the whole Bill of Rights is a lousy idea dreamed up by a bunch of dead guys with their faces on coins.
“I look forward to hearing what you two dig up,” Baines says to Ceepak. “Might help me decide which summer cop to hire next week.” Now the chief gives me this meaningful glance.
Great.
The Case of the Perilous Paintballs is going to be my final exam, the homework assignment I need to ace to win full-time employment with the Sea Haven Police Department.
If we don't crack this case by Labor Day, I may have to find a job pushing carts around the parking lot at Wal-Mart.
CHAPTER FOUR
Everyone's gone, and I'm dancing on the beach again.
Well, not quite everyone. Ceepak's still here.
I'm doing a solo number without any music to show him my approximate location during the paintball bombardment. The campfire's long gone and he's shining his Maglite on me.
“I was here …”
“Facing the street.”
“Right. Katie was facing me. She took a hit in her … you know.”
I don't want to say “ass” or “butt.”
“Her gluteus maximus.” Ceepak helps out. He looks up toward the beachfront homes on the far side of the dunes. “The shots were probably fired from the street. Or off one of those balconies.”
I look to the left and right of our entrance to the beach. There are three or four houses on either side. Modern jobs. All windows and right angles. They look like vinyl-sided shoe boxes stacked on top of each other, and, since this is beachfront property, every level has its own balcony or sun deck. Some of the houses even have widow's walks-a platform up on top of the roof. I think they call it that because that's where the widows of ship captains used to hang out and hope their husbands weren't really dead. Probably cursed god and the ocean some while they were up there, too. The higher elevation made it easier to scream at heaven.
“Danny? Focus.”
“Right.”
When I drift off like that, Ceepak usually reels me back in.
“Where was your radio located?”
“There.” I point to the trash barrel. “Propped on top.”
He takes one more look at the boom box lying in the sand on the ocean side of the trash barrel.
“Confirming that the shots came from the west.”
“From one of those balconies?” Ceepak crouches.
“I don't believe so. You say the paintball smacked you square in the chest.”
“Like somebody heaved a medicine ball at me.”
“I'd like to do a more comprehensive trajectory analysis, but judging from your impressions of the incident and the position of the radio, I'd say the shooter operated at street level. Perhaps firing from a car window.”
Ceepak stands. His face, as usual, doesn't say much, but I think he's relieved we're not dealing with some kind of rifleman up on a rooftop. He saw enough of those back in what the soldiers all call Bagh-nasty-dad. Snipers, mostly. Ceepak went in with the first wave, the guys hunting for the weapons of mass destruction nobody ever found because they never actually existed. Later, he was in this convoy that was almost blown up by one of those roadside bombs the locals like to hide inside everything from rusty oil drums to tricycle tubing. When the
