Fun House

Because it could have been Paul Braciole right after he died.

Right after somebody shot him in the rear parking lot of the Mussel Beach Motel.

27

When we leave the Mussel Beach Motel office to check in with Detective Wilson, the CSI tech working over the Mustang in the rear parking lot, Ceepak has that look on his face.

The one he always gets when something about a case is bugging him. It’s like indigestion mixed with intense concentration. Makes him look like a grumpy old man sizing up his sock drawer, wondering why he has so many argyles that don’t match.

“What doesn’t fit?” I ask, since he usually gets these queasy squints when one piece of the puzzle won’t lock into place with all the others, no matter how hard he tries to force it in around the edges.

“The sounds. The motorcycle cuts out its engine. A car door opens and closes. A second car door opens and closes.”

“Maybe Paulie knew the guy on the motorbike. Maybe Mr. Motorcycle wanted something Paulie had in the car, so Paulie went back to get it.”

Ceepak’s head is nodding, even though his brain has raced off to wrestle with the illogic of it all.

“Maybe Paulie wanted to give the guy an autographed bobblehead doll.”

This brings Ceepak back to earth. “A bobblehead?”

“Yeah. They make them of the whole Fun House cast. I bet Braciole had a bunch of his that he signed and gave away to people.”

“I see. But why would Ms. Keenan keep a supply of these Paulie dolls in her car?”

Oh. Right. It wasn’t Paulie’s ride. It’s Mandy’s Mustang. So, unless he had bobblehead dolls stuffed in his trousers, my idea is basically idiotic.

So I shut up and let Ceepak woolgather while we walk around the pool and head through that arched breezeway for the back parking lot.

Detective Jeanne Wilson is standing near the Mustang’s driver-side door, peeling off her latex gloves. She hears us approaching, turns around.

“This is where he was killed,” she says.

“The parking lot?” says Ceepak.

“No. Sorry. I should’ve been more specific. From my examination of the evidence, I can state with a high degree of confidence that Paul Braciole was murdered inside this vehicle. Where it was parked at the time of his death, however, I cannot say with any certainty.”

“Can you even be certain it was parked when he was murdered?” asks Ceepak.

“I believe so,” says Detective Wilson. “Otherwise, well-we would have found this car wrapped around a telephone pole or totaled in somebody’s front lawn.”

Ceepak nods. He agrees. You shoot someone while they’re driving, there’s usually collateral damage.

“I still want to match the blood,” says the CSI tech, gesturing through the open window toward the passenger-side door and the bullet hole in the upholstery. “I was able to scrape a tiny sample from the interior of the bullet hole.”

“Did you also extract a bullet?”

“Nope. I think the killer took it. Then he tried to swab out the hole with a cloth wrapped around his gloved index finger, but he missed a few drops. I found them. They were baked in pretty good.”

“Suggesting,” says Ceepak, “that the vehicle has been parked here for some time.”

“I’d say at least a week. With the windows open.”

“Interesting,” says Ceepak, crouching down into a squat to peer across the front seat and gaze at the crater in the quilted padding above the passenger-side armrest.

“Why would they roll down the windows?” asks Ceepak.

“I don’t think the killer did that. I suspect Mr. Braciole had his window down before the bad guy shot him; otherwise the glass would be shattered.”

Ceepak peeks down into the thin window channel. Pulls out his Maglite so he can check out whatever lurks down in the darkness of the door.

“I see no signs of the glass being punctured. No radiating fissure lines.”

“Exactly,” says Wilson.

Ceepak stands up. Pockets his miniature flashlight.

“Have you dusted the interior for fingerprints?”

Wilson shakes her head. “Not yet. But I’m pretty sure we won’t find any.”

“Bleaching?” says Ceepak.

“I think so. There’s no smell of it. Another reason to leave the windows open-let the car air out till somebody found it ditched in a parking lot behind a motel. We’ll do a luminol test. See if we can find any residual traces of blood. But the killer wiped things down pretty good. I only found the blood droplets because they were hidden deep inside that hole.”

“Wait a second,” I say.

Both Ceepak and Detective Wilson turn to look at me.

“If Paulie was shot in the car, how could he be opening and closing the door to give away bobblehead dolls?”

“Exactly,” says Ceepak.

“Huh?” says Wilson.

“Sorry,” says Ceepak. “My partner and I have been hypothesizing possible scenarios based on information obtained from a witness who may have seen the killer drive away with the victim’s body.”

“The motorcycle?”

“Right. It is possible,” Ceepak continues, spitballing an idea to see if it makes enough sense to stick, “that the doors opening and closing our witness heard were connected to the killer removing Mr. Braciole’s body from the car.”

“So you think he was murdered here?” says Wilson.

“We can’t be certain at this juncture.” Ceepak glances around the parking lot. “And, after a week, it’s doubtful that we’ll find any evidence suggesting this parking lot was, indeed, the murder scene. No shell casing, for instance.”

“The killer probably picked it up,” adds Wilson. “Just like they dug the bullet out of the door.”

“Okay,” I say, “the first opening and shutting was to drag Paulie’s body out the driver-side door. The second set was so they could gouge out the slug from the passenger-side door.”

“It’s a possibility,” says Ceepak, like he always does when my answer may not be the only one-or even close to the real one.

“You guys remember Mr. Braciole’s bullet wound?” asks Detective Wilson.

Ceepak taps his left temple. “In front and slightly above his left ear.”

“Correct. Then it exits somewhat lower on the right side of his skull.” She taps her right cheek, just above the jawbone. “If you imagine Paul Braciole sitting in the driver seat, line up that hole in his temple with the hole in the door panel.”

She stands about a foot away from the door. Holds up her right hand and turns it into a finger pistol aimed so it’s pointing down at a slight angle to the hole in the passenger-side panel.

“This was a very clean kill,” she continues. “One bullet to the brain. The shooter was good; knew precisely where to place their single bullet. An amateur would’ve probably blown through a whole magazine of shells.”

Ceepak nods.

“Here’s how I figure this thing plays out, wherever it took place,” says Detective Wilson. “Paulie parks somewhere or stops at a red light. Our killer is tailing him, probably on that motorcycle. When they see their chance, maybe at a stoplight, they stop, dismount, and stroll up beside the car. Very cool, very casual. Or, maybe