“Roger that,” he says with the hint of a smile. “T. J's right. It's definitely the best.”
CHAPTER FORTY
We watch Santucci stuff George Weese into the back seat of a police cruiser parked on the boardwalk. I never knew you could drive down the boards in anything bigger than a golf cart-style trash hauler. I've seen those scoot up and down the boardwalk before, never a cop car. Guess there's an on-ramp somewhere.
Anyhow, Weese's hands are tied behind his back with flex-cuffs and Santucci has his hand on top of Weese's head, smooshing down that country music comb-back, trying to cram him into the back seat without banging his head against the doorjamb.
“Fucking line jumper!” someone shouts. I think it might be that same girl. Everybody here thinks Weese is being hauled away because he wouldn't wait his turn to ride the Mad Mouse. We're the Courtesy Cops, the Etiquette Enforcers.
“Good work, guys.” Chief Baines is standing next to us. “Damn good work!” He claps Ceepak on the back. “Fantastic.”
Weese is in the back seat staring at me.
It's an unpleasant sensation. The thick lenses in his glasses magnify his eyeballs so they look swollen, bloated with anger. I can see that, just as I had feared, just as Ceepak hypothesized, our suspect hates me.
Man, he hates me a lot.
“Why don't you guys take the rest of the weekend off?” Baines now says. “Enjoy yourselves. Come back tomorrow and grab some barbecue. Heck, you're the two working stiffs who just saved Labor Day!”
“We'd like to tie up a few loose ends,” Ceepak says, sounding like he won't even think about taking time off until he's convinced this thing is completely over. He told me they had a lot of ceasefires back in Iraq. The only problem? People kept firing.
“We need to interrogate the suspect, ASAP.”
“Sure. Sure. We'll call his folks. See if they want a lawyer present. See you back at the house.”
On the drive back to headquarters, I tell Ceepak the whole story of what happened that day on the beach. What we did to George Weese. How we humiliated the Wheezer.
He nods. He understands.
Ripple effects.
When we walk in the front door of the house, everybody starts clapping.
“Way to go, guys!”
“Congratulations.”
It's pretty awesome to walk into a police station as the cops who just cracked the big case and busted the bad guy. Everybody pats us on the back, shakes our hands. Most of the “way-to-go's” go to Ceepak, but I pick up the occasional “attaboy-Danny.”
We head down the hall and see Santucci.
“Where is George Weese?” Ceepak asks.
“We put him in the interrogation room,” says Santucci. Then, he pops a gumball in his mouth, turns to me. “You did okay today, kid.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Thanks, Dom.”
He crunches his gumball a couple of chomps. Waits.
I try again: “Thanks, Sergeant Santucci.”
He winks to let me know I got it right that time.
“We can't talk to him yet,” he says. “His parents want a lawyer in the room before they let the kid answer any questions.”
Ceepak understands. “How much longer until the lawyer arrives?”
“Mr. Weese said it might take a couple of hours. Apparently, their attorney is somewhere out in the bay on his sailboat looking for the wind.”
“Where's the duffel bag?”
“In the back. Dr. McDaniels and her crew set up shop in the empty office.”
“Was it an M-24?” Ceepak asks.
“Yep. Loaded with those special ball cartridges you told us about. Five of them. We saved some lives out there today.”
“Roger that.”
They both smile. Their adrenaline drains. They're coming down off the high you get when you're ripping paintball rifles off plywood counters or chasing bad guys up a Mad Mouse.
It's all good.
“Yeah, that's him.”
Young T. J. Lapczynski is with us in the viewing room. There's a one-way mirror between us and the interrogation room. We can see George Weese, but he can't see us. A cop is in the room with him, sitting in a folding chair near the door.
Weese is at one end of a long table. He stares straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the wall. I don't think he knows we're over here on the other side of the mirror studying him like he's some sort of firefly we trapped in our mayonnaise jar. Maybe he does. If so, he sure doesn't seem to care. There's a cup of coffee and a bottle of Poland Spring water sitting on the table in front of him. So far he hasn't touched either.
“That's definitely the dude who kept hogging number three.”
“You're sure?”
“Totally.”
“Okay. Thanks, T. J. And thanks again for the heads-up.”
T. J. shrugs it off, like it was no big deal.
“I just wanted to, you know, get a shot at my favorite rifle again.”
Ceepak smiles.
“So, you call my mom yet?”
“We've been rather busy.”
“Call her. You guys could get, like, a ten percent discount on any dinner at Morgan's.”
“Ten percent? That'll work.”
“Cool.”
T. J. steps aside and Dan Bloomfield, the guy who owns Aquaman's Comix amp; Collectibles, takes his turn at the window.
“Oh, yes. That's him.”
“You're certain?”
“Definitely. It's not every day some young man strolls in and purchases seven Derek Jeters. He was belligerent about it, too. ‘I only want 1996. Don't try to hustle me into buying shit I don't want.’ That's exactly what he said. And so, obviously, I sold him his cards. However, I did not appreciate the way he talked to me. Sure, the customer is always right, but that doesn't give him the right to be rude and disrespectful!”
We thank him for coming in. He's the last one.
Now we wait for the lawyer.
It's seven P.M. Sunday.
Mr. and Mrs. Weese are in the lobby up front waiting for their lawyer.
Their son is in the IR, not saying a word, barely breathing.
Ceepak and I are in the empty office with Dr. McDaniels.
“We took the van to the municipal garage,” she says. “Hauled it over on the back of a flatbed truck.”
“To keep any tire and undercarriage evidence intact,” Ceepak says.
“Give that man a gold star.” She says it without her usual zip or zing.
“Something bothering you?” Ceepak asks.
“Yeah. We checked the tires. They're all the same make and age.”
