“What did you do, Mr. Weese? Hold the rifle up over your head?”
“You tell me.”
“Hard to aim that way.”
“I leaned the rifle on top of the van.”
“I thought you were squatting?”
“Sometimes.”
“Behind the driver-side window, which I would estimate to be, what? Four feet off the ground?” Ceepak looks to me for some kind of confirmation.
“Four. Maybe four and a half,” I say.
“Maybe I didn't use the van. Maybe, I found sniper posts … different places each time … maybe I fired off the porch there on Oak Street.”
“No. Sorry, Mr. Weese. That is not what the trajectory path would indicate. See?” Ceepak slides a drawing across the table. Weese doesn't look at it.
“You figured it out wrong. Used flawed geometry.”
“Why didn't we find any cartridges? Over by the porch where you now say you fired from?”
“I picked them all up.”
“I see. You stood, no, you crouched in the parking lot at Schooner's Landing-”
“I was talking about Oak Street!”
“But you had to use the minivan at Schooner's Landing because there wasn't any porch. In fact, there was nothing in the trajectory path but a parking lot, automobiles, and blue sky. So there you were with a rifle propped up on the open door of your minivan. You fired your two shots, strolled around the asphalt casually picking up spent shell casings like they were cigarette butts.”
“It didn't take long. There were only two.”
“That's right. Only two. Even though most M-24s hold five cartridges in a single clip.” Ceepak lets it hang there for a second. “When you fired, which side of the M-24 barrel did the empty cartridges eject from?”
Weese hesitates.
“Which side, Mr. Weese? Right or left?”
Weese's eyelids blink like crazy.
“Right or left?
“The right.”
“Sorry. Left. And you had a fifty-fifty chance on that one. So tell me, George. Who
“I need to take a break now.”
“No,” Ceepak says.
“I need to take a break!”
The lawyer suddenly realizes his client is actually asking him to do something.
“We need to take a break,” the lawyer says.
“No.” says Ceepak. “No breaks.”
Weese folds his arms across his chest, settles back into his chair.
“Uh,” the lawyer says, “I think, we, you know … I think George is done talking … for a while.”
Ceepak surrenders.
“Fine. Fifteen minutes.”
“I need an hour.” Weese says
“We need an hour,” the lawyer echoes.
Ceepak looks at his watch. I look up at the clock on the wall. It's almost eleven. Weese won't talk again until noon.
Right when the party's getting started on the boardwalk.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Clever bastards,” Dr. McDaniels says with just a hint of admiration. “Handed us one guy on a silver platter so the other guy could run free, ready to rock.”
We're in the empty office with the evidence. McDaniels just finished on the phone with the state ballistics expert who did the tests on the M-24 found in Weese's duffel bag.
“Is it our weapon?” Ceepak asks.
“Of course,” McDaniels says. “But that only means Dude Number Two has Rifle Number Two. Probably another M-24. They gave us the gun from the first attacks, plastered Weese's prints all over it, made us think our work was done, that we could go pig out on the beach. Bastards.” Again, just a touch of grudging respect.
I also notice that the good doctor is wearing shorts and a tee shirt with some kind of Save the Dolphins art airbrushed on the front, like she was thinking about hitting the big boardwalk shindig herself since her work here was basically done.
“So, Ceepak,” she says, “what do the bastards want?”
“Not knowing, can't say. However, I suspect we'll learn more at noon.”
“You're gonna talk to Weese again?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good. Poke him in the eye once or twice for me.”
“Will do.”
“How can I help?”
“The van.”
“It's secure in the garage.”
“Let's take a second look. It might be the only place where our two shooters were together. Perhaps there's something inside we didn't catch on the first pass. Something outside.”
McDaniels nods. “We'll double-check every nook and cranny. Might find some fibers. A stray hair. Something that'll help identify Bastard Number Two.”
“Thanks. We'll join you the minute we're done with Mr. Weese.”
“Right.” McDaniels shakes her head. “Two shooters. One on the paintball gun, the other on the M-24. One to plaster the trading cards all over the place, another to do the serious shooting. Good thing they had a van. Sounds crowded.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
We're back in the interrogation room at 11:58.
Weese sits silent
We wait.
When George Weese says “noon” he means noon.
When the big hand and little hand are finally facing skyward, he sighs.
“Touché, Officer Ceepak,” he says. “Touche! Perhaps you aren't quite the ignoramus I assumed you to be. That bit with the trajectory? That was good. Hadn't expected that one.”
“Who is your partner?”
“I enjoyed our little pas de deux. Did you?”
“Who is he?”
“You mean my friend? Once upon a time, when I was younger, this obnoxious beach bully sprayed grape soda on my swim trunks. He warned me not to tell anyone. Said he had
