10
Mrs. Ceepak is waiting with the lady whose purse ben snatched when we come out of Ye Olde Mill.
“See, dear?” she says. “I told you my son and his friend would get you your bag back. I’m so proud of you, Johnny. You, too, Daniel.”
“Thanks,” we both say. For an instant, I feel like Ceepak and I are two years old and we both just made a good boom-boom on our potty training seats.
The Murray brothers, Dylan and Jeremy, swing by the boardwalk in their patrol car to process Ben Sinclair.
“He’ll be out in under an hour,” mutters Jeremy.
“Forty-five minutes,” seconds his brother.
“We appreciate you guys handling this,” says Ceepak.
Dylan Murray smirks at my soaked shorts and Ceepak’s soggy pants.
“So what’s with you two? Your adult diapers leaking again?”
“Something like that,” says Ceepak with a grin.
“We took a turn in the dunk booth,” I say. “Over on Pier Two.”
“Wish I had known,” says Dylan. “Would’ve bought a dozen balls.”
“Yeah, it would’ve taken you a dozen to finally hit the target.”
Yes, this is what we do. We bust each other’s chops. It makes knowing that the mayor’s bratty kid is going to skate free, no matter what he did, a little easier to stomach.
Ceepak and I follow the Murrays back to the house in my Jeep and hit the locker room where, fortunately, we each have a dry pair of pants. And socks. When I take my wet ones off, my toes look like yogurt-covered raisins. They’re curdled worse than cottage cheese.
We grab a quick bite at the Yellow Submarine, this sandwich shop on Ocean Avenue (where you can get Mean Mister Mustard and Glass Onions on anything), then head back to the boardwalk and Pier Two.
On the drive over, Ceepak fills me in on the Free Fall ride’s criminal background.
“The Sea Haven operators are calling their ride ‘The StratosFEAR.’ In Michigan, it was known as ‘Terminal Velocity,’ a name that, unfortunately, it soon lived up to. A fourteen-year-old girl was killed after falling one hundred and forty feet from her seat as it plummeted down the drop tower at a rate of descent approaching fifty miles per hour.”
“What happened?”
“According to witnesses, the girl pitched forward while the ride was in free fall. She landed face-down on the pavement at the base of the tower; died on the way to the hospital.”
“Was there an investigation?”
“Quite an extensive one. Officials at the amusement park stated that the victim’s seat should not have been occupied because it did not have a functioning restraint system.”
“What? The seat belt was broken?”
“Actually, it was the shoulder restraint. She was sitting in an open-air car. The only thing holding her in was the padded chest harness over her head and shoulders. The victim’s restraint did not lock properly. The force of the drop caused it to flip up. The final report faulted maintenance workers for failing to designate that particular seat as being ‘out of service’ on the day of the accident.”
“That’s it? Some guy forgot to tape a sign on the girl’s seat?”
“Management at the Michigan amusement park also conceded that all the restraints on the ride should have been checked manually by ride operators before the cars were hoisted skyward.”
In Sea Haven, high school and college kids get summer jobs on the boardwalk running the rides. There are always a few whose only job is to walk around and jiggle everybody’s safety bars before they signal the operator to hit the GO button. Well, that’s the way it’s supposed to work, if the ride is owned and operated by people who care about safety and doing the right thing.
The “brand new” StratosFEAR Free Fall?
Not so much.
The owner is Sinclair Enterprises.
As in Mayor Hugh Sinclair.
And as we approach the recycled ride, I see that the mayor’s son, Ben, is the guy sitting in the control booth, his hand poised over the big green GO button.
Apparently, his dad’s lawyers were working extra-hard today. They got him sprung in record time.
11
Luckily, there is a bright yellow chain blocking access to the StratosFEAR, so Ben can’t really take anybody for a ride.
A sign reading “Opening Soon!” dangles off the barrier.
“We’ll see about that,” mumbles Ceepak as he unclasps the chain.
We enter the switchbacks where customers will patiently wait to have the crap scared out of them.
The base of the StratosFEAR is painted with white, wispy clouds filling a blue sky. A squared-off white tower, with crisscrossing diagonal support struts and trusses, rises 140 feet to a blinking lightning-bolt pole topper.
A fresh-faced guy, maybe thirty, wearing a bright blue polo shirt and khaki pants, an accordion file tucked under his arm, comes ambling around the base. He sees us. Gives us a friendly finger wave. Then turns to the mayor’s son in his controller seat.
“Blast her off, Ben.”
“Whatever.”
Ben, who’s also dressed in a bright blue polo shirt with a “StratosFEAR” logo embroidered where the polo pony usually gallops, slaps his chunky green button.
Twelve empty chairs-three on each side of a boxy blue car-slowly elevate up the tower. The shoulder restraints are in the down and locked position.
Ceepak and I crane our necks to watch the ride in action.
Not that there’s much action to watch. Just that clump of chairs slowly climbing the tower.
“When the car finally reaches the top,” says Professor Ceepak, “it will pause momentarily. And remember, Danny, a body at rest tends to stay at rest.”
True. When I’m on the couch, I tend to stay on the couch.
“The cable holds the chairs, the chairs hold the riders. So when the mechanism suspending the car lets go, the chairs will fall but there will be a slight delay before your body feels it is also falling.”
“So you think you’re falling all on your own. That you’re not even sitting in your seat.”
Ceepak nods.
“What fun.”
“Only if you enjoy experiencing vertical acceleration upwards of three G’s.”
The empty ride reaches the blinking lightning bolt. It pauses and just hangs up there for a second.
And then, BOOM!
If there were people riding the ride, they’d be screaming their heads off and kicking their dangling legs. Because the thing plunges 120 feet in eight seconds flat. Your stomach would be in your nose, which is why you should never eat funnel cakes right before riding this ride. There is a quick puff of white mist. The car slows. Impressively. Then it eases itself down to the loading platform.
“Pretty neat, huh, guys?” cries the over-caffeinated dude as he bounds over to greet us. He shoots out his hand to Ceepak. Ceepak shakes it.
“Detective Ceepak. We’ve been expecting you.”
“This is my partner, Danny Boyle.”
