“Roger that. Now it's time for us to do ours.”
We park beside a garbage truck and hustle inside the municipal garage to see if the first minivan has anything more to tell us.
“The wife, huh?” Dr. McDaniels rolls out from under the van on a mechanic's trolley. “That would explain that.” She nods toward one of her guys who's holding a plastic Baggie with a single strand of curly black hair. “Found it in the rear cargo bay. There's more on the passenger side headrest, but that only proves that Mrs. Weese was in the car with her husband.”
“Find anything else?”
“Just some Cheerios and Cheez-Its ground into the carpet. Under the seat cushions, too. Kids.”
Ceepak nods.
I notice two child safety seats. Guess George's son and daughter won't be throwing food at each other in this van again anytime soon.
“We need to focus,” Ceepak says, checking his watch. “We have less than two hours.”
I wonder if he sensed my mind wandering off to the land of crumbled Cheerios and Cheez-Its.
“It's the same old story, same old act. One step up and two steps back.”
Ceepak's quoting Springsteen again. Forcing himself to concentrate.
Dr. McDaniels hauls herself up, dusts off her shorts.
“Okay,” she says, like a professor rallying a drifting class discussion, “we know Who. We know Why. Now all we need to determine is How and, most important, Where Next.”
“The van,” Ceepak says, staring at the bland white automobile, trying to will the sheet metal to surrender its secrets.
“Just your typical kidmobile,” McDaniels says. “Did I mention the half-empty juice boxes I found in the back seat? The chewed crayons? Doesn't matter. They don't give us diddly.”
“Mrs. Weese purchased the vehicle for her son. Mr. Weese provided the resident beach pass bumper sticker to encourage frequent visits from his grandchildren …”
He trails off.
“How firm are your trajectory numbers?” Ceepak suddenly asks Dr. McDaniels.
“Firmer than your butt. We reworked them. Ten times. Our best projection comes from the parking lot outside Saltwater Tammy's because we had those two definitive points to work with. The entry hole in the plate glass window, the second hole in the bin of Red-Hots hearts.”
“We have our straight line,” Ceepak says.
“And our angle of impact.”
“Right.”
“The line took us straight out to that empty parking space. The angle took us up to an elevation of six feet, eight inches at the front end of the rectangular parking space and climbed up to six-nine-point-five at the rear.”
“Suggesting the minivan had been parked there prior to the shooting.”
“Only empty space in the whole damn lot,” Dr. McDaniels says. “And it wasn't there earlier when Officer Boyle went hunting for a spot.”
“We can surmise the shots were fired from this vehicle. The perpetrator then drove away while Danny and I tended to Ms. Landry's wounds.”
“I'm certain of it,” McDaniels says. “The shot came from this goddamn minivan. There's a little bit of an oil leak underneath. We could go back to Schooner's Landing, take samples of any fluids pooled in that parking space.”
“No time. Won't help.”
“Yeah. I know. Got my shorts dirty for nothing.”
“What about the roof?” Ceepak suggests.
“The van is six-six.”
“The bipod would add another two inches.”
“Six-eight.”
“She could have stood on the rear bumper,” Ceepak says. “Rested her rifle on the rooftop.”
McDaniels nods. “Steadied her shot.”
We all walk around to the back of the van.
“Maybe,” McDaniels says, shaking her head, disappointed at what she sees. “Maybe not. Be damn difficult.”
There's a bulky bike rack rigged to the rear of the minivan. Maybe the older kid brought his tricycle with him down the shore. Maybe George and Natalia have his-and-hers trail bikes. The rack's arms poke out at least two or three feet and spread sideways. They'd get in your way if you wanted to stand on the rear bumper and squeeze off a few rounds from a rifle resting on the roof.
I think about those two screaming kids back at the Weese house. They're going to have a lot more to scream about if they wind up being raised by their grandparents when mom and dad are locked up in the state pen, that's for sure. Not only that, they'll grow up knowing their parents were cold-blooded killers.
“Poor kids,” I mumble aloud. “That's a lot of crap to carry around.”
“Danny, what did you just say?” Ceepak demands.
Busted. I feel like I'm back in grade schooclass="underline" if you have something to say, Mr. Boyle, why don't you share it with the whole class?
“Nothing. I was just thinking. My mind kind of drifted.”
“Danny, just repeat what you said.”
“I'm sorry. I know I should be focusing on the task at hand.”
“Danny-what did you say?” Ceepak isn't fooling.
“‘Poor kids. It's a lot of crap to carry around.’ That's all. I figure their two kids will have-”
“Crap. Kid's crap,” McDaniels echoes, sounding like she's in some kind of trance. “Carrying it around.”
“Suitcases.” Ceepak sounds like he's in the trance with her. “Collapsible crib, playpen, stroller …”
“Bingo!” Dr. McDaniels hollers. “Guys?” she calls out to her CSI crew. “We need a ladder. Pronto! I need to be taller!”
The two CSI guys root around in the garage, push aside rakes and shovels. Something heavy and metal crashes to the floor.
“Whoops. Sorry.”
More rummaging. Steel scrapes against concrete.
“Here we go.”
One of the guys digs out a three-step aluminum ladder from behind this clump of signs and poles.
“That'll work,” Ceepak says.
The guys set it up alongside the minivan.
“Doctor?” Ceepak offers McDaniels the first look.
“You do it,” she says. “I'm afraid of heights.”
Ceepak climbs up the three short steps, puts his hands on his hips, looks up and down the roofline.
“You were right, Danny.”
“How tall is Mrs. Weese?” Dr. McDaniels asks up to Ceepak. “The Russian one, I mean.”
“Five-two, five-one. Short. Maybe four-eleven.”
“Good thinking, Boyle.”
I have no idea what I've said or thought that deserves so much praise.
“It explains the foot steps,” she continues. “Why Weese got out at Oak Street, walked along the side of the vehicle. Probably checking up on her.”
“Definitely,” says Ceepak. I still have no idea what the two of them are so excited about. “Weese seemed to have a vast knowledge of the D.C. sniper case.”
“So he knew how the shooter, usually the kid Malvo, hid in the trunk,” McDaniels adds. “Had that special rifle hole bored through the rear of their Chevy Caprice.”
“Affirmative. Weese also intimated that he and Natalia were smarter and potentially more lethal than the D.C. team.”
“He could be right,” McDaniels says. “This is pretty damn clever.”
“What?” I have to say it.
Ceepak climbs down off the stepladder.
“Take a look.”
I climb up. Look at the roof. It's got a rack on it. Black bars running up the sides, two adjustable struts spanning the width. You could put lumber or a Christmas tree up here and tie it down with bungee cords.
“Look closely, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Examine the details.”
Okay. Fine. I look closer. I see dust splotches. Rain stains. The roof looks like my windshield does after a thunderstorm, speckled with dirt splats, the residue left behind when the raindrops dry. The top is freckled like a leopard skin of spattered sand-dust.
Except on one side. The passenger side.
Over there, there's a clean patch, a rectangle that covers most of the roof. The front edge is somewhat rounded at the corners.
I lean back. Take in the big picture.
Kids’ crap.
Somebody used to have a cargo carrier lashed down up here to haul all the suitcases and cribs and stuff they couldn't jam into the wayback or hang off the bike rack over the bumper.