“Which had to be pretty hard to do,” says Botzong. “Balancing the body to secure the feet. Then, I’m guessing, they had to brace Mr. Braciole by the helmet while they mounted the bike.”
The motorcyclist in the video is wearing racing gear, a one-piece space suit deal that gives absolutely no hint as to who or what is inside; same with the aerodynamic helmet and padded gloves, which more or less blend right into the high-collared suit. Our killer could be a guy or a girl. He or she could be sixteen or sixty. Heck, he or she could be a very well-trained orangutan. The flight suit hides everything.
“Once the killer had taken their place up front,” says Ceepak, “they reached around, grabbed hold of Mr. Braciole’s limp arms, binding them together in front of their waist with more duct tape.”
“Yep,” says Botzong.
Wow. I’m impressed. First, by Ceepak and Botzong, who figured it all out. Second, by the killer. He (or she) had to be pretty nimble and quick to pull it off. Third, by duct tape. Is there nothing that stuff can’t do?
“The neck roll of the helmet being forced over Mr. Braciole’s head, of course, explains that ring of dried blood and the ‘up-drips’ around his neck,” adds Botzong. “It acted like a temporary dam, causing the blood to pool in a circle until it was removed.”
I nod because I figured it out maybe two seconds after Botzong said it.
“So,” says the head of the State Police Major Crimes Unit, tapping the monitor screen, “do you guys recognize the motor scooter?”
I’m guessing Detective Bill Botzong, when not rehearsing amateur theatricals, spends his Thursday nights watching Fun House, so he saw me and Ceepak chasing the Creed motorcycle crew around the parking lot of Morgan’s Surf and Turf.
“Several of the motorcycle gang members we encountered were, indeed, riding similar Harleys,” says Ceepak. “However, I don’t recall any distinguishing characteristics on any of the bikes that allow me to I.D. the motorcycle.”
“What about Skeletor? Is that his bike?” asks Botzong.
“Sure looks like it,” I say.
“It sure does, Danny,” says Ceepak.
I’m waiting for the “But.”
“But.…”
There it is.
“This low-slung Harley profile is quite common.”
“Yeah,” I say. Plus, the rider, disguised in a helmet and leather jumpsuit, is hunched over so much, gripping onto the handlebars like a motocross racer, there’s no way to tell how tall and skinny he or she might be. It could be Skeletor on the bike. It could be anybody.
“Well, Skeletor and his Creed brethren are definitely on my most-wanted list,” says Botzong.
Now Ceepak nods. “Ours too.”
“Any word on his whereabouts?”
“Negative. We put out an APB immediately after our run-in at the restaurant.”
“Which was almost a week ago,” I add.
“We may need to cast a wider net,” says Botzong.
Ceepak sighs. “Bill, as Chief Baines undoubtedly alerted you, the producers of Fun House want to go on air this week and devote a good deal of time to showing the drug dealer’s face to their viewers.”
Botzong screws up his face like it pains him to say what he’s about to say. “Yeah. Buzz told me. I think it might help, John.”
Ceepak reluctantly nods. “My wife, Rita, also agrees. This morning, she advised me that America’s Most Wanted with John Walsh, a long-running program on the Fox network, has aided authorities in the capture of well over eleven hundred fugitives.”
“So, tell me: You going to play the John Walsh role?”
“No, Bill. I was going to ask you to do it. After all, you have more stage experience.”
“Sure. If the TV people want me, I’ll dig out my black turtleneck and leather jacket.”
Ceepak grins. “That’ll work.”
I’m smiling too.
I guess because I’m imagining Broadway Bill Botzong breaking into song and dance, halfway through the show. You know-it’s America’s Most Wanted meets Glee. I just hope Botzong isn’t pitchy, a term I learned watching too much American Idol. It’s all Randy Jackson ever says.
Botzong and his CSI crew continue combing the crime scene.
I’m pretty sure they won’t find any fingerprints. The killer on the Harley, after all, was wearing very thick racing gloves.
Ceepak and I head back across the island (hey, it’s only about a half mile wide) to chat with Mandy Keenan, who, as far as we know, was the last person to see Paul Braciole alive. We’re hoping she can help us track The Thing’s movements, because we need to find where he was killed before someone, maybe even Skeletor, strapped him onto the back of that motorcycle and hauled him over to the Knock ’Em Down booth.
Huh. I wonder.
“You think the killer picked the Knock ’Em Down on purpose?” I say as we crawl west on Red Snapper Street. “I mean, they could’ve picked any booth. The Frog Bog. Whack A Mole. Why the Knock ’Em Down?”
“An interesting question, Danny,” says Ceepak.
“Maybe they were sending a message. You know, like that Springsteen song, ‘Wrecking Ball.’ It’s a dare. Take your best shot, let me see what you’ve got. Go ahead, put me on national TV. And then, boom-the bad guy knocks Paulie down.”
“A fascinating hypothesis. It would be in keeping with the very public execution of one whom Skeletor and The Creed obviously felt had betrayed them.”
Yeah. You don’t hang a dead guy up by his undershirt on a wall filled with stuffed animals unless you want somebody to find the body.
“So, it looks like Skeletor and The Creed are our top suspects?”
“Yes, Danny. At this juncture.”
“That means we need to play along with Marty Mandrake, do the whole America’s Most Wanted bit?”
Ceepak nods. “No matter how personally repellent, it appears to be the most prudent course of action currently available to us.”
I pull into the driveway at 136 Red Snapper.
Up at the house, the front door swings open.
Officer Kenneth McAlister of the SHPD comes out, shaking his head.
Ceepak is up and out of our vehicle.
“What’s the situation, Ken?”
“This Mandy?” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “Now she says the dead guy stole her car.”
17
“He stole my fucking mustang!”
This from Mandy Keenan, who, it turns out, is a real charmer-if, you know, you’re charmed by women who wear T-shirts that say “Feel Safe At Night: Sleep With A Jersey Girl.”
We’re inside Mandy’s living room. Or maybe it’s her trash compactor. Empty rum jugs litter the floor, mingling with assorted thongs, beach wraps, flip-flops, boogie boards, skirts, shorts, and socks, not to mention all sorts of magazines promising “20 Top Sex Secrets,” Cheetos bags, pizza boxes, Pringles cans, Tastykake wrappers, and maybe six dozen empty Starbucks Frappuccino cups with petrified foam bubbles caking their innards. When you walk across the green-gold-orange shag carpet, hidden crumbs crunch beneath your feet.
Mandy, whose parents must’ve really loved that old Barry Manilow song, sits in a cabana-striped chair. I think it’s supposed to be a piece of outdoor patio furniture. She’s blonde and built. If she’s ever a murder victim, she’ll be easy to I.D. Breast implants have serial numbers. I can tell she has slapped on her white lip-gloss and matching white eye shadow (with glitter) in anticipation of our arrival.
Ms. Keenan’s car, we learn, had been parked around the block, up on Prawn Street, because “My fucking roommates and the assholes that rent upstairs took all the fucking parking spaces on the fucking lawn.”
Yes, reality TV has infected real reality. Everybody thinks they need to sound like the hard-partying smut-mouths on prime time TV.
“I told Paulie he could borrow it, but he had to bring it back by noon on account of that’s when I wake up. Plus, they’re having this big sale at the Target on the mainland and I wanted to buy one of those George Foreman grills, because if Paulie and I are gonna have like paparazzi taking our pictures all over the place, I gotta keep off the poundage.”