Rolling Thunder (28 page)

“Dylan? Jeremy?” Ceepak breaks out of the father-son embrace and marches into the office where the Murrays are guarding the golfers. I'm right behind him.

“Keep this location secure. Young Mr. O'Malley might roll back this way if we corner him and he has nowhere else to run.” He turns to the kids and parents we hustled off the golf course earlier. “King Putt is officially closed for the day due to ongoing police activity. Come back tomorrow and the management will gladly offer you a free game or a full refund.”

Having seen all our weapons and heavy-duty body armor, they scurry out the door in a clump. Guess playing putt-putt tomorrow sounds like an excellent idea.

We're crawling north on Ocean Avenue in our patrol car.

I'm in the passenger seat, scoping out every pickup truck I can spot. They're all legit. Landscapers. Brick masons. Guys helping their buddies move a couch.

“Why'd he grab your father?” I ask.

“Perhaps he hopes we will negotiate with him if he has a hostage.”

I laugh a little. “Leave it to Skippy to grab a hostage nobody wants.”

“Danny, right now, my father is simply a citizen being held against his will in need of our assistance. It is our sworn duty to protect him.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Tomorrow, Joe Ceepak can be the sorry asshole we all wish would curl up and die. Today, we have to save his wrinkled old butt.

“All units, all units …”

Ceepak's behind the wheel so I twist up the radio dial.

“… Joseph Thalken of the Sea Haven Sanitation Department reports seeing the King Putt pickup truck heading north on Beach Lane near Kipper Street.”

Joey T. The man deserves a medal for all he's seen this week.

“The boardwalk,” I mumble. “It starts at Kipper. He could be heading to Pier Four. If he takes that shotgun to the roller coaster he could seriously ruin his dad's big day.”

“Is your friend still broadcasting from the Rolling Thunder, Danny?”

I snap on the dashboard radio while Ceepak hits the lights and sirens and jams the accelerator down to the floor.

“Hang on.”

We slalom our way north through heavy traffic, occasionally borrowing a lane from the terrified cars trying to head south.

“…
and what's your name, young lady?”
Cliff Skeete chatters out of the car radio.

“Layla.”

“Like the song?”

“Hey, that's the first time anybody ever said that.”

“Well, Layla, you ready to climb aboard a lightning bolt and roll like thunder?”

“Not really. I came here for the roller coaster.”

I like this Layla. She's got sass. 'Tude.

Cliff moves on down the line.
“And you are, mi'lady?”

“Samantha Starky. My friends call me, Sam.”

Jeez-o, man. Sam's still there.

“How long you been waitin' on line, Sam?”

“Three whole hours, Skeeter! I listen to you all the time. You used to hang out with my old boyfriend, Danny Boyle.”

So. The breakup is official. I heard it on the radio.

“You know Danny, right?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Well he makes me listen to you and WAVY all the time!”

Impossible as it seems, she sounds even perkier on the radio.

“Well, you're almost to the front of the line,” says Cliff. “Hang in there.”

“Hey, we wouldn't miss this for the world!”
says some guy.
“We'll tell our grandkids about this someday!”

“And your name, sir?”

“Richard Heimsack.”

Dead air while Cliff soaks in the name and I realize Richard and Sam are already contemplating grandbabies.

“Well, Richie—”

“Richard.”

“It is one awesome ride, brutha.”

Now the police radio crackles.

“This is unit six. We have suspect's vehicle in sight. Approaching parking lot to Pier Four on the boardwalk.”

“The Roller Coaster,” says Ceepak. “Hang on.”

I grab the handle you're supposed to use to climb out of the vehicle, because when Ceepak stomps on the gas our Crown Vic Interceptor flies faster than the runaway mine train at Disney World.

I grab our radio mic.

“This is A-twelve. We are en route to Pier Four. Anticipate suspect will be headed toward the Rolling Thunder.”

“Roger that” and “Ten–four” come in from all over the place.

Every cop in Sea Haven is on their way to the roller coaster to try and stop Skippy O'Malley from being free enough to ride that ride.

“This is Unit Six. Suspect is exiting vehicle with hostage … we will follow.”

“Do not aggravate the situation.” It's the chief. I guess everybody's in on this thing. “Wait for backup, Unit Six. Wait for backup. Tail the suspect but do not engage him. He is armed and dangerous. State Police are on the way. They're calling in a hostage negotiator.”

“Give me the ears on the ground,” says Ceepak.

He means I should turn up WAVY. Right now, Skeeter is our best source of potential intel on Skippy's movements.

“Comin' up, ‘Love Rollercoaster' from the Ohio Players … but first … hey, have you tried Big Bruno Mazzilli's brand-new Stromboller Cruster Italian Sandwich? Available exclusively at Big Bruno's Stromboli Stand right here on Pier Four. Thick layers of …”

“Yo! Douchebag!”
somebody yells close enough to Cliff's microphone for us to hear it.
“There's a freaking line here.”

Dominic Santucci. I'd recognize that obnoxious voice anywhere.

Ceepak presses even harder on the gas while yanking the steering wheel hard to the right. Tires squeal, and we tilt through a careering turn into the parking lot for Pier Four.

“… provolone, salami, prosciutto and melted mozzarella …”

“I said get back. You, too, old man.”

“Back off, Dom.”
Skippy.
“This is Ceepak's father. He's my fucking prisoner.”

Jeez-o, man.

“… rolled in a flaky crust and baked to golden perfection …”

“Skippy?”
Santucci again.
“Jesus—why you wearing a fucking raincoat, dipshit?”

Oh, man. He's doing it Columbine style. Weapons hidden under the flaps of his long coat. Santucci needs to back off. Big time.

But he doesn't.

“You can't come up here, you stupid wuss. These people have been waiting all morning to ride the ride.”

“My father owns this fucking piece of shit. I can do whatever the hell I feel like doing.”

We hear Cliff's hand muffle the microphone with a thump.
“Hey, you guys?”
He's still audible.
“We're goin' out live.”

The hand comes away from the mic.

“Elyssa? Listen, girl—we need more security down here on the loading platform … there's this dude in a trenchcoat.…”

Then there's this big explosion.

“Ohmigod!”
Cliff yells. It sounds like he dropped his microphone.

“Get down, motherfuckers!”
we hear Skippy yell.
“All of you. Down!”

Our car speakers rattle with high-pitched wails. Shrieks. Squeals of terror.

“Get down, people,”
says Cliff, staying incredibly calm.
“Do like the man says. Be cool, man. We're cool.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Yes, sir. Oh, man … that dude's bleeding …”

“No, dipshit. He's dying.”

“We need an ambulance.”

“I said shut the fuck up!”

We hear nothing more from Sergeant Santucci.

Ceepak slams on the brakes.

We yank open our doors and hit the asphalt on the run.

This time, we're close enough to hear the shotgun blast in person.

37

O
NE HOUR LATER
,
THE
S
TATE
P
OLICE
SWAT
GUYS DOT THE
roller coaster scaffolding like black crows scoping out a cornfield with high-powered rifles.

Skippy O'Malley has about three dozen hostages inside the loading shed—the place where you climb into the coaster cars on one side, exit on the other. The shed has walls and an angled roof that completely covers the final waiting line switchbacks and the train tracks. It also shades the control room, about the size of a boxy camper, on the far side of the rails.

In other words, none of New Jersey's best snipers, even the guy at the peak of the highest hill, has a clean shot at wacko O'Malley. They might've put on their black Kevlar, camouflage clothes, and battle helmets for nothing. A couple of the guys even rappelled down ropes out of helicopters so they could be at the peak of that first hill and have a clean shot at everything below.

But all they can shoot at right now is a metal roof.

Fortunately, Skippy's last shotgun blast was fired as a warning shot and did its job: He dispersed the several thousand people waiting in a line snaking from the ramp up to the loading platform all the way back to the boardwalk and Pier Two, half a mile south. When Ceepak and I came charging up the access steps to the boardwalk, we were met with a thundering herd of panic.

On the radio, Cliff Skeete haltingly confirmed that “a man working roller coaster security has been shot and killed.”

Skippy helped out by letting the folks at home know
“the asshole I took down is police sergeant Dominic Santucci. He's been riding my butt since day one on the job.”

He said it like he was still a cop. Who knows. Maybe in his mind, up there in Skippy Dippy Land, he still is.

After that newsflash, Elyssa the producer, or the program director, or maybe even Mayor Hugh Sinclair, decided it was time to take the live remote off the air. They played “Love Roller Coaster” because it was all cued up and then moved on to non-theme-park themed tunes.

Ceepak and I are in the improvised Situation Response Command Center where local and state authorities, tactical and support teams are trying to figure out what the hell we do next. We're borrowing the food stand where they deep-fry the Oreos and Snickers bars. Nobody's nibbling or noshing. We're all too pumped up. You get around this many special-tactics guys and you feel like you're in a marauding army of black-clad ninja warriors, only with better weaponry than curved swords and nunchucks. In fact, every weapon in the arsenal has been called up. Sniper rifles, submachine guns, flashboom and tear gas grenades, battering rams, ARVs (Armored Rescue Vehicles), not to mention our own stockpile of tactical shotguns like the one (or two) Skippy is toting.

“There's a camera on the loading platform,” says Big Paddy O'Malley, whom Officers Forbus and Bonanni hauled down here from headquarters. We need his technical expertise and inside knowledge about the Rolling Thunder. We don't need his bad attitude. “What the hell does my idiot son think he's doing?”

“Mr. O'Malley?” says Ceepak, trying to get the man to focus. “How can we access that video?”

“Kevin?”

Kevin O'Malley plops a briefcase up on the counter of the food stand. “We swung by the office. Grabbed the plans.”

When he snaps open the briefcase, the first thing I see is a wadded-up T-shirt stuffed into a plastic bag. It's stained with blood.

“Whoa,” I say. “What's that?”

“Something you people probably need. A Sea Haven police officer who moonlights as a security guard for Mr. Mazzilli brought it by our offices earlier in the week.”

Ceepak's turn: “What?”

“He claimed to have removed it from your initial crime scene—the suitcases with Ms. Baker's dismembered body parts. He expected us to pay him for it.”

“We did,” says Mr. O'Malley. “But not as much as he wanted.”

Santucci. That slimy weasel. He did snatch Gail's Sugar Babies T-shirt. We'd crawl up his butt about it, only he's already dead.

“Why are you just now turning this over to us?” asks Detective Botzong. He sounds pissed.

“Because,” says Big Paddy, “it—”

“Dad?” advised Kevin. “Don't. You're without legal representation.”

True. We didn't ask Forbus and Bonanni to bring Louis Rambowski along for the ride. He didn't figure to be much help.

“I don't need a goddamn lawyer, Kevin! Why didn't we turn this bloody T-shirt over to the police? Because it would have mistakenly linked the dead girl to me and further misled you gentlemen in your efforts to track down the real killer—my goddamn son Skippy.”

Detective Botzong is still furious. “Where is this goddamn patrol cop you got that boosts evidence from a murder scene? What's his goddamn name?”

“Dominic Santucci,” says Ceepak solemnly. “The off-duty police officer whom Mr. O'Malley's son just murdered.”

That stops Botzong like a canon blast to the chest.

“Oh.” He stammers a little. “My condolences on your loss.”

Ceepak nods, turns to Kevin O'Malley.

“The video cameras?”

“Right.” Kevin unrolls a schematic. “The feeds go directly to the control room.”

“The small building directly across from where Skippy is currently holding his hostages,” says Ceepak, just so he's clear.

“Yeah. That's right. So, obviously, we can't go over there. However, if I remember correctly—yes, there's a junction box right there.” He points to the flashy neon sign over the entryway. “The lightning bolts on either side of the lettering are practically pointing to it. Behind the illuminated Entrance sign.”

“On it,” says the head of the T.E.A.M.S. crew. That's what New Jersey calls the unit of the Technical Response Bureau that's prepared to deal with what they call “extraordinary police emergencies” such as a psycho putt-putt ball washer holding three dozen innocent civilians hostage on a roller coaster loading dock. The T.E.A.M.S. unit is “a multifaceted entity” that maintains an “all-threats, all-hazards” methodology.