Wild Rage

by Tripp Ellis

  Hartman grumbled. "Wild, why don’t you go in there and open the door for ROBI.”

  I gave him the side-eye. "Why don't you go do it?"

  "Somebody's got to pilot the robot," Hartman said.

  "I'm not EOD." I smiled at him.

  He motioned for one of his guys to get suited up in blast gear. The heavily padded suit made from Kevlar and Nomex could help diminish the effects of small blasts. Of course, the closer you were to the device when it exploded, the more intense the blast. Even with a blast suit, you certainly wouldn't want to be holding a powerful device when it detonated—not if you valued your fingers.

  Deputy Clark began suiting up. He had barely gotten the thing on when a thunderous boom rumbled the school. The device detonated, and the ground quaked under my feet. My stomach twisted, and dread consumed me. Was there someone still in the building? Did they touch the device?

  I hoped it wasn't a student.

  39

  The hallway was filled with smoke and haze. The acrid smell of explosive residue hung in the air. The door to the classroom had been blown off the hinges, and debris littered the floor.

  ROBI was toppled on his side, and the poor robot had seen better days. His remote arm dangled at an unnatural angle. I didn’t even want to know how much it would cost to fix him.

  Inside the classroom, Miss Bell’s desk had been ripped to shreds. A large chunk rested on one side of the room, and another large piece was on the other. Thousands of little shards speckled the floor. The blast wave had turned over desks and chairs and toppled everything in the room. Charred papers littered the floor, and a giant world map was partially torn from the side wall. The row of windows was shattered, and shards of glass sparkled. The blinds were twisted and mangled. Ceiling tiles were fragmented and out of place.

  It was a horrible sight, especially in a place that should never see this kind of destruction. A sanctuary for learning had been turned into a war zone.

  My eyes scanned the room, looking for wounded or dead. Fortunately, no one had been injured.

  The bomb had detonated on its own.

  I saw the same telltale fragments of pipe, spray-painted red. Twisted and mangled nails littered the area. At first glance, this device looked like it came from the same builder as the previous bombs.

  "This was on a timer or a remote detonator," I said.

  "That's a change of design," Hartman replied.

  Agents Ross, Blake, and a team of ATF investigators arrived and began evaluating the scene. I caught Agent Blake up to speed while forensic photographers documented the area. Cameras flashed, and investigators began sifting through the rubble.

  "Do you think this device could have been in place before you arrested Lamar Bailey?” Agent Blake asked me.

  "When I talked to Miss Bell, she said the package was new. This bomb was put in place after Lamar was arrested.”

  Payton frowned.

  “You come up with anything on Dustin?” I asked.

  “No. I’ve had a team on him 24/7 for the last several days. He hasn’t come anywhere near the school grounds.”

  “I don’t think Lamar is our guy,” I said disappointedly.

  “I’m beginning to agree with you. But this doesn’t exactly follow in line with the pattern," Payton said.

  “Agent Blake, I think you’ll want to take a look at this,” Agent Ross shouted from across the room. He held up a fragment of a 9V battery. “It’s hard to see, but it looks like the same lot number.”

  “I’d say we’re definitely dealing with the same bomber,” I said.

  “He switched from government buildings,” Payton said, her face twisted with uncertainty. “Why target a school?"

  I shrugged. "Maybe our bomber is angry at the school."

  "A former student?"

  I thought for a moment. “Maybe we've been looking at this from the wrong angle."

  Payton’s brow knitted with curiosity.

  “We've been looking for a recently released ex-con with an explosives history. Maybe we should be looking at a student."

  "A student? Someone with a juvenile record that’s been through the court system?"

  "No," I said, trying to put all the pieces together. Then it dawned on me. "We're looking for someone who has a parent that is currently incarcerated and who’s been through Ed Perry's court and was prosecuted by Charles Bamford. A kid in this classroom is very angry about having his or her parent taken away from them."

  The papers that littered the floor were mostly essays that had recently been graded. Spelling and punctuation errors had been circled in red sharpie. There were pages with grades written on the top of the page and circled.

  I took a step and almost slipped. I realized my shoe was on the corner of a piece of paper. It caused my shoe to slide when I moved. I glanced down at a correction on the page that caught my eye. I knelt down and picked the paper up from the floor. Circled in red ink was a misspelled word—tyrany.

  It was spelled the same way it was on the letter that accompanied the second bomb.

  A tiny spark of excitement rushed through me. I started thumbing through the pages on the floor, trying to figure out who had written the essay. It was handwritten in blue ballpoint.

  Unable to determine the author, I took the charred paper from the classroom and weaved through the maze of hallways. I pushed outside and rushed across the lot to find Miss Bell. I showed her the paper and asked her to identify the author.

  Her pretty eyes surveyed the handwriting, reading a few lines. She instantly recognized the handwriting and the prose."This is Kyle's."

  "Kyle who?

  "Kyle Turner."

  "Have you seen him here today?"

  "Yes, he was just around here somewhere." Her eyes scanned the parking lot. "There he is," she said, pointing.

  I followed the direction of her finger, and my eyes focused on Kyle Turner.

  He was 17, had medium-length sandy-blond hair that hung into his hazel eyes, and a square face. He was close to 6’ and a narrow build.

  Kyle’s eyes widened. He turned and ran, shoving his way through the dense crowd.

  I sprinted after him, plowing through the sea of students in the parking lot.

  JD followed.

  The crowd gawked and gasped. Cell phones captured the chase. Overly dramatic girls went live, uploading to social media, talking about how they almost died.

  Kyle hopped onto his motorcycle, cranked it up, and sped out of the parking lot. The engine rattled, and smoke blew from the tailpipe as the bike zipped down the road. He made a quick turn and disappeared amid the neighboring buildings.

  The bike was a Yamazuki ST 2—a cross between a crotch rocket and a sport-touring bike. It was more upright. It had a silver tank with red accents and a 320-cc engine that was more than enough to get you into trouble.

  JD and I raced to the Porsche and hopped inside. Jack cranked up the engine, dropped the car into gear, and the tires spit gravel as we peeled out of the parking lot, chasing after Kyle.

  40

  The rotors of Tango One thumped overhead as we twisted through the streets, tires squealing. We lost sight of the perp, but Tango One kept an eye on him—at least until he disappeared into a parking garage.

  The helicopter circled the garage, and we caught up soon. JD barreled the Porsche into the lot of a professional building and screeched to the curb by the entrance. There was a ground level lot and a 4-story garage to the side.

  The perp was either hiding in the garage, or he’d entered the professional building.

  JD killed the engine, and we both launched from the car.

  Jack darted toward the parking garage and held up at the entryway. His eyes surveyed the first level.

  I ran to the main entrance of the professional building with my weapon drawn and peered into the lobby.

  Jack glanced at me and signaled he was moving into the garage. I didn’t like splitting up like this. It was best to work in teams, but we needed to cov
er the area until additional deputies arrived.

  I pushed into the lobby, sweeping the barrel of my pistol in all directions. Instead of a fountain or a Koi pond, there was a garden box in the center of the atrium with ferns and other tropical foliage.

  A quick glance around the lobby told me there were more dentists in this professional building than you could shake a stick at. There were a few family practice physicians, some chiropractors, and a couple of acupuncturists. The four-story atrium had a glass elevator in the center.

  I moved to the first office door and peered through the window into the waiting area, looking for Kyle. There were a few people waiting to see the dentist.

  I kept moving forward with my head on a swivel, peering into the waiting rooms of different offices. I moved along one side of the building, circled around, and came back along the other.

  I couldn't see into some of the waiting rooms because the blinds had been pulled shut. In those instances, I pushed open the door and gave a quick glance around, drawing curious stares from the patients.

  By the time I made it back to the main entrance, Jack had entered the professional building from the side, which was connected to the parking garage.

  His face was red, and he huffed and puffed. A mist of sweat coated his skin. "I found that punk’s bike in the garage, and I checked every level. He had to have come inside."

  JD searched the first-floor restrooms while I kept an eye on the courtyard.

  Two more patrol units screeched into the parking lot, lights flashing, sirens blaring. The deputies hopped out of the car and stormed into the lobby. It was Erickson, Faulkner, Mendoza, and Robinson. I told them to post up at each entrance, and we'd work our way up the floors, searching for the little punk.

  Kyle was in this building, and he wasn't getting out.

  JD and I took the switchback staircase up to the second floor. He took one hallway, and I took the other. We looked in every office, checked every door, and searched the bathrooms.

  The men's room was empty.

  We knocked on the women's door and identified ourselves as deputies. When no one responded, we stepped inside and searched.

  It was empty.

  We moved up to the third floor again, JD took one side of the building, and I took the other, repeating the process.

  Nothing.

  We hit the fourth floor, made the rounds, and rendezvoused at the south end of the building.

  I looked across the courtyard to the glass elevator. A man in a white lab coat and scrubs had stepped aboard and descended to the first floor.

  His back was to me, but he had the same build and coloring as Kyle. He stared into a manila folder as if reading a patient’s chart.

  JD noticed me staring intently.

  "What is it?"

  “That’s him. That’s our guy.”

  The elevator dropped toward the first floor.

  I shouted below to the deputies. “Elevator!”

  The lift descended, and the doors slid open. The man exited the elevator, and the main column obstructed my view of him. A moment later, he emerged on the other side, his head in the file folder.

  By that time, the deputies had him surrounded with their weapons drawn.

  41

  “Freeze, scumbag!” Erickson shouted. “Down on the ground. Now!"

  Kyle had stolen scrubs and a lab coat from a doctor’s office or a storage area. I guess he thought if he kept his head down, he could walk right out.

  He lifted his hands in the air, and his head twisted around in all directions, surveying the deputies. Their fierce barrels stared at him.

  There was nowhere to run.

  "I said on the ground!" Erickson commanded.

  Kyle finally complied and ate the tile.

  The deputies swarmed him, and Erickson slapped a pair of cuffs around Kyle's wrists, then yanked him to his feet.

  JD and I plunged down the steps to join the deputies. Erickson dragged Kyle by his arm toward the exit.

  Kyle kept a stone face as the deputies marched him outside and stuffed him into the back of a patrol car. There was a hint of fear in his eyes. But, mostly, there was rage.

  Kyle was taken to the station, printed, processed, and put into an interrogation room. JD and I took the first crack at him. We entered the tiny room and took a seat across the table from him.

  Kyle glared at us with his stoney gaze.

  I set a fake ID on the table in front of him that we had discovered in his wallet. It was Kyle’s picture, but the date of birth put him at 25 years old, and the name on the ID was John David.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Beer.”

  “Beer?” I asked incredulously.

  “Yeah. I’m a high school kid. I like to drink beer.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t use that to purchase explosive material?”

  “Positive.”

  “Deputies got a warrant and searched your house. Right now, a team of geeks are sifting through your computer. These nerds have ways of finding everything. Even shit you deleted. They’ll learn all your dirty little secrets. They’ll find all the instructional videos you’ve watched on bomb-making. They’ll find all your porn. I hope there’s nothing embarrassing. They’ll find all your online transactions.”

  His nervous eyes shifted between the two of us. I knew that got to him a little.

  "So, here's the deal," I said. "Let's just save each other a lot of time and trouble. We know you built the devices. We know you're angry about your father's conviction."

  Kyle didn't say anything, but his cheeks reddened.

  "You wanted to lash out at the system. But that's over now. You’re busted. You're not getting out of it. If you cooperate, make a confession, you may get more favorable treatment from the court due to your age and other hardships. I know it's difficult without having a parent around."

  "What the fuck do you know about anything?" Kyle said. "You don't know me."

  "You're right, I don't. But I’ve read your file. Your mother died two years ago. And your father got arrested and sent to prison. You kids are on your own. Just you and your sister, right?"

  "That's right. My dad's innocent. He didn't do anything you guys said he did."

  "I had nothing to do with your father's case, so I don't know."

  Kyle scowled at me. "Yeah, that's typical. Pass it off to somebody else. You guys are all the same."

  "You know you’ve killed people with those bombs of yours, right?"

  "You can't prove anything."

  "A team of investigators is at your residence right now. They’re looking in every nook and cranny. They’ll vacuum the carpet for fibers. They'll find the materials you used to construct the bombs. Even the smallest trace of gunpowder residue left behind. These people are good at what they do."

  "They’re not gonna find anything because I didn't do anything."

  "Then why did you run?"

  "I have an aversion to cops. I have PTSD after what happened to my father."

  "You know you misspelled a couple words in that second letter."

  "No, I didn't. I didn't send the second letter. I didn't do anything that you guys are accusing me of."

  "Okay, if you say so. I guess you must be innocent."

  He sneered at me.

  Daniels poked his head into the interrogation room. "Deputies just picked up his sister. She's in interrogation room two when you're ready. They found pipes, wire, gunpowder, red spray paint, and batteries from the same lot in a box in the attic underneath the Christmas ornaments.”

  Daniels pulled the door shut, and I let his words hang in the air for a moment.

  Kyle's eyes widened, and concern tensed his face. He tried to hide it, but that was a futile effort.

  "I thought you said we weren’t gonna find anything, Kyle? I guess you didn't hide your supplies as well as you thought.”

  "That's bullshit! You guys planted that shit. You’re setting me up, just like you did to my father."


  "Is that gonna be your defense? I hope you’ve got something better than that."

  "Leave my sister out of this."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that. See, if you're telling me that you're innocent, and we found those supplies in your home, then one of you is responsible." I exchanged a glance with JD. "Maybe we do have things all wrong. Maybe you are innocent, and all of this was your sister's idea. I would imagine she's equally as upset about your father going away."

  Kyle was so mad, he trembled. His face reddened. The kid was so angry, he was on the verge of tears.

  "I think we'll go talk to her for a minute,” I said.

  Kyle glared at me.

  JD and I pushed away from the table and moved to the door. With a quick knock, the guard buzzed us through and we moved down the hallway to interrogation room two.

  42

  I had a few thoughts about how to play this.

  Kyle’s sister Kristin was a fraternal twin. They had the same coloring and the same eyes. Her sandy-blonde hair hung past her shoulders, and her hazel eyes flicked about nervously.

  "I just want to verify a few things with you about the items we found,” I said. “Now, I'm having a hard time believing what Kyle said. Frankly, when I look at you, I just don’t see it.”

  “See what?”

  “Kyle said the explosive material was yours, and you were the one sending the pipe bombs as retaliation against your father's arrest."

  Kristin's eyes bugged out, and she swallowed hard. She didn't say anything.

  "I'd like to hear your side of it. Because as it stands, this whole thing is coming down on you,” I lied. Normally, I was against lying. But an officer has to use all available tools. Sometimes you have to lie to get to the truth. “Two people are dead, and you're looking at a lifetime behind bars." I winced dramatically for effect. "And I gotta be honest, I don't want that for you. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you."

  She glared at me.

  I quickly realized she was the smarter of the two when she said, “I want to speak with an attorney."