“You got it, buddy. Good thing we brought our secret weapon today.” Lemke raised his right arm and gave a slight wave. With that, a man in green army camouflage came out of the driver’s side door of the Crown Victoria. He opened the back door and out leapt a sixty-five-pound yellow Labrador Retriever. “Ski, meet Austin, Department of Defense’s bomb dog extraordinaire. That’s her handler, Sergeant Rick Vasquez. These EOD guys either have some of the biggest balls on the planet, or they’re missing a number of brain cells. Remember the crazy guy in The Hurt Locker and all the stuff he did? There you go, proof positive.”
“I heard that, Lurch. Don’t hurt Austin’s feelings; she’s sensitive.” Sergeant Vasquez attached the leash to Austin’s collar and came over to the group. Lemke briefed him on what they had.
“I can’t get too close with Austin in case she missteps and hits the wire, but I can go in from the other side. Wind’s from out of the north. If there’s any explosive material here, Austin’ll smell it.”
He led the dog over to the area of the pushed over headstones and spoke to her. Her tail wagged excitedly, and she sat down next to a section of grass near the headstones, signifying a “passive alert” to the presence of explosive materials. The sergeant flashed a look over at the three investigators. “Okay, Austin smells something. Looks like we have a live one. Do you guys mind if I have my try with this? I’m going back to the ‘Sandbox’ in February, and those terrorist turds make deadly, but crappy, bombs. It’s always good to get the training with someone who hopefully knows what the heck he’s doing. You put enough explosives anywhere with a detonating device and something’s bound to get blown up. Just hold on to Austin for me.”
“Have at it, Rick,” Lemke smiled.
Sergeant Vasquez knelt down and surveyed the situation up close. He didn’t like what he saw. The green wire was wound around a metal stake that had been pushed into the ground and hidden under the angled black granite headstone. It went through an open area and under the knocked-over and defaced brown headstone of Harold Schlundt. He turned on his small penlight and saw a black, plastic micro switch attached to wires leading to a midnight black-colored plastic container directly underneath the headstone. A separate black wire, making a secondary detonation connection, also led to the container. He stood back up.
“This is not very promising, boys. The green trip wire is hooked up to the micro switch as the primary connection. There’s also a black wire connection to the container, which I’m guessing is the secondary detonation. That doesn’t even take into account a plunger, motion, or sensor device inside the box. Guess I’ll go put on the bomb suit, since I worry about trying to maneuver the robot around these headstones and uneven ground. It’s a job for the PAN. What do you guys think?”
“Totally agree,” both Lemke and Cleary responded.
Lemke went to the back of the truck and grabbed the olive-green, colored bomb suit for Vasquez. Special Agent Cleary reached for the Percussion Actuated Nonelectric disruptor (PAN) from its prominent space on one of the shelves. It was used extensively by military and civilian personnel to remotely disable and render safe improvised explosive devices without detonating them. The disruptor employed a standard, commercial twelve-gauge shotgun shell with modified loads designed to provide general and specific disruption capabilities—the bomb technician’s best friend. Equipped with a collapsible, adjustable stand, the PAN was activated remotely from various radio frequency devices using a shock tube initiator. Highly pressured projectiles, such as water, clay, sand, or other substances, were used to open the potential explosive at high speed. This disrupted the explosive and firing train, rendering the IED safe. It could also be attached to a robot and armed with video capabilities.
It took several minutes for Sergeant Vasquez to put on the cumbersome outfit. Fixed with a number of layers of Kevlar, the suit also contained ceramic inserts to protect the wearer from shrapnel.
“Okay, boys, wish me luck.” Vasquez walked up to the knocked-over headstones and set up the PAN low enough to target the black container. After several minutes, he turned around, flashed the thumbs-up sign, and walked back to the group.
“I’d say we’re good here at about 150 feet back to protect us from a blast, if there is one.”
When everyone was safely positioned behind one of the larger headstones, Vasquez pushed the button, and the distinctive disruptor sound pierced the air, which was thankfully the only sound they heard. He slowly stepped over to the area, peered under the headstone, and saw a damaged but “safe” black plastic container. He moved the heavy SCHLUNDT headstone to expose the formerly intact container with wires still attached. He signaled “all clear” to his coworkers.
They walked over to Vasquez’s location. Tomczyk was the first to speak. “Okay, bomb techies, talk away—I’m all ears.”
Lemke bent over and scanned the container, noting some of the items and picking up one of the black plastic pieces.
“Looks to me like the maker devised several different ways for this thing to detonate. He was nice enough to omit one rather important component—the explosive load. See the cut-out opening here on top? Here’s the pin he had that would’ve acted as a plunger to go off if the headstone was moved. He also had the trip wire and timing device here just to show that he could.”
Lemke raised up an eight-inch cast iron pipe with a metal cap on one end and a blue piece of paper rolled up inside. Black and green wires protruded out from the ends, which were connected to a nine-volt battery attached to the inside of the container.
“This is where the explosive should be. Instead, our Mister Bomb Maker is sending pipe-bomb love letters. You have any secret admirers, Ski? Looks like someone is sending us a message or trying to make a statement.” Lemke carefully removed the rolled up piece of paper with his rubber-gloved hands and unrolled it using only the ends of the paper. He read the note out loud:
This is a test, pigs. As you see, I can make bombs, and if I wanted your ass, I’d have it. The past is going to come back and haunt this shit city. Bombs away! The days of terror have returned to Brewtown. TMB
“What the heck does all that mean?” Lemke said, scratching his large forehead.
“This message is as crazy as the rest of this case. Not sure you saw the artwork on your way into the cemetery. REDRUM and REMHAD were spray painted in red on the stone pillars at the main entrance. The days of terror are returning to Brewtown? What days of terror? Okay, I get REDRUM and REMHAD as ‘MURDER’ and ‘DAHMER’ spelled backward—whatever their connection is to this case. But what or who is TMB?” Tomczyk was completely baffled. Wonder if that FBI agent had any knowledge of this. Why’d she show up at something like this anyway?
“Better you than me, Ski. Had my share of ‘whodunits.’ I retire in a month, so I’m just cruisin’ until then. Always a pleasure to do business with you, though. Since there isn’t anything I need to take with me as evidence, can you handle the rest? We need to get back to training for our re-certs.”
“You got it, Lurch. Thanks for the help, guys. I’d bet money that I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
“I won’t take any odds on that one,” Agent Cleary mused as they all shook hands. The three bomb techs started toward the bomb truck to put the equipment away.
“I’ll catch up with you guys in a sec. I want to check something out.” Lemke started walking off toward a large oak tree as if he were following something.
Tomczyk was watching Lurch when his attention was drawn to the sound of a car engine behind him. He turned his head and observed a newer-model green Ford Explorer about fifty yards away, edging slowly along one of the cemetery roads. The driver, a bald white male, was wearing sunglasses. Something seemed strange about him. There was a passenger in the front seat and two males in the back. Tomczyk turned around and spied the orange wire along the ground that Lemke must have been following.
For that split second, a feeling of déjà vu swept over him. “Lurch” was all he got out befor
e the bomb went off. The explosion blew Tomczyk off his feet. He saw stars, but quickly regained his balance and stood up. He looked at the SUV. The driver pulled his glasses down, revealing an evil set of eyes as he gave a slow, deliberate middle finger while flashing a wicked smile. Tomczyk would never forget those piercing eyes or sinister smile, even from that distance. The vehicle sped off through the cemetery while the detective momentarily glared over at his friend, lying lifeless on the ground.
Chapter 2
MILWAUKEE
Special Agent Dvorak kept wondering why she was sent to the cemetery. The only similarity between what she was sent to check for and what was there was that it occurred in a cemetery. She ran over the details of her observations in her mind to see if she missed anything but came up with nothing. Hopefully the detective, Declan something, could come up with more. She drove into the secured garage of the Milwaukee FBI office on North Broadway Street.
Holy Cross Cemetery, Milwaukee
Tomczyk dashed over to where Lurch was lying, quickly joined by the two bomb techs. He touched his finger to Lurch’s carotid artery. The pulse was faint.
“Squad 3521, officer down. Request an ambulance 10-17 to Holy Cross Cemetery! An explosion just went off. Have them enter at the east entrance. We’re about two hundred yards southwest of there. Dispatch, request the air for a vehicle description.”
“All squads, standby for a description. Go ahead, 3521.”
“Squad 3521 to all squads. Wanted for attempted homicide of a police officer by means of an explosive device. Occurred in Holy Cross Cemetery, 7301 West Nash Street, several minutes ago. Wanted is a newer-model, dark green Ford Explorer with unknown Wisconsin license plates. Driver is a white male, bald and wearing dark sun glasses. Appeared to be in his twenties or thirties. Last seen wearing a dark-colored jacket or shirt. Three additional white males in the vehicle, with no further descriptions. Vehicle last observed fleeing at a high rate of speed toward the north entrance of the cemetery. KSA-536.”
“10-4, ambulance is on the way. Just confirmed they’ll be there in less than three minutes.”
Sergeant Vasquez had a large first aid kit from the bomb truck opened up and was surveying Lurch’s injuries. “Damn. Austin smelled the stuff, but didn’t trail it away from the headstones over to that tree.”
Tomczyk spun into “Marine Mode” as he feverishly tried to save Lemke. He said quietly, “I know, Sarge. Austin did her job by alerting us to explosives. Nobody expected this.”
Over the course of his two tours served in Iraq, Declan had seen a number of fellow soldiers with life-threatening IED injuries. There was no way he was going to lose Lurch, who like many of the others was his friend. He elevated the concept of saving lives in the first seconds after an injury to a new level—the long and informative lifesaving classes he attended on his own time while in the Marine Corps flashed in his mind as he took the necessary steps of saving another life.
The sirens of the Milwaukee Fire Department paramedic ambulance were getting closer. Kevin Cleary was the first to see the vehicle pull into the cemetery entrance. He went to the bomb truck and flicked on the oscillating red and blue lights to gain the driver’s attention.
“You’re going to make it, Lurch,” Tomczyk gently whispered in his friend’s left ear. “Don’t you dare stop fighting! I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
He was able to stop the bleeding on Lemke’s head and arms before starting an IV of saline solution. The heavy ballistic level-four vest that Lemke was wearing deflected its share of shrapnel and destruction. It would have to be removed so he could be checked for any additional injuries after the MFD personnel placed him on the stretcher.
“We have it from here. Can you give us his vitals?”
Tomczyk turned around and observed the familiar MFD paramedics logo on the blue cloth jacket.
“IED detonated about five minutes ago, somewhere over there,” pointing to an area fifty feet away. “Detective Lemke sustained percussion and shrapnel injuries to his head and extremities. He has a pulse, which was initially weak, but it started getting stronger after we administered the IV drip. We’ve stopped the obvious bleeding areas, but he’s still unconscious. Please do your magic. I’ll be riding with you to the hospital.”
“Good enough, thanks.”
The three paramedics, along with the help of the law enforcement professionals, were able to lift the athletically built detective onto the stretcher. No additional wounds were discovered when the ballistic vest was removed. As they placed Lemke in the ambulance to stabilize him before the trip to the level I trauma center, Tomczyk removed the radio from his belt and requested the ID tech go to the side channel.
“Go ahead, Ski; what’s the game plan?”
“I know you heard that explosion. It was a secondary IED from the one I found initially. Lurch was hit when it exploded.”
Kim noted the slight quivering in Tomczyk’s voice and asked, “Damn, how bad?”
“He’s in rough shape. I’m headin’ out to Froedtert Hospital. Can you take care of the pictures and evidence recovery over there, then come back and finish the scene here? One detective from intel is on his way, along with a couple homicide guys. They’ll help you out. I know it’s asking a lot, but this is bad.”
“Come on, man. You know I’d walk across hot coals for either of you. I’ll see you downtown later. Looks like this is going to be a long day.”
“In more ways than one! I owe you one, buddy.”
“You know I’ll collect,” he said, trying to brighten up the serious mood. “Give Lurch a hug from me.”
“Count on it!”
ID Tech Robertson went back to the job at hand and told Police Officer Jerry Boyek the bad news about Lemke.
Tomczyk opened the back door to the ambulance and climbed in. Several minutes later, after victim stabilization, the driver began the ten-minute ride to the hospital, red lights and siren blaring. A paramedic was on the phone to the hospital, providing vitals and taking important information from a medical doctor. One of Milwaukee’s finest had his life in their hands. There was no room for mistakes.
Milwaukee FBI Office
Anne took the elevator to the sixth floor and key-carded her way into the FBI offices. As she was on the way to her cubicle, fellow Special Agent Matt Hacker walked over. “Anne, weren’t you over at Holy Cross Cemetery to meet a detective for a possible case?”
“Yeah, Matt. I took care of that and left a while ago. What’s up?”
“There was an explosion. They found a bogus bomb under one of the damaged headstones. An MPD bomb tech traced a wire over to a tree when some guys in a green SUV driving through the cemetery must have detonated a real one. He was hurt really bad. Some MPD detective, Tomczyk or something like that, saved the guy’s life.”
Agent Dvorak’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it. Detective Tomczyk had it well in hand. They must have found everything after I left. I feel terrible.”
“Not our case, Anne. You did what you were supposed to. We’re still in the dark about this investigation until we get more info.”
“I still should have stuck around to help them.” A sickening feeling came over her. “You’re right. Probably nothing I could have done.”
“I’ll say. Cleary was there. He has the bomb training; you don’t. Kevin gave Lee a call to tell him what happened. That’s how we knew about it so fast.”
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
It was three fifteen when seventeen-year-old Demetrius Simms turned the key in the lock on the front door of his house on Milwaukee’s North Side. Football season at Rufus King International High School was ending soon, and he had just finished another tough practice getting ready for the conference championships that weekend. Coach Horner was a tough coach, but the proof was in the pudding. King had made the championships the last five years running. Even though there was only half a day of school today, Coach Horner held an early afternoon practice. “Can’t waste a beautiful day
by not practicing,” he told his team as they pushed hard on the football field. As a junior, Demetrius still had one year left before hopefully landing a scholarship offer to a Division I college. He was taking advanced placement classes in the International Baccalaureate program, and his goal was to graduate from college in three years. Demetrius had already received about thirty letters from various colleges expressing interest in him.
“Ma, how ya doin’?” he asked as he walked up and gave her a big hug and a kiss on the lips.
“Blessed, D. Just cleaning up a bit. How was practice?”
“Tough, as usual. Coach wants us to kick it up a notch for Thursday’s game. He gives a whole new meaning to wind sprints. They suck. Are you gonna go to the game?”
“D, I wouldn’t miss my baby’s football game. I’m expecting another three-touchdown game from you.” She caressed his head lovingly for effect. “You know Johnny’s got some homing device on that football for you, right?”
“Rig-h-t! He’s sure a solid QB. Just so ya know, I have to work at the nursing home tonight from six to ten. Might as well get a couple hours of work in and earn some ‘bank.’ Can I have the car?”
“The ‘bank’ is down on the corner, honey. We could use some extra money, though. Of course you can use the car. Just get back home so you can finish the homework I know you have.”
“C’mon, ma, you know what I mean. I started talkin’ to this one old resident. He’s a trip. Has to be in his nineties, but he’s still smart as heck. Dude has some great stories.”
Circle of Terror Page 2
