Circle of Terror

by Larry Powalisz

“Dude? You mean man?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Demetrius ran upstairs, changed into his uniform, and was back down in less than five minutes. “Thanks, Ma. You’re the best,” he said as he grabbed the car keys from the counter and started for the door.

  “Love you, honey. I’ll probably be sleepin’ when you get home. I have a six o’clock start at the hospital tomorrow. That four-thirty wakeup call comes early.”

  “Love ya more. See ya later.” Demetrius walked out of the front door to the dark blue Chevrolet Tahoe parked at the curb in front of their house. Within three minutes, he was northbound on Interstate 43, on his way to River Hills Nursing Home.

  Chapter 3

  MILWAUKEE POLICE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS

  The job’s not done till the paperwork’s complete. How come all these TV cops never do reports? All they do is play Action Jackson their whole shift, then go home. Tomczyk was thinking to himself as he perused over the bags of evidence piled on desks in the Detective Bureau. He was tired just thinking of all the reports he had to file. The time on his Timex Ironman digital watch showed 4:10 p.m. Lurch was in stable but critical condition in the ICU when Tomczyk left the hospital at three-thirty. He dialed FBI agent Anne Dvorak’s cell number from her business card and her voicemail kicked on.

  “Anne, this is Declan Tomczyk from Milwaukee PD. Please give me a call when you get this. We need to talk.” He disconnected the call and went back to his work.

  “Okay, Ski,” the ID tech chimed in. “I have all the inventories signed out that we should need. I didn’t get back to HQ until a half hour ago and had to pull teeth from my boss to let me stay to help you out. You’d think the overtime pay was coming from his wallet. One of our own is on life support at Froedtert, and he’s worried what the chief’s going to say because an ID technician got a couple hours overtime helping the detectives. The homicide guys did a hell of a job at the scene. Even you’d be proud of ’em.”

  “Well, that’s a first. A homicide detective figuring a crime out.” Tomczyk had the utmost respect for the tenacity of any detective who followed cold lead after cold lead to solve crimes, in between the various fresh homicide investigations that came his way. Homicide detectives had that knack.

  “I’ll have to tell them that. Anyway, after we finished the scene at the cemetery, a District Three squad found the Ford Explorer in the parking lot at Gille’s on Bluemound Avenue. I drove there and processed it. Turned out to be a ‘steal’ taken two days ago when some ‘brain child’ left the keys in the ignition with the engine running to run into a gas station to buy some M&Ms. Go figure. Hopefully, the cop who took the complaint gave the idiot a car-key ordinance ticket. I know I would’ve. Anyway, I lifted a couple of prints from the interior, found some red spray paint marks on the seat, the floor mats, and on both of the passenger side door handles. I took some samples, so we’ll see where it goes.”

  As they were talking and sorting out the evidence to be inventoried, the three detectives who had been at the cemetery walked into the Detective Bureau assembly. Each carried a number of brown shopping bags filled with additional evidence.

  “Ski, my main man. How ya doing, and how’s Lurch doing?”

  “Hangin’ in there, Robo. Lurch is still in critical condition, but they have him stabilized. I’m going back to the hospital when I’m done here. So, what have you high-priced and esteemed homicide detectives found out today that is going to solve this caper?”

  Detective Scott Roblewski hung his suit jacket up on a hanger and straightened out his gun belt. “Well, according to Special Agent Cleary from the FBI, who swabbed some of the bomb residue, the explosive was methyl nitrate. You ever hear of it?”

  “Methyl nitrate? Now that doesn’t make any sense!”

  “That’s exactly what Agent Cleary said. He also said it’s mega dangerous. Said it’s like walking around with nitroglycerin because of its volatility.”

  Tomczyk, shaking his head in bewilderment, grabbed his notebook in case he needed to take some notes. “Did he also tell you that methyl nitrate has slightly less velocity than C4 explosive upon detonation, which is about twenty-five thousand feet per second? That’s even faster than you can run, Robo. It’s one of the most brisant explosives there is.” Tomczyk went on to explain that brisance referred to the shattering effect of a high explosive. “When the explosion went off in the cemetery, I thought for sure it was C4 because of that distinctive cracking sound a high explosive makes. I heard it enough when our explosive ordnance boys would blow stuff up in training during my professional-soldier-playing days. Definitely a pucker-factor moment. Did you ever hear of triacetone triperoxide? TATP for short. It’s the IED explosive of choice for terrorists.”

  “I’ve heard of it, but what’s the connection?”

  Tomczyk decided to share some of his knowledge: “Remember Richard Reid, who had it in his shoes on the plane a couple months after 9-11? Or the Al-Qaeda-trained turd who drove from Colorado to New York in 2009 with the intent of blowing up parts of the subway—until the feds caught up and arrested him? They both had TATP. Well, that has about a sixteen-thousand foot per second velocity, which packs about one-third less punch. I did some reading about methyl nitrate a while ago. It was invented by the Germans during World War II and used as a jet fuel. Someone got the wise idea to try to make an explosive out of it. The process of making it is almost exactly like nitro—and with the same volatility issues. Now that’s scary stuff. Whoever is making and using this has to know about that fact, yet he’s still crazy enough to use it. When it comes to explosives, methyl nitrate is definitely near the top of the ethyl-methyl-bad-stuff family.”

  “Cleary wasn’t quite as graphic since he definitely didn’t have as much info as you do about it. He used the term ‘radio-controlled IED,’ or ‘RCIED,’ to describe the device since the dirt bags placed it in a brown plastic container, secured it to a tree, and then used a two-way radio or cell phone to detonate it. You must have had your ‘keen moment of observation’ at about the time you saw ’em in the Explorer. The bomb techs found parts of a blasting cap, a receiver, and tiny bits of the container all around that tree during their post-blast investigation. By the way, the tree looked like it went through a 150-mile-an hour wind storm. We even found some wood splinters impaled in a plastic vase that must’ve been on top of one of the headstones. You guys are lucky you didn’t get impaled by wood splinters.”

  “I didn’t even think of it at the time. You’re right. Explains why I saw a couple wood splinters stuck in Lemke’s vest.”

  “The cops canvassed the heck out of the area where they found the Explorer. Can you imagine dropping off a hot vehicle like that in an ice cream custard stand parking lot —in Milwaukee? Every cop in the city is looking for the car, and that’s where you abandon it? That’s ballsy—and sacrilegious at the same time. Anyway, we found several witnesses who observed four white males wearing black leather jackets getting out of the SUV and walking southbound nonchalantly down 76th Street at about 11:35 a.m. I’m guessing they had another car sitting somewhere in the area or someone picked them up so they could make a clean getaway. Two of the witnesses provided great descriptions and were with a police artist from Wauwatosa PD, who volunteered to help us out on this one.”

  “That’s a good start. Anything else?”

  Roblewski perked up. “Agent Cleary said Lurch survived because of the way the device was placed. Since it was secured on the east side of the tree and Lurch approached it from the southwest, most of the blast force and shrapnel blew out in a different direction, so thankfully he didn’t absorb the full brunt of the explosion.”

  “It was enough to knock me over, too, and I was a ways away from that damn thing.”

  River Hills Nursing Home:

  Suburb of Milwaukee

  Demetrius arrived at 5:50 p.m. and punched in. He made his way over to the maintenance room and grabbed the brooms and other equipment he would need for his shift.

&nb
sp; “What’s up, D? How’s my favorite homeboy doing?”

  “You’re trippin’, Mrs. Howe. Is that any way for an RN to talk?” he said to her, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Only because I love ya, kid.” Mrs. Howe was the shift supervisor for the nursing home. Demetrius had been working there for six months and had become a favorite among the nursing staff on the p.m. shift because of his punctuality, readiness to work, and upbeat personality. He certainly had shattered stereotypes that employees and residents had of young black men. His friendly and helpful demeanor was also enjoyed and respected by the majority of residents with whom he came into contact, nearly all of whom were white. The very upscale suburb of River Hills, Wisconsin, located between the Milwaukee River and Lake Michigan, was heavily populated with white people. The same demographic was also prevalent in the nursing home.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Tim left directions for me to start cleaning the rooms on the second floor. Is there anything I can get for you guys before I start?”

  “Nothing at all. Things are going smoothly so far tonight. George was asking about you. Don’t know what you did to gain his confidence over the last two weeks, but he sure has taken a liking to you.”

  “We found a common bond in football. He’s a big Packer fan, so we relate well. Can’t believe what a memory he’s got for his age. Totally amazes me.”

  Demetrius walked down the hall with the broom and started cleaning the first five rooms. He then went and grabbed the mop bucket to wipe down the rooms and the hallway. “How you doin,’ Mrs. Springer?”

  Delores Springer looked up from the book she was reading and smiled at him. At seventy-nine-years-old, she enjoyed her time at the nursing home. “I’m doing well. You’re looking perfectly happy tonight, I must say, Demetrius.”

  “Had a great day at school today, ma’am. How’s the book?”

  “An excellent mystery,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “Love those mysteries.”

  “Love ’em myself. Good to see you, Mrs. Springer. Have a great night. If you get out of bed in the next fifteen minutes or so, be very careful of the wet floor.” Demetrius finished mopping up her room and placed the WET FLOOR sign in the hallway just outside her door. Walking down the hall to the activity room, he saw George in his usual place, sitting in the brown leather chair by the corner. George’s eyes lit up when he saw his newfound friend.

  “Demetrius! How’s it going? Did you see the Packers wipe out the Lions last Sunday?”

  “Sure did, George. What about this weekend, though? They’re playing the Giants.”

  “No problem. Their QB ain’t that good. Our defensive coordinator has a couple tricks up his sleeve, and I can feel Rodgers throwing for four hundred yards and getting a couple TDs under his belt.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “How ‘bout a can of Dr. Pepper? It’s in the fridge down the hall. Grab two so you can sit for a while and we can talk.”

  “Done.” Demetrius came back in a few minutes with two cans of soda in his hands. He popped the top of both, handing one to George.

  “Can’t tell you how much I love Dr. Pepper. Been drinking this concoction for seventy years or so.”

  “You have any good stories for me?”

  George sat silent for a minute or two. “Demetrius, I have a doozie for you. Happened in 1935 and affected my life in a big way. Heck, I even ended up going to prison because of my foolishness. I spent less than a year screwin’ up my life, but it cost me pret’ near six years. Coulda’ been a lot more. Please, pull up a chair.”

  Demetrius didn’t know what to think. He was on his break but had also been encouraged by the staff to make the residents happy by engaging them in conversation, even if it meant putting some of his job duties on hold. “Okay, George. But I can’t spend my whole shift talking to you. You can call me ‘D’ like everybody else. It’s a lot easier to say.”

  “Great. This is something I need to get off my chest. You’re a good kid, and I don’t want something like this to ever happen to you. Peer pressure’s strong, ya know. I told that Richie kid who used to work here the same story six months ago. He doesn’t work here anymore, so I don’t know if he ever took my advice.”

  “Yeah, I remember the dude, from when I first started here. Guess he quit shortly after that.” Demetrius pulled a wooden chair over from the table in the room and set it down next to George.

  “I was born a week before President John F. Kennedy, in 1917, so you get a feel of how old I am—damn old!” He laughed a little at what he said. “When I was just a little older than you, I got involved with a couple guys in my neighborhood doing some things. The main guy was Idzi Rutkowski—not even sure what his first name was. Don’t know where his nickname came from. He was a year or so older than me. We both went to Boys Tech High School and lived on the Sout’ Side. The other kid’s name was ‘Shrimp’ Chovanec. He was just a little shit, excuse my swearing, and was only about sixteen-years-old.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve heard words like that before. By the way, they let girls go there now, and it’s called Milwaukee Technical High School.”

  “Progress. Good thing ‘bout Boys Tech back then, it gave you skills for an occupation: electrician, plumber, auto mechanic, stuff like that. Anyway, Idzi used to get arrested by the cops all the time, and he hated ’em. Always told us he was going to get revenge. We just figured he was blowin’ smoke. One day he came to the garage we used to hang out at and told us his plan. He had gone to the CCC camp up in Estabrook Park and applied for a job, but they turned him down cold. Said his teeth were too screwed up.”

  “That’s crazy! What’s a CCC camp?”

  “Sorry. CCC stands for Civilian Conservation Corps. It was a program started by President Roosevelt during Depression to get men back to work. They had ’em working on projects all over the country to give ’em a sense of self-worth, instead of just standing on the street corner drinking all day or getting in trouble.”

  “They sure could use some of that today. I see dudes standing on the corner in my ‘hood all the time. All they’re doing is selling drugs and drinking beer.” He shook his head. “So what was the plan?”

  “There you go, D. You’re a smart kid. Idzi said he had some information they stored dynamite in a special building in the park, and he wanted to break into it and steal some. Said he had been casing the guards for a while and knew what they did. So he talked me into stealing a car. I had stolen one a couple months before and got away with it. That was some sweet ride. An eight-cylinder engine and it moved like a sonofabitch. Anyway, I picked Idzi and Shrimp up one night, and we drove up there, broke into the building, and stole three boxes of dynamite and a box ‘a blasting caps. I was scared as hell, but Idzi—Idzi was like a demon on a mission. We drove back to the garage with the dynamite stuffed in the trunk. My fingers were glued to the steering wheel the whole time. They only had manual transmissions back then, and I didn’t want to screw up the shifting or break any laws.” George simulated driving with his hands on an invisible steering wheel and his eyes wide open.

  “Didn’t want the cops to stop us. We put the wooden boxes in the garage. Coupla’ nights later, we took some sticks of dynamite and drove the same car out to some railroad tracks in ’Tosa to see if the stuff worked. Idzi set the charge and blew ’em up. Damn, it was loud. We got the hell out of there in a hurry.”

  “That’s wild!” Demetrius was sitting on the edge of the chair, taking the whole story in.

  “That’s not the half of it. On the way back, Idzi says he has info about some guy who lived by us who had a bunch of guns in his house. So we parked the car down the street, and the three of us walked up to the house. It’s like one o’clock in the morning, and all the lights were off. Idzi forced open a window in the basement, and we all climbed in. We went up to the first floor and found some of the guns hidden in the kitchen pantry—found a couple more upstairs underneath the guy’s mattress. Turns out no one was home. They had an article
about the house getting burglarized in The Milwaukee Journal the next day. Thought for sure the cops were gonna come out and arrest us. We got like five or six handguns, a shotgun, and a rifle. We hid ’em in the clubhouse garage that night. The next night, Shrimp and I stole another car and hid it in this garage Shrimp had rented a coupla’ blocks away. I still don’t believe someone rented a two-car garage to a teenage kid. We put one or two of the guns in the car and sold a couple on the street to some friends.”

  “You were busy dudes, George. My ma woulda’ strangled me if she found out I ever did something like that!”

  “I hit a wild streak for a while. It took prison for me to straighten out. I’ll tell you something else and let you go back to work. We had one busy month.”

  “Okay.”

  “It was a Sunday afternoon sometime that October. I went over to the garage and Idzi showed me the shotgun we took in the burglary. He had sawed the barrel down about a foot, so now it looked like something you’d see in a gangster movie. He told Shrimp and me that he had this great idea. We got into the car and drove over to the East Side, you know, ‘round Oakland Avenue, there in Shorewood.”

  “Yeah, I kinda’ know it.”

  “Idzi told me to park the car outside this drugstore on Oakland and for Shrimp and me to stay in the car. So Idzi grabbed the sawed-off shotgun and got out. Just before he walked into the store, he put on a pair of sunglasses and a handkerchief over his mouth and nose. That’s when it hit me. I was in way over my head and didn’t know how to get out. He was in that store less than five minutes when Shrimp and I heard a loud pop. A coupla’ seconds later, Idzi comes runnin’ out, jumps in the car, and tells us to get the hell outa’ there. All I remember is flyin’ away from that curb with my foot stompin’ on the gas pedal.”

  “Did Idzi tell you what happened?”

  “Oh yeah. He was laughin’ about it and breathin’ hard, all at the same time. Said he went to the back of the store and demanded money from the clerk. When he told the guy a second time, he fired a round from the shotgun and missed, but hit a clock right behind the guy’s head. Idzi said he got pissed off, so he ran out of the store and didn’t even take any money. The next day, we saw an article in the newspaper and a picture of a cop standing next to the clock on the wall that Idzi hit. Laughed our asses off!”