Circle of Terror

by Larry Powalisz

  Detective Tomczyk, this is what I grabbed off the computer re: what you told me to look for. I found nothing at all for TMB. When I googled The Mad Bomber, several different hits came up. The main one refers to a guy named George Metesky of New York who set off thirty-something explosions over a twenty-year period. You’ll see what I got off Wikipedia and some other articles about him. There were two hits referring to Frank Balistreri, so I copied those. The last one is for a Hugh ‘Idzi’ Rutkowski who blew up himself and some sixteen-year-old kid named Paul ‘Shrimp’ Chovanec in a garage off Twenty-second and Mitchell in November 1935 while making a bomb. A nine-year-old girl in a house next to the garage also died. I copied a couple articles for you. There’s a ton of stuff if you archive the Milwaukee Journal and Sentinel from that period. If you need anything else, I’ll be back to work in a couple days. Taking some time off to hang out with my buds.

  Later, Andy

  “Andy Reed, you’re a stud.” Tomczyk looked through the paperwork and read briefly from some of the articles. What do all these guys have in common? It’s gotta be this Idzi and Shrimp deal. But they’re dead. What’s the connection to the current stuff going on? He set the folder next to his computer and logged in. He had an email message from Scott Kamble of the identification division.

  Great news, Ski. Positive ID on the spray paint can and the receipt found in the bag from the cemetery case. Kim said there were no fingerprints on any of the headstones or anything else. We’re guessing they were using gloves at that point. The prints we identified belong to a Harold Sampson Carter Jr.: B OF I# 302128; AKA, Squirt. You can grab all his info off the computer.

  Happy hunting!

  Scott

  “Excellent! This is starting out to be a great day,” he said aloud. Tomczyk plugged the Bureau of Identification (B OF I) number assigned to Carter into the computer. An extensive criminal record dating back to Carter’s juvenile days popped up on the screen. Everyone arrested by the Milwaukee Police Department was assigned an identification number, which stays with him for life. Whenever one is re-arrested, that number is accessed, a new photo is taken, and the new charge or charges are added. “A wonderful court system we maintain,” he complained to Jones. “This punk has five felony convictions and only spent four years in prison. Doesn’t felony mean a little time in prison?”

  “C’mon, Ski. Where’s your heart? Rehabilitation is the key to success, not re-incarceration.” Jones loved pushing Tomczyk’s buttons.

  “Of course. And that’s why I didn’t become a social engineer or whatever they call the do-gooders who think everyone deserves a chance—and a chance—and a chance. I’m okay with cutting slack on first offenders, but over and over again? Drives me batty.”

  “What do you got?”

  “A positive ID on fingerprints from the cemetery case. Lifted from left-behind items. Some guy named Harold Sampson Carter Jr., with a nickname of Squirt. Another ne’er-do-well roaming the streets.”

  “Harold Carter? Hang on a minute.” Jones walked over to the roll-call board hanging on the wall outside the lieutenant’s office and brought it back to his desk. He paged through it and showed the report to Tomczyk. “Knew the name sounded familiar. They read this off at roll call this morning. You obviously didn’t see it because of that early police work you were doing.”

  Tomczyk looked at the typed report of a vehicle wanted in connection with a crime. “You’ve got to be kidding me! He was the victim of a homicide in a park yesterday? Sorry about what happened to you, Squirt. Bad for you, good for us.”

  He dialed the number to the homicide squad.

  “Homicide, Detective Bernems…”

  “Rickey, this is Ski. Talk to me about Harold Carter Jr. His prints were positively ID’d on some items in the Holy Cross Cemetery case where Lurch was injured. I was just told Carter was the victim of a homicide yesterday.”

  “You’re right. I was sent to investigate. Junior had a big hole in the center of his coconut and one to the chest. We recovered a number of .40 caliber and 9mm casings. Sent those to the crime lab. Looks like they were partying by a fire pit off the asphalt walkway south of the flagpole. Must’ve got into an argument with an acquaintance or something. It didn’t end very well for him.”

  “I know the spot. Used to drive through when I patrolled that area. Can you give me some info on clothing or anything?”

  “He had on a black jacket, blue t-shirt, black pants, and a pair of Doc Marten boots with red spray paint splatters on them. Guess that makes some sense now. The ME’s office also found a cell phone in a pants pocket and a thumb drive in his right boot. Now that’s an interesting place to put something. The phone was password protected and the thumb drive was encrypted. We sent them out to the experts at Secret Service to analyze.”

  “Fantastic. I’ll be down in less than five,” he said as he hung up the phone. “Jonesboy, that’s why you’re the star detective around here. Even though the bosses think you’re useless, I respect you.”

  “Makes my day, buddy. We’re here to help you high-profile detectives.”

  “And we appreciate it. This is a big break, my brother. Thanks.”

  Tomczyk scaled the stairs two at a time to reach the fourth floor detective assembly. He buzzed through the security door and found Detective Bernems at his desk.

  As Bernems stood up, the dress shirt and pants hugged his chiseled build. He was no stranger to a gym and shook hands with his fellow weightlifting coworker. “Here are some of the photos and the inventory listing his clothing. Most of the reports are still on the machines being typed up.”

  Tomczyk examined the photos. He noted the red spray paint splatters on the black pants and boots—the boots. He was especially hoping the bottom of the right boot design matched the cast they got from the cemetery. “Somebody musta’ really got pissed off at Junior.”

  “I’ll say. Had to be a close shot. Look at how centered that round is in his forehead. Cops did a good job canvassing the neighborhood and found some guy who said he was out jogging at about three in the morning. Said he was coming up Humboldt when he heard about ten gunshots from what sounded like somewhere northeast of where he was. As he approached Hadley, he saw an older green, Toyota four-door with two white males in it come over the bridge from the park, squeal off the curb, and continue west. Didn’t get much of a description of them; however, he did get a partial plate on the car. Said it was partly covered with mud or something and couldn’t read the numbers.”

  “Excellent, Rickey. I’d sure love to get a look at this guy’s boots. We made a cast of the right one, which had a very distinctive mark on the sole.”

  “No worries. All his clothing is still hanging in the drying room. I was going to package it this afternoon and take it over to property. Follow me. Got some other good news for you. The fingerprint gurus lifted prints off a couple beer cans and a 9mm casing. We’re going on an early morning search warrant tomorrow morning.”

  “Great. Mind if I tag along?”

  “The more the merrier.”

  The “drying room” was temperature controlled with continual air flow and was located in the back of the Criminal Investigation Division assembly. It could only be accessed by personnel assigned to the division. The room had a number of open storage compartments so clothing from criminal offenses could be dried before packaging. A white paper sheet was placed at the base of each storage area to collect any trace evidence that fell from the clothing during the drying process.

  Detective Bernems directed Tomczyk to storage area number twenty-two. They took note of the clothing and boots. Tomczyk donned a pair of rubber gloves from one of the boxes located on a shelf and carefully lifted the boot, turning it upside down, and examining the sole carefully. With his cell phone, he took several pictures. “Looks like a perfect match to me. I’ll grab an ID tech from downstairs to take some photos for the case file. Did you see any bomb techs at roll call this morning?”

  “Yeah, Kenny Schmidt’s he
re. He was just in the assembly ten minutes ago talking to a lieutenant.”

  “Great. I’ll be right back. Hold that thought.” Tomczyk walked back to the assembly and saw Detective Schmidt coming out from Lieutenant Bill Gram’s cubicle. “Yo, Schmidty. Can I talk to you a second?”

  “Oh, boy. If it isn’t one of our precious intel wienies. Whadya need, Ski?”

  “I was wondering if you could grab your chemical testing kit. I need you to check a pair of boots for explosive residue. They’re in the drying room.”

  “Sure can. I’ll meet you back there in five.”

  “Excellent, thanks.”

  Less than five minutes later, Schmidt walked into the drying room where the other two detectives were waiting for him.

  Schmidt opened his black leather briefcase and pulled out the Thermo Scientific chemical tester. “We just got these two weeks ago. This is the ‘FirstDefender RM’ that’s replacing the older model we used to use—much smaller, lighter, with a quicker analysis. Check this out.” He pointed the one-and-a-half-pound piece of equipment at the boots and pushed the button. “This is the amazing part.” Within a minute, a readout appeared on the small, digital screen. “Nitrates, methanol, and sulfuric acid.” He repeated the process for the pants.

  “In layman’s terms, what do you think it is?”

  “My best guess is methyl nitrate. Hope no one was using this stuff to blow anything up. It blows like a banshee, but it’s like trying to drive a dump truck across a lake in winter on two-inch-thick ice. Too damn dangerous.”

  “Methyl nitrate! Matches what the bombers used at the cemetery when Lurch got hit.”

  Schmidt flashed Tomczyk a shocked look. “This is connected to Lurch’s case?”

  Chapter 11

  RIVER HILLS NURSING HOME

  It was a quarter of one when Demetrius walked through the front door of the nursing home for the start of his one o’clock shift. He was off school and thought he would earn some extra cash working the partial shift. The computer tablet he wanted would be within financial reach with the money he made this week.

  “D, you’re gracing our presence awfully early today. Did you skip out of school again?” joked one of the nurses.

  “Naw, the principal sent all the smartest students home early. He said there was nothing else they could teach us since we already knew everything.”

  “You got me on that one! Great to see you. What do they have you doing today?”

  “Tim said we’ll be waxing some floors. I love operating that wax machine. My new life’s goal: Demetrius Simms, Wax Master.”

  “Okay, Mr. Wax Master. Let’s get a move on.”

  Demetrius turned around and saw the familiar, older, large man wearing a dark green shirt and matching work trousers. “You got me, Tim. I-I was just having some fun with the nurses.”

  Tim grabbed Demetrius by the collar and playfully pulled him toward the maintenance room. “I’ll get him out of your hair so he doesn’t bother you, ladies.” Tim put his arm around Demetrius and hugged him close, whispering in his right ear. “D, you’re a piece of work. You ready for the big game tomorrow? Helen and I will be there cheering you on.”

  “Sure am. Thanks for asking.”

  “Excellent. They want us to wash and wax the rooms on the third floor. Equipment’s already up there. Let’s see what we can knock out by five. They have good eats tonight. I already talked to the cooks.”

  “Great.”

  Demetrius went into the locker room, quickly changed into his uniform, and joined his supervisor on the targeted floor. They attacked the rooms and hallway with mops in hand. After finishing the rooms, he grabbed the large waxing machine and filled the liquid wax solution to the top. “Now the fun begins,” he said to Tim, smiling from ear to ear.

  “You’re a sick young man.”

  Demetrius turned on iTunes and placed the earphones in, then set about his work. When he finished waxing half of the floors, he looked over at the clock on the wall—4:35 p.m.

  Tim came down the hallway and nodded his head approvingly. “Great job, kid. Go take a break. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria at five.”

  “Okay.” Demetrius strolled down the hallway and went to the TV room on the main level where he saw George sitting in a corner reading a book.

  “How you doin’, George? You have time to tell me more of the story you started the other night?”

  George looked up and smiled. “Of course I do. Nothing but the best for my bud. Sit down and take a load off. Where’d I leave off?”

  “You guys just drove away from the store after Idzi tried to rob it with the shotgun.”

  “Good memory.” George collected his thoughts and continued where he’d left off. “A week or two went by, and Idzi’s gettin’ antsy again. It’s now around the latter part of October. Me, Idzi, and Shrimp were out driving around in a stolen car when Idzi decided he wants to steal a police car. Can you imagine that? Said it’d be easy enough. So he had me drive over to the West Milwaukee Police Department. Idzi broke into the station, took the keys, and drove off in one of the two squads parked there. Started racing down the street, with me trying to keep up with him. He turned on the red light and siren once or twice, then pulled into an alley and stopped the squad. Then he yanked the police radio and siren out and turned off the red light. Threw the stuff in our car and got in laughing his head off. He opened his hand and showed me two sets of car keys, saying West Milwaukee Police was out of business since we had the keys to both their squads. We drove back to our garage. That was one wild night.”

  George adjusted his position in the chair. “Here’s where it starts getting crazy. I should’ve got off the merry-go-round about then, but didn’t, so I deserved the prison time I got. It was a couple days later when Idzi pulled out a bomb he made with three or four sticks of dynamite. We drove over to Shorewood City Hall. I remember it being a clear, bright night. Idzi stuffed the bomb in a drainpipe on the side of the building and lit the fuse. We ran like hell. When we reached the car, we barely had enough time to turn around and see the explosion. It was really loud. He was laughing the whole time we drove back to our neighborhood. Kept sayin’ how these rich folks over here need some excitement on a Saturday night.”

  “Why’d you stay with them, George?”

  “I got caught up in the whole gangster thing myself. They took down John Dillinger in ’34 in Chicago. We all idolized Dillinger and thought we could do our own thing in Milwaukee. So every time Idzi suggested something crazy, me and Shrimp would be right on board with it.”

  “I’m with you on that one. Peer pressure can be intense. I had some buddies who started selling dope down the block from me. I stopped hangin’ with ’em. My dad was a Milwaukee cop and was killed in the line of duty a couple years ago. Can’t even think about what my Mom would do to me if I ever did something like that. I couldn’t tarnish the memory of my pops. He meant the world to me, and I still miss him a lot.” Demetrius teared up, and George put his hand on his knee and patted it a couple times.

  “You’re a good kid. I was one of nine children. It was the middle of the Depression; there was no money and no jobs. Those were tough times, and I got stupid. Don’t want that to happen to you.”

  “Sorry, George.” He wiped away the tears falling down his cheeks. “It’s been real tough with Dad gone. Please, go on with the story. I only have ten more minutes, then I have to meet Tim in the cafeteria for supper.”

  “This’ll be short. I had this part-time job at a pharmacy on Mitchell Street. On Sunday afternoon, we got into another stolen car and drove back up to the North Side. Idzi said he was going to ‘light it up,’ which sounded kind of crazy and exciting all at the same time. He had me stop the car at the back of a First Wisconsin Bank. Idzi and Shrimp got out for a couple minutes, then ran back to the car and told me to hit it. As I drove out of the alley, I heard the explosion. Them guys were in the back seat, giggling like school girls.”

  “They bombed the ban
k! You gotta’ be kiddin’ me.”

  “Ain’t half the story, kid. Idzi had me go back to that pharmacy in Shorewood again. Said he was going to rob them and finish what he started the week before. I parked the car on the street a couple doors away. They got out of the car and put sunglasses and handkerchiefs on. Idzi grabbed the shotgun, hid it under his coat, and they went into the store. I stayed in the car with the engine running. Less than five minutes went by; they jumped in, and we hightailed it out of there. Said they robbed them this time and got some money. Then he told me to keep driving down the street for about five blocks and pull over to the curb. They got out and did the same thing with the sunglasses, handkerchiefs, and shotgun—robbing another drugstore! Not again, I’m thinking. They came out a couple minutes later, and we sped away. Idzi told me we had one more stop to make before we were finished for the night.”

  “Let me guess, another robbery or bombing?”

  “Now you’re catching on. He was a definite adrenaline junkie. We headed over to another First Wisconsin Bank on East North Avenue. They got out and walked to the back. There were a number of people walking down the street because the Oriental Theatre was down the block, and they had some popular movie playing—big, beautiful place. Some of the big names used to play on the stage. So anyway, Shrimp and Idzi got back into that car and another loud explosion goes off. They both started cheering and laughing. I got the heck out of there. What a rush. We parked the car on the street and hoofed it back to the clubhouse. We took the money, but left the weapons and disguises in the car. Idzi pulled out a bottle of brandy. Think we finished the bottle that night.”

  Demetrius looked at his watch. “Unbelievable, George. Hate to leave you, but I have to meet Tim for dinner. He hooked us up. Great story.”