Circle of Terror

by Larry Powalisz

  “Appreciate it.” Captain Kocur addressed the group. “How about we begin this meeting? John, why don’t you start it off?”

  “Yes, sir. Good morning, everyone. I’m Lieutenant John Davis, Chicago PD bomb squad. This is Lieutenant Ray Mehls from Calumet City PD. We were at the scene last night and would like to walk you through what we have right now. Go ahead, Ray.”

  “Hello, everyone. One of our squads was sent to Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery and Mausoleum in Cal City at about four fifteen last night for a vandalism and suspicious persons complaint.”

  Tomczyk’s ears perked up when he heard the name of the cemetery being the same as the one in Milwaukee.

  “When the one-person squad arrived, he spoke to the maintenance supervisor, who informed the officer about three white males congregating around an area on the northern end of the cemetery. The supervisor said he went about his work, and when he passed the area again, he saw the same three males leaving in a dark blue Trailblazer. He noticed that about ten headstones were knocked over, and one had some sort of design carved into it. He took a couple pictures with his phone and called the police. Said he wasn’t able to read the license plate number on the SUV as it was leaving. Another one-person squad responded, and they drove over by the headstones. The supervisor said he showed the officers where the headstones were and walked back over to his truck to get some equipment. He was just finishing up when the explosion went off. He was about one hundred feet away, and the loud cracking sound shook his truck; some of the marble from the headstones struck it. Said he got on his radio, telling them to call 9-1-1 for some help. He ran over to the officers and tried to perform first aid. The ambulances arrived within minutes and transported both officers to Ingalls Memorial Hospital in nearby Harvey. Peter Richards, the officer who was originally dispatched, died of blood loss and severe burns at a quarter of seven. Officer Amy Zarembas is listed in critical but stable condition and is expected to survive. The hospital called this morning and reported she was being upgraded. She’s being interviewed as we speak. We don’t have much to go on right now and are looking for some help.”

  “Thanks, Ray.” Lieutenant Davis stood up. “Here’s what we have in the way of explosives. We received a positive reading for methyl nitrate and an unknown substance. We found parts of a small, blue cooler, bits of green wires, and a sensor switch. One of the officers—we’re guessing Richards because of the extent of his wounds—tripped a wire and set off the explosion. The use of methyl nitrate confuses the heck out of me. Just so all of you know, methyl nitrate is a powerful but very unstable compound. The unknown chemical we’re not identifying may be used to make it more stable. What other purpose it would have, we don’t know. It has an extremely high detonation power, but is a nightmare to deal with. That’s just a guess from an old techie who’s been playing with bombs for twenty years.”

  Lieutenant Mehls gave a brief PowerPoint showing pictures taken at the scene. One was a close-up of the area. “Do you all see the green wire leading out from under that headstone? It would have been tough to see because of how it blended in with the grass.”

  Tomczyk shook his head. He could really appreciate that comment.

  “Here’s the list of names on the headstones and a picture of the headstone with the anarchy logo cut into it. The name on the headstone is Martin Zarkowich, born in 1895 and died in 1969. Have any of you ever heard of him?”

  One of the Chicago detectives spoke up. “Martin Zarkowich was the East Chicago PD sergeant who gave up Anna Sage, the famous ‘Woman in Red.’ She was with John Dillinger and his girlfriend the night Dillinger was killed as he came out of the Biograph.”

  “Correct. Depending on what source you read, Zarkowich was dirty as mud or white as the windblown snow. He either knew Anna Sage in his professional position, or he was getting some on the side from her. She was a known madam and was busted a couple times for keeping a disorderly house. Zarkowich became the chief for East Chicago Police, but was removed and indicted on other crimes. Years later, it was determined that he fired one of the final shots at Dillinger. The $64,000 question would be why someone would desecrate Zarkowich’s headstone so many years later and place a bomb underneath? Because of it, we have a dead cop and a severely injured one. Finally, there was a note left at the scene. You can see the picture here. The note didn’t survive the blast very well, and we only have bits of it. Detective Declan Tomczyk is here from Milwaukee Police. They had a very similar incident in their city. Could you give us a synopsis of your cemetery explosion, Detective?”

  A chill went down Declan’s spine. At the bottom of the note, clear as day, were the initials TMB. “I sure will.” He pulled out some paperwork from his brown manila file and stood up. He went through the scenario of what happened, described how he luckily saw the green wire in the grass and the bomb with no explosives, and discussed the near-deadly second one. He reviewed the positive ID of methyl nitrate as the explosive, the homicide of Harold Carter, his tattoos and affiliations, and the explosive residue and spray paint found on Carter’s clothes. He showed a picture of the note left at the scene, and finished with the results of the search warrant and arrest in Bay View, including several details from the Matthew Wallk interview.

  “Declan, did you guys ever figure out what TMB stands for at the bottom of the note?”

  “We’re thinking, The Mad Bomber or Bombers but are still looking into it. There were a number of bombings that occurred in Milwaukee in the fall of 1935, but there is just no way to connect those with what’s going on so far. Sure is eerie, though. I’d also like to introduce FBI Special Agent Anne Dvorak. She’s helping us out on the investigation and has assured us we have the backing of the FBI and the Department of Justice.”

  Anne rose from her chair. “Thanks, Declan. Now that we’ve got a fairly good tracking of criminal activity going across state lines, there’s no question the federal government is here to provide any assistance. We want these perpetrators behind bars as much as all of you. I would also like to offer my deepest condolences on the loss of the police officer.”

  “Thanks, Anne. It’s great knowing we have the assistance of the FBI. You guys definitely have the resources to get this case solved.” With that, Captain Kocur asked if there were any questions. A paper was passed around, and each person present put their name, agency, phone numbers, and emails down for future contact and easy accessibility. “We’ll keep everyone up to date with further developments. Please do likewise if any of you get anything.”

  The meeting ended, and the participants stuck around engaged in conversation. The deceased officer and the condition of the other officer was foremost on everyone’s mind.

  Chapter 15

  MILWAUKEE’S RIVERWEST AREA

  Inside a nondescript, old warehouse on North Gordon Place in Milwaukee’s Riverwest area, Richard Zuber concocted his strange brew. He paid two hundred dollars per month rent for a small corner room on the main floor, with no questions asked. His makeshift laboratory was a clear plastic floor to ceiling, ten-by-ten-foot enclosure. A view from the partially painted over, metal-framed windows revealed a glimpse of the Milwaukee River and vacant land around it.

  Zuber had completed three years at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee campus in the field of chemistry when he took a two-week sojourn to Olympia, Washington, that changed the course of his life. He met up with a couple of students from Evergreen State College who preached to him the notion that government and society were doing everything wrong. He joined a faction of the Puget Sound Anarchist movement. After communing with several members of the group for six months, he found the Great Northwest not to his liking and returned to the Milwaukee area. He promised them he would carry on the fight against society and the police. Two arrests by Milwaukee police officers for disorderly conduct during the 99 percenter protests and a recent conviction for possession of psilocybin mushrooms cost him his job at a River Hills nursing home and hardened his hatred for the police. He was going
to get back at them and in a big way.

  Zuber befriended ninety-eight-year-old George Kugawicz his second week at the nursing home. He was intrigued by George’s stories about an Idzi Rutkowski. Doing research on the Internet about Milwaukee’s “Mad Bomber,” who terrorized the city for several weeks in October and early November 1935, gave him the ideas he needed for revenge. He especially liked the idea of the extortion note Idzi sent demanding hundreds of thousands of dollars from the City of Milwaukee during the middle of the Depression. Zuber thought he would ask for upwards of ten million dollars. He was going to make them pay, or it would really cost them.

  He adjusted the heavy-duty mask with hands covered by two sets of purple-colored rubber gloves. Once before, he received a severe headache from inhaling the toxic substance and didn’t want to experience that again.

  Germany first used methyl nitrate as a rocket fuel during World War II in a mixture that contained 25 percent methanol and was called “myrol.” Zuber did his research and was impressed with its twenty thousand plus feet per second detonation factor. Not quite as fast as the military grade C4 compound of twenty-six thousand feet per second, but he had no way to steal C4. Making his own “explosive of choice” seemed like a logical alternative. Methyl nitrate was one of the simplest of the nitric esters to create.

  He carefully mixed in the sulfuric and nitric acids, inducing the nitration of the methanol, then added the urea, which removed the last traces of nitrous acid. The process was almost identical to making nitroglycerin, except for being run at a higher temperature and stirred mechanically instead of with compressed air. The knock against methyl nitrate as an explosive had always been its instability. Zuber solved that problem with his secret concoction of an amyl alcohol stabilizer that somehow fortified it with even more detonation power. He decided to make methyl nitrate his “signature” explosive, as he knew it would make the investigating bomb technicians crazy trying to figure out why he would use such an unstable compound. He felt like he was following in the footsteps of Alfred Nobel, the famous Swedish chemist who invented dynamite in 1867. The difference was that Nobel established the Peace Prize to offset his discovery, while Zuber was using his creation to wreak havoc within the ranks of law enforcement and to injure or kill as many as he could.

  After completing the steps needed to create the dangerous elixir, he carefully poured the clear liquid into eight separate pipe bomb containers and sealed them. He felt instant success while his brain processed the chemical formula he diligently committed to memory: CH3NO3—methyl nitrate.

  He placed the vials of death inside a heavy, gray metal box in the corner and secured it with a large, bronze-colored Master Lock, patting his jeans pocket where he kept the key. He turned off the light switch and secured the door with another large lock.

  Looking at his watch, he realized he still had ten minutes to make the three o’clock meeting with his partner. He drove his ’98 maroon Buick Skylark over to the cafe a half-mile away on East Center Street. Better get that damn muffler fixed, or the pigs’ll stop me and give me a ticket. That’s all I need. He walked in the front door and joined his friend sitting at a booth in the corner.

  “Holy shit, Madman. This has got to be the first time you’ve ever been on time. I see you didn’t dress up at all on my account.” The skinny white male was wearing the same faded, black Harley-Davidson t-shirt he always wore, along with the filthy blue jeans and well-worn, black leather work boots. “You still washing your hair with that Pennzoil 10W40 motor oil? Gotta’ be easy for the chicks to slide their fingers through. Must leave a helluva residue on their hands, though.”

  “You know I ain’t got no time for bitches. All they do is cost me money and be a pain.”

  “Yeah, but they keep your pipes clean and warm at night.”

  “If I want sex, I’ll just hire one of them hookers over on North Avenue. They’re cheaper than having a girlfriend and are very good at what they do. If I wanna stay warm at night, I’ll get a freakin’ dog.”

  “Just remember to wear a Trojan.”

  “Where you been, man? Ain’t a hooker anywhere who doesn’t bring along her own supply of condoms for the dudes.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been out of the mix.” Spike pulled a piece of notebook paper out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. He had a number of notes printed on it. “I just mixed up a batch and got eight of ’em out of it. I’ll go back tomorrow and start getting ’em ready. Have a couple good ideas on a little variety of circuits and stuff to keep the pigs guessing when they do their post-blast investigation. Them ground-pounders are too stupid to figure out who’s doing it.”

  “How can I help you out, dude?”

  “No worries yet, man. It’s all good. I’m in my element. Just call me the Mad Professor.”

  “I thought you wanted them to call you ‘The Mad Bomber.’”

  “WTF? Don’t be broadcasting that around. Someone may hear you, and we’ll be in deep.” Spike shook his head and looked around the sparsely filled restaurant to make sure no one was within hearing distance.

  “Speaking of deep crap, Spike. Why’d you have to cap Squirt? I’m still freaked out over that one.”

  “Squirt was an idiot and needed to be capped. Don’t you remember him saying how he was going to tell his girlfriend about the explosion in the cemetery ‘cause he thought it was so cool blowing that cop up? And that was after only drinking a couple beers. What the hell else was he going to tell her?”

  “I know, dude. But did you have to shoot him between the eyes? That was freaky as hell.”

  “Screw him. Dead men tell no lies. Bet that bullet rattled around in his empty brain for a while.” Spike chuckled at that one. “The problem we have now is Elroy. I know I missed him. Do you know where he lives or anything else about him? We need to cap him so he doesn’t start blabbin’ about us.”

  “No clue, man. Sorry.”

  It was during this conversation that Madman realized he didn’t want to cross Spike. They had been friends for years, but Madman didn’t think Spike was this cold-blooded. The guy was strong, smart, and ruthless. Madman got his nickname years ago for doing crazy stuff but was nowhere near as crazy as Spike.

  “You think the cops got anything on us?”

  “Hell no. They’re all about as smart as a box of rocks. The only thing they probably figured out was Squirt’s real name. Big deal. No way they’ll connect him to us. I bet they’re still trying to figure out why there were no prints on any of the beer cans or bullet casings, except maybe for Squirt’s or Elroy’s. They’re too stupid to realize anybody can wear gloves. Even when drinkin’ a freakin’ beer.”

  “I guess you’re right there.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “I’m up with maimin’ and killin’ cops and blowing stuff up here in Milwaukee, but what’s the deal with doing it in Chi-town, too?”

  “‘Cause Milwaukee’s just a pissant town. Go big or go home. By doing crimes in Chicago, them schmucks won’t know which way is up. It’s only an hour-and-a-half away. No big thing. Besides, my cousin got popped by Chicago cops for burglary and a humbug robbery. He caught nine years at Joliet prison for it. He’s as happy as hell to help us out. Payback’s a bitch, and I know my cuz wants some big time payback.”

  “Won’t the cops catch on that it’s the same guys making the bombs?”

  “That’s the beauty of it, Madman. Just think how many more potential suspects they’ll have to figure out now. Talk about multiplying the gene pool since we’re also including Chi-town in the game. Thought that was a cool idea of yours to spray paint that backwards crap, Dahmer and Murder. That’ll screw them guys up trying to come up with theories. Too funny. I know they’re scratching their balls already, thinking about all that BS. Not only that. My cousin, Worm, has some sort of history fetish with John Dillinger. I know dude wants to somehow include a couple of Dillinger’s crime scenes or haunts in one of the explosions and hopefully blow up another cop or two. Just like they d
id at that cemetery in Calumet City.”

  “You have one sick family,” Madman said, shaking his head and grinning. “But how are we going to monetize this stuff and get some bread out of all this?”

  “Did you ever hear of the word extortion? If they don’t pay up, the bombings will continue, and the body count will rise. That’s what my man Idzi did in 1935.” Spike pulled out a couple pieces of paper with writing on them. “These are some articles I printed off the Internet from old area newspapers. Cool stuff. Wait till the cops get their next surprise.” They both laughed and finished their beers.

  Chapter 16

  ST. ADALBERT’S CEMETERY: MILWAUKEE

  Declan and Anne had traveled halfway through Racine County, past the acres of farmland dotted along the expressway. He turned his department portable police radio back on. The Hawaii Five-O theme song ringtone of his work cell phone broke the silence. “Tomcyzk.”

  “Whaddup, Stud? This is Howe. Who said lightning can’t strike twice? Looks like your boys hit St. Adelbert’s Cemetery last night. For some reason, no one discovered anything until an hour ago. Same MO as Holy Cross, but only seven headstones this time. They primarily defaced one headstone. Guy’s name was Stanley Strychalewski. Ran him through our database. He retired from our department as a detective lieutenant in August 1967, just after the riots. Almost forty years on the job, and he had more commendations than space on a shirt or jacket to put them on. Bomb squad’s on the scene, but haven’t turned anything up yet. Enter off the main entrance and a cemetery employee will guide you in.”

  “We’ll be there in twenty minutes. For the record, there’s definitely a connection between Lurch and the police officer killed in Chicago. Thank God the other cop survived. Looks like she’ll make it. Don’t know what it is yet, but these scumbags are really starting to piss me off. I’ll get back to you when I can, Bill.” They hung up.