“Where we heading, Declan?” Anne looked visibly concerned. “Doesn’t sound good.”
“Another cemetery job. Looks like we found Big Stan, Schlundt’s partner and friend. His headstone was desecrated, along with some others, at St. Adelbert’s Cemetery. Seven headstones were defaced, but they concentrated on just one: a retired MPD lieutenant, Stanley Stryckalewski. No wonder Mrs. Pavalko couldn’t remember his last name. Bomb squad is on the scene and haven’t located anything yet, which is good news. Makes you wonder what these guys are thinking on this one.”
“Think I passed that cemetery once or twice during my familiarization rides when I first got here.”
“My dad used to take me to visit the graves of my grandparents and some great aunts and uncles. More names ending with ‘ski’ there than all the skis at Squaw Valley during prime season. The main entrance is off South Sixth Street. A worker will meet us there and guide us to the scene.”
“Fair enough. A laugh a minute, aren’t you?”
“Makes the job more interesting. They pay me well, so I strive to serve the citizens the best I can. Humor keeps you sane. You can only see so much sickness from the underbelly of society, and the tragedy it causes, before it starts to engulf you.”
They pulled into the cemetery and were met by a service employee in a green truck. They followed him to where a marked squad and the big blue Milwaukee PD bomb squad truck were parked. An eerie feeling went through Declan’s body. The last time he saw that truck, his good friend was hanging on by a thread. He shook off the thought and “zeroed in” on his assignment. “Okay, partner. Let’s get down to business.”
“Partner? Now you’re talking. I’m honored.”
They walked over to the truck where another familiar face was standing.
“How you doing, Phil?” Declan introduced him to Anne. “We’re working together on this case. What do we have?”
“Nothing yet, Ski. Searched the area thoroughly, and it checked neg-res for any signs of explosives or residue. There was a standard-size white business envelope attached to the back of one headstone. I was just coming back to the truck to grab my scintillation counter. I’m just not taking any chances on this one. No sense touching anything unless we know what it may contain. I don’t trust people who like trying to kill friends of mine. These guys put Lurch out of commission for a couple months.”
“Amen to that, brother.” Even though Tomczyk concentrated on explosive devices in the Marine Corps, he had some knowledge of scintillation counters. They were used to detect radiation.
Phil grabbed the handheld Delta Epsilon brand SC-133 device off the shelf in the truck and showed it to Declan and Anne. The SC-133 was a sodium-iodine-based radiation detector.
“This baby here will tell me if there’s any radioactive material in that there envelope. Can also be used as a BS detector.” Phil pointed it toward Declan. “Beep, beep, beep, beep. Anne, you should have been warned to stay away from this guy.”
They broke out laughing.
“Somebody sure had a thing for Mr. Strychalewski. Yanked his headstone out, then etched some design into it. Come over and take a look.” Randall walked them over to where the headstones had been disturbed.
Six of the stones had been spray painted with an anarchy symbol. The seventh was completely pulled out of the ground and left leaning on an angle against one of the other headstones. The front of the tan, marble stone had been spray painted in red with an upside down cross, the same as Harold Schlundt’s. The word PIG was also spray painted at the base of it.
Tomczyk stared at the configuration of damage. “Did you get the word about Stanley? He was a retired MPD detective lieutenant with nearly forty years. Sounds like the guy had a stellar career.”
“Didn’t know anything about him. I told the lieutenant his name when I called it in so they could check things out.”
“You’re a peach, Phil. That’s what connects this case with Lurch’s. Now we concentrate on how.” In the back of Declan’s mind, it was becoming more obvious that the common thread was in some strange way related to Idzi “The Mad Bomber” Rutkowski.
“Let me check the envelope to see if our creative souls placed something in it that can subject us to anything.”
Phil flipped the ON switch for the SC-133 to warm up, then turned the instrument in the opposite direction of his target to obtain a background reading. He started moving toward the angled headstone, got down on his knees, and pointed it in the direction of the taped, white envelope to take measurements. The machine started clicking like a Geiger counter, telling the operator that radiation was nearby. He took a reading off the gauge on top of the device.
“Looks like there is some form of cesium in that envelope. My guess is cesium chloride. What rock did these dirt bags crawl out of? They know explosives, and they also know radioactive materials. This is some bad stuff!”
Chapter 17
ST. ADALBERT’S CEMETERY
Declan didn’t like the sound of that. Cesium chloride was a salve for cancer patients, but also had nefarious uses. “Oh, wonderful. Just what we need. Bombers, murderers, and now mass destruction knowledgeable.”
Cesium (caesium) chloride: a highly radioactive material made with cesium 137. In September 1987, one of the world’s worst radiological disasters occurred in Goiania, Brazil. Illegal scrap collectors burglarized an abandoned hospital and absconded with almost three ounces of the compound. The thieves were able to breach the container and observed a blue-colored, glowing material inside. They brought it home and showed a number of people. Four people died from exposure. Hundreds were seriously exposed, and over one hundred and ten thousand others flooded area hospitals with symptoms.
“Well, this changes everything. Instead of placing the envelope inside an evidence bag, now I have to send in the robot to retrieve and put it into a lead pig. I wanted to show you the envelope, but you’ll just have to wait to see for yourself.”
“Lead pig?” inquired Anne.
“Just a term we use for a container to store radiative material in. The problem is that I’m the only bomb tech working today. I could sure use someone else with the expertise to do this.”
“No worries,” Anne cut in. “One of my FBI buds is the WMD coordinator for southeast Wisconsin. He lives a couple miles from here and lives for this.”
“You gotta be talking about ‘The Doctor.’”
She dialed Brett Plover’s cell number. “Yeah, it’s for real, Brett. We’re at St. Adalbert’s right now ready to send in the robot.” Anne ended the call. “The Doctor will be here in fifteen.”
Dr. Brett Plover was an anomaly in law enforcement. He received his doctoral degree in chemistry from Harvard University and entered the research field. One day he decided he wanted to be an FBI agent. A special agent with a doctorate in chemistry was a natural for being the FBI weapons of mass destruction coordinator. Plover could probably manufacture most of the “ethyl-methyl” bad stuff in his basement if he wanted to. It was only right for a person of that caliber to be one of the good guys.
Phil and Declan pulled the robot out of the truck and prepared it for the mission. Phil attached the “long arm” to the robot’s mechanical right arm for longer reach. He looked over at his fellow detective.
“Obviously, we can’t expose the robot to radiation. With the use of the long arm, we reduce or eliminate the chance of the robot touching the envelope. If it does, all we’ll have is an expensive piece of radioactive junk to get rid of. A mechanical attachment is easier and cheaper to send off to the radioactive graveyard.”
“No argument from me,” Tomczyk agreed. “I love the color blue, just not when it’s glowing by itself and emitting radioactivity.”
“It’s all about time, distance, and shielding. We’ll have you stand back a safe distance.
Within ten minutes, a dark gray Chevrolet Impala parked behind the bomb truck. Out stepped the mid-thirties, brown-haired, bearded FBI WMD coordinator.
; “Dr. Plover, I presume,” Phil said with a smile.
“Thanks for coming, Brett. Phil said he could use the help. Meet Detective Declan Tomczyk. I’m working with him on these explosions.”
“Heard about you, Declan. Nice to finally meet you.”
“Thanks, likewise.”
“Here’s what we have, Brett.” The two experts stepped off to the side where Phil explained the situation so they could discuss strategy.
Brett nodded his head with approval. “Sounds like a plan.” They walked back over to the other two investigators.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Phil said calmly. “Anne, you go dig a hole over there about five—no, make it six-feet-deep. Ski, make believe that headstone is one of those running backs you used to trounce in college and throw it into the hole Anne dug so she can fill it in. The shelf life for that stuff’s only about fifty years.”
Brett looked over at Phil and shrugged his shoulders. “I thought it was a great idea and much easier than what we’re going to have to do. On second thought, we probably can’t do that. Your boss would go ballistic since we aren’t following ALARA protocol.”
Tomczyk looked over at Plover and Randall in complete ignorance. “What’s an ALARA?”
“Total flat foot, Phil. How can a twenty-first century detective not know what that stands for?”
“Give him a break, Brett. He’s a former Marine.”
“That explains it.” They gave each other a fist bump. “Got ya, jarhead. ALARA stands for ‘As Low as Reasonably Achievable.’ Exposing yourself to the bad stuff the minimum amount of time to keep the possibility of contracting radiation lower.”
“Thanks for the Cliff Notes explanation.”
“We’re here for you.” Randall went back to the truck and pulled out what appeared to be a heavy container about the size of a one-gallon paint can. “This lead pig is going to be our savior today—theoretically speaking, of course.” Phil placed the container in the desired spot, leaving the lid next to it.
Another unmarked car pulled up. Out stepped Lieutenant Tony Stilger, one of the Criminal Investigation Bureau’s shift supervisors.
“Well, there goes the party.”
“When the captain sends me out here to check up on the bomb tech, it’s never a good thing. What’s the plan, Phil? Good to see you again, Doctor Brett. Tomczyk, what the heck you doing here?” He glanced over at Anne, nodded his head, and smiled.
Randall looked over at the supervisor. “How’s it going, Lieut?” He introduced Dvorak and laid out their plan. “The Geiger counter showed that an envelope taped to the back of that angled, tan headstone contains cesium chloride. I was going to send the robot to retrieve the envelope and place it in the container. We’ll figure out who wants to be brave and place the cover on it.”
“Just pull straws and make sure Ski loses,” Lieutenant Stilger quipped. “Nothing will penetrate that thick head of his.”
“I’m good with that.” Phil turned on the remote control for the robot and tested it to make sure all parts were good to go. The robot responded fluidly as the detective operated the joystick. They watched the robot move in place.
“Okay, we’re ready. Any final thoughts?”
Everyone shook heads in unison.
“We need a hero today, Phil. So you and ‘Johnny Five’ have to do it.” The lieutenant smiled.
“You got it, boss man. We’re up with that.” Phil guided the joystick, and the robot lurched forward from the asphalt drive onto the slope of the grass. “Go get ’em, Robot-buddy!”
When the robot had advanced about ten feet from the headstone, Phil lowered the long arm and attempted to move it into place. He slowly positioned the robot closer and the arm began going under the angled marble. “Here’s the problem. I can’t see the envelope from this location for the robot to latch onto.”
Special Agent Plover burst into action. “Let me grab one of those powerful flashlights you have in the truck. I’ll be able to illuminate that sucker like the Wrigley Building at night.”
“That’ll help.”
When Plover clicked on the flashlight, the space behind the headstone lit up completely, allowing Phil total visibility of the envelope. The robot inched forward as Phil readied the pinchers. It would be tricky as there was only a slight clearance between the envelope and the headstone. The pinchers on the one side of the long arm slid along the marble, but missed going behind the object and brushed over it.
“Damn! I’ll have to try it again from a different angle. Too tight at that spot.” He again looked through his binoculars for any opening. “Why didn’t I see that the first time?” Phil brought the robot back about three feet and readjusted the angle of the long arm. “Okay, let’s do this again.”
Phil zoned in. The expert controller moved the robot in slowly toward the headstone as he gently turned the joystick, like a surgeon performing brain surgery. No more screw ups, he thought. He guided the long arm to the back of the headstone, sliding it along the marble. He watched it go behind the envelope and slowed down the movement to nearly a stop. “All right, you’re mine now.” When Phil observed the envelope completely in the grasp of the pincher on the long arm, he paused.
“You latched onto it!” Brett exclaimed. “Great job. Now ease it off and ‘git ur dun.’” Plover shined the flashlight in the darker area behind the headstone to give Phil maximum light.
“Feels good, Brett. Okay, let’s finish this.”
Declan glanced over at Anne, who looked relieved. “C’mon, Phil, don’t fail us now.”
“No worries; I got her.” He expertly touched the joystick on the remote controller, and the robot responded in kind. They could see the envelope slowly break away from the headstone and watched as the tape separated from the stone surface. In another second, the envelope was completely in the grasp of the robot’s extended arm. Phil slowly moved the robot away from the headstone. “Okay, phase one is finito.”
“How you doin’?” asked Lieutenant Stilger.
“Like I just got lucky with my once-a-month roll in the hay with my wife.”
“You guys are just plain sick,” Anne said, shaking her head in feigned disgust. “Way beyond help.”
“Sorry, Anne,” Phil responded, laughing. He steadied his grip on the controller. The robot backed up about ten feet and completed a ninety-degree turn, moving slowly toward the lead pig. When it reached striking distance, Randall touched the joystick and the robot’s long arm extended to a point just above the lead container. The envelope released from the grasp of the mechanical device and fell harmlessly into it. “All right!”
Brett already had on the stage-four rubber gloves and a respirator. He walked over to the container, picked up the cover, and carefully secured it in place.
“Done,” he exhaled, giving the “thumbs-up” sign.
“Crazy fool!” shouted Randall.
“C’mon, Phil,” Brett countered as he walked back over to the truck with the container firmly in his hands, placing it inside a holding box specially made to reduce motion during transit. “You saw the same thing I did. You slipped that envelope straight into the pig without even striking the side, clean as a three-point ‘swish shot’ by Ray Allen.”
Phil walked back over to the headstone with the radiation device in tow and checked the levels of the area and the back of the headstone. No residue had transferred from the envelope to the marble or anything else as the gauge registered low-normal amounts. He was relieved.
“See how good you can get at this stuff by watching a couple episodes of TV cop shows?” Phil quipped to all who were watching him.
“You’re right,” Declan responded. “They would be darn proud of you.”
“I’ll get this sent out to Savannah River first thing in the morning. It’s farther away than Oak Ridge, but they’re geared up better to identify these materials. Plus, I’ll put in a rush to find out the contents of the letter I bet is inside the envelope.” Randall thought for a second. “I
wonder if there’s ever been a study on the average number of brain cells per person employed in those places. Bet it’s REALLY, REALLY high!”
Savannah River National Laboratory in Jackson, South Carolina, was part of the Department of Energy. Founded in 1951 and certified as a national laboratory in 2004, they specialized in the handling, identifying, and disposing of hazardous materials.
“Ski, did I mention the envelope was addressed to you?” Phil said as he casually looked over at Brett, winking to clue his friend in to go along with the story.
“I saw that and thought it was strange,” Brett joined in. “Didn’t know you had a relationship with the bad guys.”
“What are you talking about, addressed to me?”
“I’m not hosing you, Ski. It was addressed to you.”
Both Tomczyk and Anne gave Phil a shocked look.
“How can it be addressed to me? These dirt bags don’t know who I am. They only saw me from a distance.”
“What can I tell you? There’s only one word on the envelope, and it’s written in all capitals with your name—P-I-G.”
“You got me!” said Declan, definitely relieved. “They could have at least called me Mr. Pig.”
“All in a day’s work, Mr. Pig.” Phil started laughing heartily.
“And these guys are your friends?” Anne had to chuckle at that one.
“Garth Brooks said it best about having friends in low places.”
Lieutenant Stilger walked up to Declan and put his arm tightly around his shoulder. “You’re like our favorite little dog, you muscle-bound turd. We’ll deal with your outburst to Hetzer on another day. He’s pissed and wants to push the issue.”
“Just wasn’t in the mood for his crap this morning, boss. If I get a couple days on the beach for disrespect, it will have been worth it. Hetzer and I will NEVER see eye-to-eye.”
“I hear ya. He doesn’t have many fans anywhere. Later.” Stilger walked back to his squad and drove away.
“Our work here is done,” Randall commented. “Nice meeting you, Anne. Please watch over him. He’s not that intelligent, but we keep him around for humor value.”
Circle of Terror Page 13
