Circle of Terror

by Larry Powalisz

  “We heard the broadcast in the station. Why didn’t you pursue? Three squads just split from the station trying to locate it. Every squad within three miles of here is doing the same.”

  “When they first eye-balled me, they gave me that look like I was from Mars. I was getting back into my squad to see what they were up to, but that’s all I had to go on until the explosion. By the time I got my bearings, they were gone. More important for me to be here and assist for possible casualties.”

  “Good answer. We think we have everyone accounted for who was working inside tonight. I saw the garage on the way out here, and there are bricks all over the place. We have people combing through to see if anyone was in there when it happened. I better give the captain a call and tell him what happened to his police station. This place will soon be a circus with all the brass and media response.”

  “Engine 30, ladder 10, respond to Number Five District on Fourth and Locust. An explosion just occurred in the alley behind the station. Received an update; three vehicles in flames at that location. Time out: 10:17.”

  “Copy that, fire dispatch.” So that’s what the loud noise was, Lieutenant William ‘Buck’ Bucholtz thought to himself as he responded to the radio call. He pushed the alarm button, and a loud, clanging bell sounded in the fire station. Within two minutes, ten firefighters mobilized in the garage, getting into their fire gear and preparing for a quick departure.

  “Let’s hit it, boys. Our brothers in blue need us. There was an explosion, and three cars are on fire in the alley behind the station.” Buck raised his right hand and waved it in a circular motion, signifying the urgency of the situation. The two large garage doors opened, red lights were activated, and the siren blared as the big, red Pierce-brand fire engine lumbered out of the garage, turning eastbound. The large horsepower engine roared and arrived at the location in just over a minute. The motor pump operator veered left into the alley, following the hand directions of a uniformed police officer who was standing on the grass island of the boulevard.

  “Jeffers, did you see the hydrant in front of the library? When this beast stops, it’s yours. Hook us up, and we’ll get this show rolling.” Buck spoke into his headset as he looked over at the young firefighter in the backseat.

  “Copy, Lieut. I’m all over it.”

  The truck stopped mid-alley, and the professionals in fire-retardant clothing jumped out and went about their assignments. One firefighter lifted the fire hose up from the concrete and felt the water pressure building. It came to life, with a full stream of water charging at the flames.

  Two minutes later, the fires were extinguished. The hose bearer and his backup approached each vehicle and finished the job by dousing all remaining hot spots. They walked alongside each vehicle. Firefighter Norris winced as he sprayed water on the front of the beautiful Chevy 1500 4X4. Whoever owns this is going to be really upset. As he walked between the charred green Ford Fusion and blue Hyundai Elantra, the last thing Norris felt was a slight tugging at his left front calf. He didn’t see the trip wire stretched between the two autos that set off the secondary explosion.

  A blue plastic Igloo cooler, containing highly explosive methyl nitrate set inside of a lead pipe bomb, along with additional shrapnel, had been strategically placed just in front of the Hyundai’s front tire. The firefighter didn’t stand a chance and was dead instantly from the intense power of the blast and shrapnel that pierced his body. Firefighter Kubick stood a much better chance of survival at the rear of the cars as the back-up fire hose tender. He immediately fell to the ground as metal shrapnel struck his lower extremities and shredded his legs.

  As Kubick writhed in pain, Norris lay completely motionless.

  “First aid kit, now!” screamed Buck over the radio as he looked on in horror. “Get me two med units here!” He rushed over to Norris, knelt down and felt for a pulse on the carotid artery, glaring at the large puddles of blood forming under the man’s lifeless body. Absolutely nothing. He forced the tears back as he maintained his composure and kept a cool, focused demeanor. Just too many big holes to patch up. Buck stood up and ordered one of the dual EMT-trained firefighters to perform the “ABCs” of survival in the very slim chance they could save him. Meanwhile, several firefighters were attending to Kubick, professionally working on controlling the bleeding from his legs.

  Police Officer Birke surveyed the mangled scene in from of him. “Those two bastards are mine!” he seethed through the openings in his teeth. That’s when he noticed it. On the undamaged section of brick wall in front of the red Hyundai, “TMB” was spray painted in large, red capital letters.

  Chapter 20

  TOMCZYK RESPONDS

  Declan was finishing off the second Guinness when his work cell phone started ringing at 11:20 p.m. He set the intriguing Vince Flynn book down and noticed the intelligence office phone number on the screen. Now what? He touched the answer button. “This is Tomczyk.”

  “Ski, saddle up and report to District Five ASAP,” Sergeant Howe commanded. “Your boys hit again. An explosion struck a corner of the building, ripped open a hole in the wall, and torched three private vehicles. One firefighter’s DOA. One may lose his legs. A cop walking through the garage was hurt badly from a brick projectile. Not a good night. ‘TMB’ was sprayed on the alley side wall. Looks like it’s going to be a long one.”

  “Those SOBs again! Thanks, Sarge. I’ll head right over.” He hung up the phone and went into the bathroom. After a one-minute “man shower,” he got dressed. Grabbing his holster and department-issued black Smith and Wesson M & P (military and police) .40 caliber pistol, he attached it to his belt along with the black leather holder containing two loaded magazines and a set of handcuffs. He placed the navy blue nylon lanyard with his MPD detective badge around his neck. Within ten minutes, he was in his truck for the twenty-five-minute drive to his former workplace. A million thoughts raced through his head about what had happened. Who had been injured? What else were these domestic terrorists planning?

  Exiting the expressway, he drove to the district, finding a parking spot in the library parking lot next door. Pandemonium prevailed. Media trucks with antennas raised, a swelling crowd, and squad cars of every color lined the area. He brushed past the plastic, yellow “POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS” tape, identified himself to the uniformed police officer, and then walked into the station. Inside the large assembly, he heard his name called over the voices of the thirty-plus people present.

  “Tomczyk, could you come over here?” He looked over and saw Lieutenant Tom Walsh, Homicide North Supervisor. “We need your help. I’m sure you heard that this ‘TMB’ group has struck again. Officer John Birke observed two white, bald males in a car coming out of the alley after he parked his squad at about ten fifteen. A minute later, there was an explosion along the building next to the alley. Birke got a license plate, which is listed to a Harold Carter Junior on East Clarke Street. We have a recent homicide victim with that name.”

  Tomczyk’s eyes widened.

  “MFD responded and extinguished the fire. Two firefighters were completing a final wash down. Matt Norris, twenty-seven-years-old, tripped a wire and set off a secondary explosion. It had been hidden under a car, which was one of three that were burned. He’s DOA. The second firefighter, Tony Kubick, twenty-five, is at Froedtert with two mangled legs. Right now, it’s touch and go to save one or both of his legs. Police Officer Robert Bahr was walking in the back door of the garage when he was hit with brick pieces. He sustained severe injuries to his chest and leg. Looks like he’ll pull through, but they still have him listed in critical condition—a bad night. Give us a little history. All I know about this stuff is what I read from Lurch’s incident at the cemetery.”

  “Not sure how much I can help you.” Tomczyk felt uneasy. He wished he had more info on these guys, but he’d been hitting dead ends on nearly every lead he had pursued since the cemetery incident. “First off, the owner of the car was the homicide victim found in G
ordon Park. Paint stains on his pants and boots, along with a boot-print cast, matched him up as one of the suspects in the cemetery explosion. We’ve run every database we have, along with the FBI’s, but have turned up nothing as far as associates. Executed a search warrant with Bernems a couple days ago and arrested a Matthew Wallk. He confessed to being at the scene. Said he was Carter’s friend. Could provide nicknames for only two other guys, maybe the two in the car tonight—Spike and Madman. Carter had one relative here in Milwaukee, who’s been interviewed and proved uncooperative. His sister lives in South Milwaukee and said she hadn’t had contact with him for over two years. All she could add was his nickname: ‘Squirt.’ We also did a search warrant on his apartment, but only found a couple things. He had anarchist literature, pamphlets, and books, along with some cult material. Strange bedfellows.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “I went to Chicago PD with an FBI agent last week on a related incident. A Calumet City cop was killed and one severely injured in a cemetery when a bomb attached to a headstone was set off. Eerily similar to ours as far as the chemical used. Same MO on the defaced headstones, along with a note signed by TMB. We’ve performed Internet searches and pieced together a couple possibilities, but none of them make any sense. Were you aware of the words Murder and Dahmer spray painted backwards at the cemetery?”

  “Oh, yeah. Anything on that yet?”

  “No. We think it was a ruse to take us off track. Still open as a possibility. I just received a lab report on an envelope that was attached to a headstone at St. Adalbert’s Cemetery the other day. Confirmed the substance as cesium chloride, some serious WMD stuff. Inside was a typewritten letter signed by TMB to the mayor, demanding ten million cash in exchange for ending the bombings. Gave us until this Friday at four o’clock to respond. Guess they wanted to show us they were serious. A meeting has been scheduled for ten tomorrow with the mayor’s staff and our ‘top dogs’ to go over strategy.”

  “You think?! Why weren’t we in the mix on this?”

  Declan’s typically calm demeanor vanished. “I spoke to Captain Spinnola right after I received the phone call at quarter of four this afternoon. He made the arrangements and contacts for the meeting. Why he didn’t notify the homicide squad is above my pay grade, Lieutenant!”

  “You’re right, Ski. There would have been no reason to keep us in the loop at this juncture. But now these murderers detonated a bomb at one of our police stations; we have a dead firefighter, a couple injured brothers, and not a whole hell of a lot to go on.”

  Tomczyk thought for a second before responding. “The headstone where they found the fake bomb at Holy Cross was a retired MPD detective captain who died in the early ’80s. The one at St. Adalbert’s belonged to a retired MPD detective lieutenant. He was a good friend and former partner of the captain’s. They worked together on some serious cases, including a task force hunting down John Dillinger. The headstone in Chicago where the cop was killed belonged to a former East Chicago police chief. He was connected to the famous ‘Lady in Red’ who ratted out Dillinger the night he was killed. I received a call from a CPD detective lieutenant two days ago. Said some district cops recovered a fake bomb in a shopping bag planted at the front door of the Biograph Theatre. There was an extortion letter demanding twenty million. The letter was signed ‘TMB.’ I didn’t know that theatre still existed.”

  “I didn’t either. Some crazy stuff.”

  “Well, to finish it off, old number Five District used to be located on the corner of Third and Hadley,” Tomczyk said, pointing in the direction where the building had stood a block away. “Patterson Tires, if you remember, was there for years.”

  “Remember it well. I worked at Five for about six years.”

  “Knew we had something in common. We googled ‘The Mad Bomber’ and found a couple things. Most promising case is two guys who blew up bombs at some banks, Shorewood City Hall, and ‘that’ police station on Halloween night in 1935, along with the old station on Twelfth and Vine. A number of personnel were injured from glass and brick, but nothing serious. These two guys blew themselves up while making a big bomb in a garage off Twenty-second and Mitchell a couple days later. Over a dozen people were injured and a nine-year-old girl was killed. The Journal and Sentinel referred to them as ‘The Mad Bomber.’ How we connect the crimes that occurred all these years apart is a bit of a stretch—even for my normally warped mind.”

  “Holy balls. You’re right … That’s plain eerie. Anything else?”

  “Nothing, Lieut. Wish I had more, but I’d be lying. I’m hoping for something that will break this case because the file on my desk is getting thicker by the day. All I have is slightly more than a goose egg. I can tell you one of these TMB bastards is packing a .40 caliber Glock. The State Crime Lab matched the bullet and casings from the homicide of Carter through the IBIS system with that make and caliber.”

  “I heard about that, just wasn’t aware of the other connections.”

  “If there’s anything else I can help you with, give me a shout.”

  “Lieutenant Walsh, can I talk to you a second?” The voice came from inside the sergeant’s office located off the assembly room.

  “What’s up, Sarge?”

  “One of our squads found the Toyota in an alley a mile east of here. I told them not to touch it and to stand by for your guys.”

  “Great news! Heads up on that one. These guys are cold-blooded killers. I wouldn’t put anything past them.” Lieutenant Walsh glanced at his watch and saw that it was two fifteen in the morning. “Finally, we’ve got something.” He looked over at several detectives sitting at one of the squad tables. “Ron, Bill, see Sergeant Marshall and get the info about the location of the green Toyota. Head over there and get things going. I’ll have a bomb tech meet you. Don’t touch anything else until the bomb tech says it’s clear. We’ll tow it downtown and search it there. Also, get a couple squads to canvass the area and make sure they search under every rock. Maybe we’ll catch a break with a neighbor who let their dog out for a walk or something.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Tomczyk sat at one of the desks in the assembly room, going back and forth whether he should call her. He decided not to since it was so late. The case was as much hers as it was his since parts of it crossed state lines. This whole thing has to connect to the Mad Bomber from 1935 somehow. He just didn’t know where to go from here. He instead texted Anne with all the necessary information so she would be informed when she woke up for work. He also pulled a business card out of his wallet: WILLIAM MACCARTHY, DETECTIVE, CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT INTELLIGENCE DIVISION. He called the cell phone listed on the card, which was answered on the third ring. Declan and Detective ‘Bill’ MacCarthy had hit it off well at the meeting regarding the explosion at the Chicago-area cemetery.

  “Area code 414? It’s gotta be my favorite Mac-Pollock brother up in Brewtown. Who else would call me so damn late?”

  “Bad news, Mac. We had an explosion at my old police station. One firefighter’s DOA, one may lose a leg or two, and a cop’s in bad shape. These TMB guys set off a secondary that did most of the damage.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me, Ski. What time did it happen?”

  “About ten fifteen last night.”

  “Not good. We had two explosions hit separate police stations down here at about the same time. I’m at the scene of one of them now. Thankfully, only a couple minor injuries. Hey, John, what time did they happen?”

  Tomczyk heard a voice in the background.

  “The first was at ten thirty and the second at a quarter past eleven. We were very lucky. A firefighter triggered a trip wire for a secondary bomb, and it misfired. Coppers were on the ball and broadcasted the information. When the second bomb detonated, they found the tripwire and the bomb tech defused it after they put the fire out. The perps even spray painted TMB in red on the station walls.”

  “Same MO here, Mac. Unbelievable. I’ll give you a call tomo
rrow, and we can compare notes.”

  “That’d be great. Talk at ya then.”

  CRAP.

  Chapter 21

  MILWAUKEE’S RIVERWEST

  They walked out of the corner bar just after one thirty in the morning with a guy they met there. Spike realized the neighborhood would be infested with cops out looking for a couple of white males wearing black leather jackets. He struck up a conversation with a patron and gave him some bogus story about needing a ride home.

  “No problem, dudes. I don’t work until two in the afternoon. You’re on the way to my crib.”

  “Thanks, man. My knee is still killing me from that operation. Car’s on the ‘fritz,’ so we bummed a ride from my girlfriend, but she’s gotta work till three.” The slightly tinted windows, which Spike noticed as he slid into the front seat of the older model Chevy, made him that much more relieved. Madman hopped into the back seat. Spike saw three uniformed and one unmarked squad on the one-mile trip to the duplex. Good thing we took the ride. Too bad, pigs … Ain’t gettin’ us tonight.

  “This’ll work. Right here, dude … thanks.”

  The man dropped them off at the top of the alley. They got out and walked the half block to Spike’s place.

  “C’mon, Madman. You better stay with me tonight. All kinds of pigs roaming around looking for us. This was a close one. We’ll go head-to-head on our schedule—not theirs.”

  “You’re probably right. I saw a couple squads myself.”

  When they walked in, Angela was sitting on the sofa in the small living room drinking a beer and smoking a joint.

  “Just got home from work, babe,” she mentioned in a nonchalant manner. “Hey, dude,” she continued, looking over at Madman.

  “Angela, this is Madman, one of my homies. He’s going to lay his head down for the night on the couch.”

  “No worries. Offer him a beer and a reefer. Picked some up tonight.”