The Bomb Maker

by Thomas Perry

  Wyman and Stahl approached, and Stahl stepped to the fourth aisle so he could see the one chair. “Damn,” he said. “It’s him.”

  Wyman said, “How can you tell?”

  “The gym bag. It’s just like the one he left on top of the elevator in the women’s health clinic.”

  “Do you think he’s using the same kind of device?”

  “It doesn’t sound that way. Didn’t the principal say it’s got a phone taped to it? This is the first one like that. Let’s take a look.”

  He stepped close and peered into the half-opened gym bag without touching it. There was a beige brick of plastic explosive with a set of lead wires for a blasting cap running into it. He could see the cell phone and the corner of a lithium-ion battery. “The wires are the same color and style as the last ones—a number eight, probably from the same batch.”

  “I was thinking,” said Wyman. “If we get the containment vessel up to the back entrance, we could just pop it in—even hand it out the window from here so nobody has to carry it far.”

  “We can’t do that this time. It’s him.”

  “What should we do, then?”

  “Let’s get the jammer in your truck going.”

  Wyman reached for his cell phone to call the others, but Stahl held his arm. “No phones, no radios until the jammer is running.” He let go of Wyman’s arm. “What model do you have with you?”

  “TSJ-MBJ110.”

  “Perfect. It’s been tested recently, right?”

  “Once a week. We keep it charged and tested.”

  They went out the back door of the school and headed for the bomb truck. As they did, Stahl focused his mind on the jammer.

  This model jammer was designed for the military to prevent any radio signal, including a cell signal, from reaching a bomb and detonating it. The jammer had its own ten-thousand-watt AC generator, its own cooling system, and a battery backup. The jammer created a quiet zone for 150 meters around it, blocking every band from 20 to 250 megahertz. Once it was in place and operating, Stahl could go to work on the bomb.

  Neil, Wyman’s second in command, set up the jammer in the central hallway of the school, plugged it into an outlet, and switched it on.

  Stahl turned on his cell phone and waited for a signal, then put it away. “I get nothing. It’s operating. Thanks, Neil. Now go back to the truck, call a Code Five Edward and stand by while we figure out what we’ve got to worry about.”

  “Yes, sir.” He went out the back entrance and headed for the truck.

  Stahl and Wyman went into the cafeteria and Wyman stepped up to the gym bag.

  “Don’t touch it just yet,” said Stahl.

  “The jammer’s working. You tested it yourself.”

  “Right,” Stahl said. “But this is the guy. Our guy. He doesn’t do just one thing. He’s well informed enough to know that if we suspected a phone trigger we’d use a signal jammer. He didn’t hide the phone.”

  “But he hid everything in the bag.”

  “Think for a minute,” said Stahl. “Why did this guy put the bag here? Not because he wants to kill a dozen middle school kids. He wants to kill some bomb technicians. So I’m guessing the phone isn’t the only trigger. It’s the bait. He’s hoping that once we neutralize the phone, we’ll think we’ve solved the problem. We’ll try to put it in the containment vessel.”

  “That’s the logical thing to do. We can’t detonate it in a school.”

  “So far he hasn’t planted anything that didn’t have a trap,” said Stahl. “So let’s see what he’s rigged to make normal procedures suicidal. Let’s start by checking for connections to anything else in the bag—wires, layers of an insulating material that are spring-loaded to pop out when someone touches the device and complete the firing circuit, pressure pads, tilt switches. He’s used all of those.”

  They took out their flashlights and leaned over the bag, not touching it as they strained to see inside from every possible angle.

  After a few minutes Wyman said, “No wires, or anything.”

  Stahl said, “Agreed.” He lay on the floor and rolled onto his back to look up under the plastic chair seat. “Take a look at this, but don’t touch it.”

  Wyman lay down on the other side of the chair and rolled to position the window of his helmet so he could see. “What is that?”

  Stahl said, “It looks like the sensor mechanism from a burglar alarm. As long as the magnet on this side is touching this sensor, nothing happens, because the magnet is holding the circuit open. If the magnet gets moved, an interior spring pushes the sensor down and the gap in the firing circuit is closed.”

  “So if we disconnect the battery, we’re done.”

  “Let’s not assume that’ll do it,” Stahl said. “I’m not sure the battery has enough power to operate this.”

  “You mean the battery is just another decoy?”

  “Maybe not, but let’s see if there’s another power source.” Stahl reached into the kit and took out a multimeter. He put the leads to various spots and watched the dial on the box. “There’s power running through these two metal legs of the chair.”

  He looked at the legs carefully, and then at two other chairs. “The feet of this chair are strangely clean—much cleaner than the others. No dust at all.” He touched the grout between the tiles of the cafeteria floor with his finger. Next he took out a knife from the kit and scraped the grout. It crumbled and began to come out.

  “This grout is new. It hasn’t been here long enough to lose the moisture and set properly.” He worked at it a bit longer and then lifted his blade. “See the wire?” He pried up a double strand of narrow-gauge wire. “Let’s look for the other end of it.” He got to his knees and followed the line of fresh grout with his finger. It led to the nearest wall. He pointed to a small double wire with white insulation that ran a few inches up the white wall to the white cover of an electrical outlet. He used the knife to unscrew the two screws that held the cover to the wall, and saw that the two wires split and connected to the sides of the outlet. “Here’s the power source.”

  “Can we disconnect it?”

  “Yes.” He unscrewed one connection to the socket to free one wire, capped the end, and then freed the other wire. Then he took up the wire that ran under the grout. When he reached the chair he tested its legs again with the multimeter and found no current. He cut the two wires to the battery. Then he pulled the blasting cap out of the block of Semtex.

  When Stahl had finished, he noticed that Wyman was looking around the room.

  “Do you see something else?”

  Wyman said, “If you hadn’t shown up, I would have died in this room.”

  “Maybe,” said Stahl. “But now you’re less likely to die if you face this again. You just met this guy. Work on getting to know him, and how he thinks. Never forget that what he wants is to kill you and your team. Not some kids or a gas station attendant. He wants the tech who’s trying to defeat his bomb.”

  “I was completely fooled,” said Wyman. “I never saw any of it.”

  “Now you’re somebody this guy has to worry about. Pass it on to your team.”

  “Thanks,” said Wyman. He knelt to begin picking up the tools.

  “Leave everything where it is, including the jammer,” said Stahl. “We need to get the dogs in to sniff the rest of the school for explosives. He could have put another one in some kid’s locker.”

  “I’ll make the calls and get the locker keys.”

  “Right. If the dogs alert on anything, have somebody drive out of the zone and call me. If they don’t, you can turn the place over to the crime scene people. All we need is a print or some DNA, or a sign of where he bought the battery or the bags.”

  Stahl clomped along the hall to the back door. He went to the bomb truck and said, “You’d better go in and help Sergeant Wyman. But don’t touch anything until he’s briefed you.” Then he went to his car, took off the suit, put it in his trunk, and drove.

  2
3

  Stahl decided it was too late to drive back to police headquarters now. The day shift had ended and he wanted to make it to the hospital to see Diane before visiting hours ended. He knew that by now Andy had left his desk, as usual, clear and clean with everything he had been working on filed in its place in one of the locked filing cabinets, and gone home.

  He drove home to his condominium, walked through to the master bedroom, and turned on the light. He snatched a sport coat and jeans from the closet and tossed them onto the bed. He showered and dressed as efficiently as possible, then went to the garage, got into the plain police car, and drove.

  He glanced at the clock on the car’s dashboard. Visiting hours started at seven on Diane’s floor, and it was after eight. He increased his speed a little so he could make it all the way across the wide intersection at San Vicente before the light changed.

  He had felt as though he were falling behind during the day, and this was the culmination. Defeating bombs was slow work. It took as long as it took, but he was also the boss, the one who had administrative duties and responsibilities, and even on a good day they kept him distracted. He had meant to talk to Diane on the phone during the day, but that had been impossible. Since he returned to the force, he had been trying to control everything around him, and he was wearing thin.

  The need to control had been strongest on bomb calls. The deaths of the fourteen horrified him so much he’d found it difficult to let any of his remaining technicians touch a bomb. Each time he went out to observe their work and give advice, he hadn’t been able to resist going downrange himself. There had always been something about the device that made him feel everyone would be safer if he handled it.

  This wasn’t the technicians’ fault. They were all properly qualified, trained, and certified. Some of them had been on the squad for over ten years, and all had served a number of years as Los Angeles cops or federal agents before then. He wondered if they were talking about him yet. He hoped not. They still seemed to see his willingness to go downrange himself as a positive quality. But it was time to quit doing that. He was going to make a conscious effort to loosen his grip and act like a supervisor, which was his real job. He would touch a device only if he was convinced the killer had planted it.

  From now on, every week he would bring one team at a time into a conference room and give each an intensive review of everything the squad had learned so far about this bomber’s work. Frequent updates would do the most to help the teams handle the devices they encountered in the field. It occurred to him that it would be a good idea to include some of the homicide detectives too. If they knew exactly what to look for, they might find this guy.

  He nodded as he agreed to his own proposal, and then his mind returned to Diane. He realized she might be part of his solution. She had seen the bomber’s work more often and more closely than anyone else but Stahl. Together they had studied the placement, the hardware, and the explosive substances and talked about every aspect of the scene—the power sources, the blast radius, the selection and origins of the parts, and the bomber’s preferences. She could probably teach an intensive class for the technicians as well as he could. Maybe he would mention the idea to her tonight, if he had a chance.

  Maybe he should save it for another visit, when her recovery was more complete. He should probably just drop in as though he were a good supervisor coming by to visit a brave wounded police officer, and then leave. He must not look to the doctors and nurses like what he was—a high-ranking public official who had been engaged in a secret sexual relationship with a colleague he supervised. Her injury had turned the idea that he was going to be off the force in a couple of weeks into a fantasy. He’d had to stay because the bomber was still out there, and now he had to stay to protect her.

  Stahl drove up the hospital driveway and into the parking structure. He glided up and down the rows of spaces with signs indicating they were reserved for doctors, then up another level, and finally onto the visitors’ levels. When he found a space, he took a picture with his phone so he would remember where he’d left his police car.

  Stahl took the elevator down to the ground floor, where he could enter the main building. He strode across the busy lobby, then got into the elevator. Just as the doors rolled shut he saw three members of the Bomb Squad come in the front door together. They were Team Two—Curtis, McCrary, and Bolland. It was nice they’d come to visit Diane, but it was a bit of a disappointment. He knew they would have to stop at the reception counter to find out where to go and to get visitors’ stickers, so he might still have a little time to see Diane alone.

  When his elevator doors opened and he stepped out, the elevator beside his arrived and Elliot emerged. “Hi, boss.” They shook hands, and walked toward Diane’s hallway together.

  Stahl said, “This is pretty interesting. I just saw Curtis, McCrary, and Bolland downstairs.”

  “What’s the latest on her condition?” Elliot asked. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Supposedly her recovery is better than normal, but what’s normal for having a bomb go off twenty feet from your head?” said Stahl.

  “That would be deceased,” said Elliot.

  “That’s been my observation,” said Stahl. “If she’s ready for a bunch of visitors, she’s got to be doing great.”

  They reached the nurses’ station at the end of the hall, and one of the nurses Stahl had met before was on duty. “Gentlemen,” she said. “Go to the waiting room down the hall, and do what its name implies. Wait.”

  Elliot and Stahl went to the waiting room at the end of the hall. Stahl saw that all of the two dozen or so seats were taken. About fifteen of the people in the room were from the Bomb Squad. He leaned in and addressed the group. “What’s everybody doing here at once?”

  Elliot took a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Haven’t you seen this?” He handed it to Stahl.

  It was an invitation printed on good stationery that bore the name, address, and logo of Cedars-Sinai hospital. The text said, “Dear members of the LAPD Bomb Squad, Sergeant Diane Hines cordially invites you to her Coming Out (of a Coma) Party, which will be held on September 15 at 8:00 p.m. at her current residence, Floor Five of the Cedars-Sinai hospital. Refreshments will be served. No RSVP necessary.”

  Dick Stahl read Elliot’s invitation and thought about it. The fourteen remaining members of the original Bomb Squad were Diane’s friends. When the new squad members read the invitation they might see the evening as a chance to become closer to the original Bomb Squad members and to each other. He said, “I hadn’t seen this before.” He looked around. “And I don’t see Hines.”

  Bolland said, “The nurse told us she wants to get dolled up before she sees us.”

  “‘Dolled up,’” Judy Welsh repeated. “There’s an expression you don’t hear much anymore.” She touched her hair as though she were arranging it.

  “That’s because you don’t see it much anymore, either,” McCrary said.

  Welsh grinned. “If you could see what Diane and I look like when we go off watch and clean up, it would fuel your adolescent fantasies for the next five years.”

  That brought loud laughter and a few side comments.

  A moment later Elliot appeared behind Stahl in the doorway. “The nurse was about to come down here and tell you all to keep the noise down. I headed her off, so don’t get me kicked out of here.”

  Stahl had a vague sense that this gathering wasn’t something Diane would agree to. Maybe the nursing staff had decided it would be good for her, and made the arrangements.

  Stahl heard footsteps on the hard floor behind him and turned. Wyman and Neil walked up.

  Wyman said, “We used the dogs and searched every locker, everyplace where you could hide a device in the school. The crime scene people are still running tests, taking more pictures, and collecting prints. They’ll call if they find anything for us.”

  Stahl nodded. “Okay.” But he was distracted. He had come here expecting t
o be the only one. This larger gathering had an odd, premature feeling.

  The nurse from the desk appeared behind them. She was some kind of supervisor, and she was middle-aged. Stahl guessed she was the one who had said “dolled up.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said. As they turned, she slipped past them and into the room, where she saw Welsh and Terranova. “And ladies.”

  The room was silent.

  “A while ago the big sheet cake, soft drinks, and coffee you ordered were delivered to the floor. That is against the rules. We’re grateful, and we love you all, and we especially love Sergeant Hines. We’re going to let you have a quiet—and I mean quiet—visit with her in this waiting room. Where’s the boss?”

  She leaned in farther and saw Stahl. “Oh, there you are. You’re responsible.”

  “I’ll try to live up to that,” Stahl said.

  “I’m going down to the break room to cut the cake. If it’s loud down here, nobody gets any.”

  “Need any help?” said Elliot.

  “From a bunch of cops?” she said. “Hardly.”

  She turned and hurried off. As she approached the nurses’ station she grabbed a hospital orderly by the arm and made him push the cart that held the cake and the drinks. Stahl saw her turn to the left a few doors down.

  Stahl held up both arms and waved them urgently for attention. “Can anyone tell me who arranged this party?”

  In her room across the hall from the nurses’ station, Diane sat in her wheelchair. The nurse lifted Diane’s feet onto the foot pedal as though they weighed nothing, and then straightened her gown and put a clean blanket over her knees. She took Diane’s hairbrush out of her hand and brushed her hair, as though it were long enough, and then held the mirror while she put on her makeup. Diane said, “Thank you so much, Sonja. I’ll be okay from here.”

  Sonja said, “Okay.” Then she disappeared into the hallway.

  Normally Diane would have gone to the waiting room with a walker, but she decided she was not ready to try to step into a crowd of friends and comrades, including some big men with whom she had been on a hugging basis when they met at after-hours gatherings.