by John Lutz
Laura was working late, so Harper ate dinner alone in the kitchen and then went back into the dining room to go over the files again. He didn’t expect a call from Addleman. The ex-profiler’s contacts had probably treated him just as contemptuously as Harper’s had. They were two of a kind, he and Addleman. Hard-luck guys. Losers.
The rickety chair squeaked under Harper as he sat down. He surveyed the piles of paper and open books and the laboriously constructed models on the table. There was no point in going back to work now. He was tired, and the three beers he’d drunk before dinner to take the sting out of the day weren’t helping his mental acuity.
Still, he reached for the Sothern file and took out the photographs of the bomb. He’d found a C on the Buckner bomb, and an E on the Wylie bomb. But on this, the most nearly intact of the bombs, he hadn’t been able to find either letter. That kept nagging at him. What did it mean?
Probably that the C and E were just scratches, and Harper’s imagination had run away with him.
Putting away the thought, he reached for a picture of the pipe. He spent the next ten minutes going over it with the magnifying glass, but once again he saw no C or E, no scratch that looked like any letter of the alphabet, in fact.
The reproductions weren’t as sharp as they should have been. If only he could see the actual bomb fragments—
No point thinking about that, either.
He put down the glass and straightened up, massaging his aching neck. The end of the pipe that had blown out was torn and twisted, but the other end was mostly intact. It was easy to see the bomber’s crude fastening method: He’d drilled two sets of holes through pipe and cap, and then put screws through at right angles, one just above the other, and fastened them with nuts.
Harper rummaged through photographs and came up with one of the screws they’d recovered. It was the lower screw, the slightly thicker one. The other hadn’t been found.
He studied the side view and saw nothing. Then he looked at the head-view. It was blown up to two or three times life-size. He could see the cross-shaped Phillips head groove.
And placed neatly in one quadrant was a tiny letter A.
Harper gave a wordless shout of surprise and excitement. Why hadn’t he seen this before? The answer was, because he hadn’t expected to see a letter on a screw head; the others had been on the pipes. But what was it doing there?
“C, E, A,” said Harper to himself. He got up from the table and walked around it, muttering the letters over and over. On the sixth lap, he stopped and picked up the photo of the pipe. He looked at the screw holes, one slightly smaller than the other.
Suddenly, he understood.
“They’re assembly instructions,” he said to Addleman over the phone.
“What?”
“That’s why they’re all different letters. They’re not his initials, they’re not some kind of message to the world, they’re just assembly instructions.”
“Slow down, Will. Take it from the top. And remember, I’m not mechanically minded.”
“Okay. He’s got two screws that he uses to fasten the cap to the pipe. One’s thicker than the other, and goes in holes that are lower down. So he puts a little A, on it, just to remind himself. If we had the other screw, it would say B. I’m sure of that.”
“Wait a minute. Why does he need assembly instructions? He puts the bomb together, and that’s it. Why the hell should he take it apart and put it back together?”
“He has to,” Harper said. “He’s obsessive.”
“What?”
“This guy builds bombs the way other people practice on the piano or play chess. He loves it. Can’t get enough of it. That’s why he’s getting so damned good. It’s his passion, building them, disassembling them, putting them back together. He can’t leave a bomb alone. It’s his compulsion.” Harper didn’t say why he was so sure he knew that about this bomber, how he understood him because, in a way, bombs were his compulsion, too.
Addleman gave a wheezing chuckle. It was the first time Harper had heard him laugh. “So this is it, right, Will? The breakthrough. The common factor.”
“Yes. This’ll prove it. Now I know what to look for. All I have to do is examine the other bomb fragments and I bet I’ll find letters all over them.”
“The Bureau can unlock all those doors for you,” said Addleman. “I think it’s time for you to go down to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and present our case.”
“Me?” said Harper. “It’s time for us to go.”
Addleman was silent for a moment. “I told you, I’m not much for going places and meeting people anymore. Especially my former employers.”
“Forget it, Addleman. You’re coming with me.”
Another pause. When Addleman spoke again, his voice was smaller. “How about this? I told you, I’ve got a video camera rigged to my computer. You have a computer at your end, and I pop up on the screen. I’m as good as there.”
“This isn’t The News Hour with Jim Lehrer, Addleman,” Harper said firmly. “You’re going to be there. I don’t know much about the Bureau. You used to work there. I need you.”
Addleman sighed. “Yeah, you probably do. Okay, stay in tomorrow morning. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got the meeting set up.”
“Sounds like you already know who we’re going to talk to.”
“Yeah. Somebody I’ve worked with before. Her name is Frances Wilson.”
“She’s good?”
“Not only good, she’s unusual.”
9
There was no portrait of J. Edgar Hoover in Special Agent Wilson’s office.
It was otherwise a typical senior agent’s office, small, but with a good view of Pennsylvania Avenue. In the distance, the Washington Monument could be seen poking into the overcast sky. There was a desk with a comfortable chair behind it and two less comfortable chairs in front. Harper and Addleman were sitting in these chairs, waiting for Agent Wilson to come in. Harper was spending the time studying the wall on which her awards, commendations, and official portraits were displayed. The current FBI Director was there, and the Attorney General, and the President—but not J. Edgar.
There was no one in the Bureau more open to an unconventional approach than Frances Wilson, Addleman had said. No matter how high she rose, she’d always be an outsider because she was a black woman. It hadn’t been toeing the line and kissing ass that had put her where she was now. She’d always shown guts, originality, a willingness to confront her superiors—all the qualities Harper and Addleman were going to need in an ally.
On the train ride down from Philadelphia, the two men had prepared their presentation carefully. Harper would deliver it. Addleman said he was too nervous. He’d shaved so close that his cheeks looked raw, and he was wearing a suit and tie. The shirt collar looked too tight for him. Smoking was not allowed in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, so he was chewing peppermints. Harper could smell their spicy scent.
The door opened and Frances Wilson came in. She greeted her old colleague Addleman with affection, and that gave Harper a moment to study her.
She was wearing the female version of standard Federal rig: a pleated white blouse and a navy blue suit of a boxy, broad-shouldered cut, with a skirt that was longer than fashionable. She was tall, five-eight or five-nine, with dark-brown skin, a broad noise, and high cheekbones. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and deeply set. She hadn’t straightened or colored her hair; there were threads of gray above her ears. Harper guessed she was in her late thirties.
He didn’t get any further in his scrutiny before she turned and looked at him. It was the quick, comprehensive once-over of a trained cop. She’d be able to describe Harper right down to the color of his eyes and the mole on his neck, should that ever become necessary.
“Hello, Mr. Harper,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Harper tried to lighten the moment. “You can’t believe everything Addleman says.”
“I heard about you long before
Addleman.” She didn’t elaborate, but stepped forward with a cool smile and put out her left hand.
It annoyed Harper when people did that, though he supposed they thought they were sparing him an awkward moment. He shook left-handed with Frances Wilson, then they took their seats.
There were no papers on the desk except for a fresh yellow legal pad. Wilson drew it toward her and said, “So. What have you got for me?”
Addleman looked at Harper, who swallowed hard and said, “We think we have a line on the bomber who killed Congresswoman Wylie in Mexico last year.”
Addleman had advised him to lead with this. Inability to solve the Wylie case was a thorn in the Bureau’s side. And Frances Wilson was definitley interested. She looked at Harper and said, “Go on.”
So Harper did. Starting with Sothern, he laid out the three cases and everything he and Addleman knew about the bomber. At first, Wilson listened in perfect stillness, her eyes dark and glittering in a face that might have been carved out of wood. But as Harper got deeper into his presentation, she began to take notes. When he finished, she went on writing for some time. The scratching of the pen sounded loud in the quiet room.
Finally Addleman couldn’t stand it any longer. He burst out, “Frances, what do you think? You going to take the case or not?”
She put the pen down and turned to face him. “Of course we’ll check this out, Hal.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of wacky leads we’ve followed on the Wylie case. What you’ve given us here—”
“Frances, this is a lot bigger than Wylie. Weren’t you listening? I think this bomber’s got the potential to turn into the worst mass murderer we’ve ever seen.”
“Hal, I know you. And I assure you I’m taking you seriously. Now, what steps are you recommending we take?”
The two men exchanged an uneasy glance. In their own minds, they’d built this up into the climactic meeting. Either Agent Wilson would be shocked and alarmed by what they said and commit totally to the case, or she’d laugh in their faces. Now it seemed neither would happen. Instead the gray and treacherous middle path was opening before them.
Addleman leaned forward and spoke with as much emphasis as he could muster. “We think it’s imperative that the Bureau move on three fronts immediately. First, we need to go through unsolved bombing cases—not necessarily homicides. I’m talking about all bombing cases, all over the country. We’ll start, say, twenty years ago, and go up to the time of the Sothern killing. I know it’s an intimidating job, and it’s going to call for a lot of agents, but I feel sure our perp didn’t start with Sothern. He’s been honing his skills for a long time. We look hard enough and we’ll find earlier bombings, when he was making more mistakes, and that’ll give us a line on him.”
Frances Wilson was writing on her legal pad. She didn’t look up. “And your second recommendation?”
With another glance at Harper, Addleman resumed. “This is going to call for a lot of agents too, but it may be the quickest way to get a lead. We should start looking into thefts of explosives from quarries, construction sites, and military bases.”
“Especially military bases,” Harper put in. “As I said, this bomber uses more sophisticated explosives each time. He might be trying to get hold of a plastic explosive right now.”
“And your final recommendation?”
“This is the cheap and easy one,” said Addleman with a smile. “Send Harper out to Minnesota and down to Florida to examine the bombs, or what’s left of them. Send him to Mexico too, if you can work things out with the cops down there. Send one of your own lab guys with him, if you want. But he can tell a lot from looking at the actual bombs.”
“Seems to me he’s been able to tell a lot just by looking at the photos,” said Wilson. But her dry tone told Harper he wasn’t being complimented. His stomach seemed to drop as he wondered if she’d believed anything he’d told her.
“Look,” he said, “it isn’t really necessary for me to go. Just send your own expert.”
“We’ll do better than that,” said Wilson. “We’ll arrange to have the fragments brought here, for a thorough workup in our labs.”
Addleman gave a harsh, astonished laugh. “You’re going to go through channels and arrange for a formal transfer of custody? Even on the Mexican bomb? Frances, that’ll take weeks!”
She shrugged her heavily padded blue shoulders. “You’re building up an awful lot on these letters Harper saw in the photos—the ‘assembly instructions.’ I have to see for myself and have the opinion of my experts before I write my report.”
“Before you write your report!” Addleman was perched on the edge of his seat, his hands clenched into fists. “So what’s going to be happening in the meantime, with the old bombing cases and the thefts from military bases? Nothing?”
Wilson put out a level hand in a placating gesture. Her nails were cut short but beautifully manicured. “As you said yourself, both those projects are going to call for a lot of agents. The decision to assign them is going to have to go up to the Assistant Deputy Director. Maybe even higher.”
“Fine.” Addleman got to his feet. “Where’s his office? We’ll go in with you.”
Wilson leaned back in her chair and looked up at him. “Hal, the question is, am I willing to go in with you? And at this stage, I’m afraid the answer’s no.”
So there it was. Now they knew. Addleman sank into his chair and sat looking at the floor.
Harper said, “Agent Wilson.”
She turned to look at him. She had a faint smile on her face. “Mr. Harper?”
“Let’s take the next flight to St. Paul. Just you and me. You’ve got the clout to get us into the Minnesota State Police Crime Lab. I’ll show you the bomb fragments. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
“That’s what I’ve heard about you, Harper. You never let bureaucratic procedures stand between you and a bomber—or between you and a buck.”
“And what does that mean?” Addleman said, puzzled.
“My former commander, Captain Brand, started a smear campaign against me,” Harper said, “and it obviously worked on Agent Wilson.”
“You wanted to make a few bucks on the side, and a little boy got killed,” said Agent Wilson. “That’s what I hear.”
“You’ve heard a pack of lies,” Harper shot back.
“I can vouch for Harper,” Addleman said.
“That’s the only reason I even let him in the office.”
“Can we get back to the point?” Harper said to Agent Wilson. “What’s your gut reaction to what we’ve told you?”
She gave him a long look. Her dark eyes glittered. She said, “I’ve been a cop long enough to know gut reactions aren’t necessarily right.”
“You mean, you don’t know what you think till you ask your superiors. That’s it.” Addleman was smiling without humor, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. “You didn’t used to be this way, Frances. You used to hate the whole Bureau mind-set. You didn’t mind making waves.”
Wilson rose from her desk. Turning her back on them, she looked through the window at the busy traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue. “I know what’s coming,” she said. “So let’s skip it, Hal, okay?”
“No. I want Harper to know you’re not as chickenshit as you look to him right now.”
Wilson didn’t respond, didn’t even turn.
“Frances started out in a Southern field office,” Addleman began. “The guys hung a sign over her desk that said, FEMALE GORILLA. Such wit. When she complained to the SAC, he made ’em take down the sign, and they put up a new one that said FEMALE GORILLA IN HEAT. That was it for the SAC, he didn’t want to make his guys mad. He told her to ignore the harassment and eventually it would stop. It didn’t, of course. So Frances had to fight the SAC as well as the comedians. Had to take her case all the way to Washington. For months she had to work with guys who were trying to sabotage her career at every turn. Who wouldn’t have minded much if she got shot on a stakeout.
But in the end, she won. The SAC got busted down a rank, and the comedians got transferred to Idaho.”
Addleman shook his head and said with disgust, “That’s the way Frances used to be.”
Wilson spoke without turning. She wouldn’t let them see her face, but her hushed, shaken voice showed that hearing the story had moved her. “I’ve been dealing with jerks like that since I was in first grade. That kind of blatant, juvenile crap I know how to fight.”
She turned to look at Addleman, who wouldn’t meet her eye. “But it’s different at this level, Hal. You don’t have the confrontations. Nobody even says an impolite word to you. But if they don’t feel completely comfortable putting the big cases in your hands . . . well, that’s it. Nothing happens to you except your career stalls out and everybody else blows right by you.”
Addleman kept avoiding her eye, so she turned to Harper. “There’s nobody above me in this organization who’s my color and my sex. So they have a hard time feeling comfortable with me. I’m trying to make it easier for them. So I don’t go with my gut instincts. I don’t make risky moves before I test the waters. I think long and hard and take one step at a time.”
“I understand that,” said Harper evenly. “But the bomber might not give you all the time you need.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve just been telling me how he plans and prepares, takes a long time between his crimes—”
“Damn it, Frances, we don’t have a schedule for him.” Addleman’s face was bright red. Unbuttoning his collar, he yanked his tie loose. “It was years between the first bombing and the second. Months between the second and third. Maybe it’s only going to be weeks before the next one. Hell, he’s had six weeks already. He may be lining up his next target right now.”
Standing, Addleman faced her squarely. “What’s going to happen to your all-important career if he strikes again while you’re still working on your goddamn report?”
