by Kelly, Diane
“Did you hear that?” he’d asked his parents, who sat at their kitchen table drinking their morning coffee in their plush designer bathrobes. “I think something blew up!”
His father didn’t bother to lower the newspaper he was reading or to respond. The child might bear his name but wasn’t his responsibility. Child rearing was his wife’s job. After all, he worked fifty hours a week helping the movers and shakers of Fort Worth strategically plan their estates so as to keep as much of their amassed wealth as possible within their families and pay as little as possible to Uncle Sam. He couldn’t be expected to pander to a pesky child, too, could he?
The Rattler’s mother merely glanced his way and said, “I didn’t hear anything,” before returning her attention to a decorating show on one of their home’s seven televisions. “Look at those floors, hon,” she’d said to his dad. “Maybe we should redo ours.”
Nonetheless, today the Rattler climbed off the chaise, strolled past the pool, and entered the door his mother had left open. “Let’s check the TV. Maybe they’ll have some news.”
SIXTY-FOUR
THE TUNABOMBER STRIKES AGAIN
Megan
Seth drove so fast back to Fort Worth I wouldn’t have been surprised to see actual flames shooting down the sides of his car.
He screeched to a stop in front of a small house a few blocks east of I-35 in the Morningside neighborhood. The house was an unattractive patchwork of building materials, with gray wood siding on the main part of the house and chipped orange brick walling in the converted one-car garage. Rusty air-conditioning units took up the bottom panes of the three windows spanning the front of the house. The roof had been patched in several places with mismatched shingles. An overgrown live oak tree in the front yard robbed the ground of sunlight, making it impossible for grass to grow and leaving the yard little more than bare dirt and a persistent weed or two poking up here and there. But I supposed such qualities were characteristic of a bachelor pad. And who was I to judge given the crap hole I lived in?
“Stay in the car,” Seth ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
I remained in the Nova as he sprinted to the porch and pulled open the screen door. He unlocked the regular door and disappeared inside. He reappeared a half minute later with a duffel bag over his shoulder and Blast’s leash in his hand. I opened my door to let Blast into the car while Seth stashed his bag in the trunk.
Kicking up dust, he tore away from the curb and headed west to Colonial Country Club.
As we approached, an ambulance pulled out of Colonial Parkway, its lights flashing and siren screaming. It turned and headed past us, carrying injured to the emergency room. Seth’s grip tightened on his steering wheel. Like me, he must have been wondering who had been injured and how badly, what horrors we would find when we arrived at the country club.
My stomach felt sick, my head airy. A part of me wanted to beg Seth to pull over and let me out of the car. After all, I hadn’t been summoned to the scene. But I knew I had to go with him. We’d have to face—and fight—this thing together.
We turned onto the parkway and sped to the clubhouse driveway. A number of fire engines were on the scene, as well as three ambulances and a half-dozen police cruisers. EMTs performed triage on a dozen bloody people who’d been injured to various degrees.
When I saw the carnage, a sick sensation overwhelmed me and a coppery taste flooded my mouth. I fought down a rising gorge.
Clusters of country club employees and patrons gathered on the other side of the street. Many of the women were crying, their husbands or coworkers doing their best to comfort them. Not an easy task when the men barely had a grip on their emotions.
Just beyond the groups of dazed, stunned people, an old green minivan sat at the curb. The van was empty.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Honeysuckle!”
Seth and I leaped from the car and ran to the makeshift command center in the club’s circular drive. Two paramedics hurriedly wheeled an unconscious man in torn, blood-drenched golf clothes toward one of the waiting ambulances. Another man with blood spatter on his golf shirt followed them. His eyes were glazed and expressionless with shock.
My head turned in every direction as I frantically searched for the sweet old woman who’d only days ago sold me a refurbished bookcase and patio set. But there was no sign of Honeysuckle. Trish LeGrande and her cameraman had arrived, though, and were preparing to make a live report. The woman gazed into a mirrored compact, checking her lipstick and fluffing her butterscotch hair as if about to report on a high school homecoming parade rather than an act of senseless violence.
While Seth and Blast gathered with their team, I ran over to Derek Mackey and the chief, who were huddled in the shade speaking with Officer Spalding and Detective Jackson.
I forced my way into the circle, frantic. “What happened?”
The chief and Mackey replied only with frowns, but the detective was more informative.
“Five bombs,” she said quietly, “timed to go off a minute apart.”
Five bombs? I’d seen the damage a single bomb could do. Five could cause widespread devastation and horrific injuries.
Or worse.…
Had everyone been accounted for? Could there be more bodies in the clubhouse or out on the course? When I asked the detective she simply said, “The search and rescue is still in progress.”
My hand lifted of its own accord, indicating the way the ambulance had gone. “I saw an ambulance.…”
Jackson drew a deep breath as if to steel herself. “There was a woman near the Dumpsters gathering up some wedding decorations that had been thrown out. She took a direct hit. We haven’t been able to identify her yet.”
Hot tears blurred my vision, turning Jackson, the chief, and Mackey into a wavering mass of undifferentiated colors. “I think I know who she is.”
As I told the detective about Honeysuckle, Seth and Blast strode quickly past. Seth had changed into his bomb suit. The two were at work now, Blast’s nose to the ground as he sniffed for any explosives that had not yet detonated.
I watched them go, wondering if it might be the last time I’d see them alive.
* * *
Hours later, dusk had set in, the bomb squad and their dogs returned to the clubhouse, and the country club was declared free of explosives.
Seth said little as he settled Blast in the back of his Nova and stripped out of his gear.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine.”
The flat tone in his voice and the fact that he didn’t look at me told me he was anything but. I felt the urge to wrap my arms around him yet wasn’t sure how he’d take it. Despite the kisses we’d shared last night, we barely knew each other, really.
Detective Jackson stepped out of the clubhouse.
“I’ll be back,” I told Seth. I rushed over to the detective, eager to hear what evidence had been uncovered.
“The crime scene techs found a golf glove washed up on the banks of the river. It may or may not have anything to do with the bombs. Unfortunately, they weren’t able to get any good fingerprints from it. There doesn’t appear to have been any fishhooks or corkscrews or utensils in this bomb. It was mostly nails and screws with a bunch of razor blades and some of those Chinese throwing stars. Get this: One of them was shaped like a butterfly.”
Unbelievable. Who would even think to make such a thing? “What about horseshoe nails?”
“Too soon to tell. The techs are still gathering the evidence. We’re going to have some lights brought in, but it will probably be sometime tomorrow before we’ll have everything collected.”
“Is there any video footage?”
She shook her head. “There are no cameras on the golf course and only interior cameras at the clubhouse.”
“Any suspects?” I asked.
“The club’s manager told me he’d recently fired a groundskeeper who’d been caught smoking dope while mowing the thirteenth hole. He�
�d been belligerent and had to be escorted off the grounds by the club’s security team. Evidently he’d vowed revenge.”
While Jackson hadn’t come right out and said so, I surmised she thought it was possible that the bomber at the country club might have been a copycat rather than the same person who’d planted the bomb at the mall. If so, we were dealing with two bombers rather than just one. The thought made my worries double.
Seth drove me back to my apartment in silence. I fought back tears the entire way, wiping away the occasional drop that broke free to roll down my cheek. Though he walked me to my door, he made no move to kiss me tonight. He merely reached out, gave my hand a squeeze without looking at me, and left.
I went inside to find my favorite boots chewed to pieces. Brigit lay on the futon, her head down and her ears back as if ready to be chastised. It was her lucky night. I didn’t have the strength to be angry with her. I was too upset about Honeysuckle, about the golfers, about the fact that such pure evil could exist in this world and that the rest of us seemed powerless to stop it.
I no longer fought the tears. I let them flow free.
* * *
I was assigned to work the swing shift for the next few days, which left me open Monday morning to visit Honeysuckle in John Peter Smith Hospital. She lay in intensive care, looking even tinier than usual in the long bed. I carried a vase of yellow roses interspersed with baby’s breath over to the table next to her bed.
A bandage was wrapped at an angle around her head, completely covering her left eye. Her left arm was bandaged from her shoulder to what remained of her fingertips.
Honeysuckle looked up at me with her one remaining eye. “Hi, Officer Luz.”
My lip quivered so badly I couldn’t speak. Honeysuckle reached out with her right hand and gave my upper arm an affectionate squeeze. I felt horrible. I’d come to offer her support and consolation and instead she was the one comforting me.
“Don’t you worry,” she said. “I’m going to be just fine. I’m a survivor.”
I admired her fight. She’d need it over the next few weeks as she adjusted to the changes her injuries would force upon her.
She reached for the cord and pushed the button to raise the top half of the bed. Upright now, she asked, “What do you know about the others who were injured?”
I gave her an update. The golfer I’d seen being loaded into the ambulance yesterday was in intensive care, too, with severe injuries to his chest and abdomen. He’d lost untold amounts of blood before anyone had been able to get to him. It was uncertain whether he’d survive. Three others were still in the hospital with serious injuries but were expected to eventually make full recoveries. The others who’d been injured had been treated and released.
Honeysuckle blinked her eye, which had grown misty. “Do you know who did this? Has he been caught?”
I shook my head. “No, Honeysuckle. We haven’t figured out who did this. Not yet.”
“You’ll get him, Officer Luz,” she said, raising an encouraging fist. “I just know you will.”
How I wished I could share her confidence.
* * *
Brigit and I arrived at the W1 station at 5:00 to begin our shift. Whipping out my baton, I gave the rubber testicles hanging from Mackey’s truck a swift whack as my partner and I headed to our cruiser.
I loaded Brigit into the patrol car, climbed in, and eased out of the space, circling around by the station’s main doors. Mackey walked out of the building, spotted me heading his way, and stepped right in front of my cruiser. I had to slam on the brakes to keep from running him over.
Screeech!
My seat belt yanked me back, but Brigit wasn’t so lucky. She slid forward, smacking into the metal barrier. Good thing I hadn’t been going very fast or she might have been hurt.
The Big Dick stood at my front bumper, glaring at me.
I mashed down on the horn. Hoooonk! The Big Dick made no effort to move.
I unrolled my window. “What’s your problem?”
He stepped around to the side of my car. “You are, Luz-er. You keep butting in where you don’t belong.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The bombing investigation. It’s none of your business.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re cops. It’s all of our business.”
“You know what I mean.”
Why the hell did he care what I was doing?
Wait.…
Did the Big Dick want to be a detective, too? He did, didn’t he? That’s why he kept acting so pissy about Detective Jackson taking me under her wing.
Now that I’d surmised this tidbit of information, the only question was, what should I do with it?
Why, I think I’ll torture him with it, that’s what.
I stepped out of my cruiser and got in his face. He didn’t back up, and he didn’t blink.
“I’m going to figure out who the bomber is,” I snapped. “And I’m going to bring him in.”
False bravado, sure. The chances of me being the one to solve the case and apprehend the bomber were about as good as my chances of winning the lottery. And I never played the lottery. Still, mere mathematical improbability would not prevent me from lying through my teeth to get under Derek’s skin.
“You’re full of shit,” he snapped back. “There’s no way you’ll be the one to catch the guy.”
“Wanna bet?”
He chuffed. “Sure. If someone else nabs the bomber, you owe me a steak dinner.”
“Okay. And if I snag the bomber, you give me your balls.”
His nose scrunched. “The fuck you say?”
I whipped out my baton—snap!—and pointed it at the rubber testicles hanging from his truck across the lot. “Your balls.”
At her back window now, Brigit backed me up with a bark: Rrruf!
Derek chuckled. “All right, bitches. It’s on!”
Mackey moved aside, I climbed back into my cruiser, and Brigit and I headed out on our beat.
* * *
I didn’t like working the swing shift. While there were fewer people about and thus less to do, the crimes that were committed in the dark, wee hours tended to be more senseless and disturbing. Bar fights. Sexual assaults. Armed robberies. Also, there were far more drunks on the road. As I’d learned in the police academy, one out of every seven drivers on the road after midnight was legally drunk. Knowing I’d be driving about in such company didn’t exactly give me the warm fuzzies.
Detective Jackson called me in the early evening to inform me that a horseshoe nail had been found among the various projectiles in the golf course bombs. That pretty much ruled out the possibility of a copycat. What were the chances that two separate bombers would include a horseshoe nail in their devices?
But what did it mean? If the Lipscombs hadn’t been the bombers, what was the connection between a horseshoe and the bomber? Was the bomber someone who rode horses? Bred them? Raced or bet on them at the nearby Lone Star Park in Grand Prairie? Could the bomber have been someone associated with the paint horse show at the Will Rogers Equestrian Center, maybe even the very farrier I’d spoken with? Or was the nail a mere ruse? The possibilities seemed innumerable.
At eleven o’clock, after handling a couple of minor traffic issues and responding to yet another false house alarm, I stopped at a gas station to refill my travel mug with coffee. Adjusting to a new shift was never easy, especially the first night or two. Though I’d taken a nap earlier in the day, I hadn’t been able to stay asleep for more than an hour, even with encouragement from two fingers of Baileys Irish Cream. On the bright side, at least nothing creepy had happened so far tonight.
I drove past Colonial Country Club, noting a car from a private security company parked in the front drive. Looked like they’d hired additional outside help.
As I weaved my way slowly up and down the streets, I spotted a pink Cadillac in the drive at one of the houses. While a late-model Cadillac was not unusual for the upsc
ale neighborhood, an older pink one was an anomaly. Could that be Randy’s car? The one I’d seen him drive to the mall?
Curious, I pulled to the curb and ran the plate on my laptop. Sure enough, the car was registered to a Timothy Randall Dunham III. The “William” was missing, but there probably wasn’t a space on the registration form for a second middle name. Of course most people only had one middle name, so few Texans other than Randy and the former president George Herbert Walker Bush were likely affected.
I ran the property data next, learning that the house was owned by Timothy Randall William Dunham Jr. and his wife, Elise. Randy’s parents, evidently. If Randy had grown up in this neighborhood, that would explain why he had such nice teeth. Surely his parents had sent him to an orthodontist. But it didn’t explain why he was working such a menial job. You’d think a kid from a place like this would have had all the advantages to establish himself in a professional career. Given that he’d attended SMU for two years, it appeared that he’d started out on the typical path. But I supposed it wasn’t surprising that it hadn’t worked out. Randy definitely marched to the beat of his own drum. I might not understand all of his choices, but I respected him for being himself. Not everyone had the guts to do that.
I wondered whether Randy had been home when the bombs went off. Living this close to the club, he surely would have heard the explosions here.
My curiosity about the car now quenched, I left the country club area and cruised south through TCU and University Place, working my way west to the Ryan Place and Fairmount neighborhoods.
