Misgivings

by Donn Cortez

  “Has an officer been by to take his statement yet?” Horatio asked.

  The nurse shook her head. “No. He got a phone call from his family, but no one’s come by.”

  “Thank you. I’ll try not to take too long.”

  Horatio walked down the hall to the room that held Talwinder Jhohal, the clerk who had been attacked in the convenience store. Jhohal was lying propped up in bed, a large white bandage covering his nose. Both his eyes were blackened, and dark purple bruises were visible on the brown skin of his throat.

  “Are—are you the police?” he croaked in a rough-edged whisper.

  Horatio produced his badge. “Lieutenant Horatio Caine, Mister Jhohal. I was wondering if you could tell me about last night.”

  Jhohal blinked, then shook his head. “I wish that I could. I can’t remember anything about it.”

  “Really? Well, I understand you put up quite a struggle. Thanks to you, we have a suspect in custody. All we need to do is have you identify him—”

  “No,” Jhohal said curtly. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. Not a thing. I was working, and then I woke up here.”

  He glared at Horatio. Horatio met his eyes calmly, then dropped his gaze. He didn’t want to antagonize his only witness.

  “All right, Mister Jhohal. Partial amnesia isn’t uncommon in these circumstances; hopefully, a little bed rest will restore your memory. But I should caution you—sometimes, once a witness starts to remember, they start thinking about taking matters into their own hands. That’s never a good idea.”

  The look Jhohal gave him was more incredulous than offended. “You think I—? No. No, Lieutenant Caine. Believe me, the last thing on my mind is revenge. I will—I would—fight to defend what is mine, but that is all. I am not a warrior, and I do not wish to be one.”

  And beneath Jhohal’s bitter tone Horatio heard something else, something that radically altered his line of reasoning.

  Talwinder Jhohal wasn’t angry.

  He was terrified.

  “Mister Jhohal, I can understand your reluctance—but as I said, we have the man who assaulted you in custody. And I can assure you, if you identify him he will stay there.”

  “I know you are only doing your job,” Jhohal said, “and for that I do not fault you. But this”— he reached up to touch his bandaged nose—“will not kill me. It is not important. I must concentrate on the things that are—my life, my job, my family. You understand?” It came out almost as a plea.

  “Not yet,” Horatio said. “But I will . . .”

  Delko showed up in the autopsy room wearing a pair of bright orange coveralls. Alexx frowned and said, “Excuse me? What are you wearing?”

  Delko gave her an embarrassed grin. “Sorry. I was down in the garage looking at a boat I pulled out of the swamp—it’s pretty mucky. When I got your call, I came straight up, didn’t bother to change.”

  “Well, you can bother now. Show some respect—this isn’t an auto shop.”

  “Okay, okay.” He shucked out of the coveralls; his street clothes were underneath.

  “If we’re done with the fashion show?” Alexx said.

  Delko slipped on a fresh pair of gloves. “All set.”

  Alexx pulled back the sheet that covered the body on the autopsy table—what there was of it. One leg ended at midthigh, the other just below the shin. The arms were both truncated at the same spot, halfway down the forearm. There was no head, no neck, and the flesh on the shoulders was charred and torn.

  “Our John Doe is probably Hispanic, approximate age midforties. No visible tattoos or significant scars. COD was the explosion that removed the head; the extremities were all altered postmortem. The legs by animal predation, the hands by a chemical agent—an acid or corrosive of some kind. I’ve sent a sample to Trace.”

  “How about fragments of the bomb?”

  “There were a few bits of plastic and metal embedded in the tissue of the trapezius; I collected them for you.” She picked up a small plastic bag from the tray next to her and handed it over.

  “Not much shrapnel.” Homemade bombs frequently used nails or other bits of metal to increase the amount of damage they did.

  “Didn’t need it, I guess. Getting your head blown off by a bomb in the middle of a swamp— what a way to die.”

  “At least it was quick. Time of death?”

  “Recent; a few days, maybe less. You want something more accurate, talk to an entomologist—I don’t do bugs.”

  “Tox screen?”

  “Not back yet. I didn’t find any evidence of chronic disease or drug use—he was perfectly healthy as far as I can tell. Stomach contents were too degraded to identify visually, but I’m having them analyzed.”

  “All right. The bomb fragments should tell me what kind of explosive was used.” Delko shook his head. “Won’t tell me why, of course. Though it’s starting to take on a certain South American flavor.”

  “You think it’s drug-related?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Colombian guerrillas have been known to use necklace bombs; someone in the cocaine trade could have borrowed the technique. It’s the kind of thing drug lords like to use to send a message.”

  “But Eric, he was found in the middle of nowhere. We still don’t know who he is. Who’s supposed to get this message—the alligators?”

  “I don’t know, Alexx. But somebody, somewhere, has to be looking for this guy.”

  Alexx covered the body up again. “Yes,” she said quietly. “But they’re not going to have much of a Christmas when they find him.”

  Horatio punched in the number of the county prosecutor’s office by memory, then asked for the proper extension.

  “Hello?”

  “Alison? Hi, it’s Horatio Caine.” Alison Schoenhauer was a prosecuting attorney who Horatio had worked with before. She was good at her job, possessed boundless energy and was bluntly honest. Horatio stared down at the report in his hands, then tossed it onto his desk. “You’re handling the Pathan case, aren’t you?”

  “Uh, haven’t had a chance to look at the file, yet. Just a sec.”

  Horatio waited while she rummaged around.

  “Okay, I got it . . . sorry, it’s been kind of crazy around here. I’m going to the Bahamas for Christmas and I’m trying to get my workload organized before I leave. Anyway, what’s up? Looks like a slam dunk to me.”

  “Well, something’s come up. The perp’s claiming he didn’t do it—that he was knocked out from behind by the real assailant, who then planted incriminating evidence at the scene.”

  Alison chuckled. “Sure. The file says the security camera caught the whole thing—wait. Tell me you still have the footage.”

  Horatio pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “We have the footage, but the face of the assailant is hidden by a scarf—”

  “Which you also have, right?”

  “Yes—”

  “And, being a scarf, it’s picked up all kinds of things, right? Hairs, fibers, bits of leftover breakfast? Maybe even some of his DNA?”

  “He claims the scarf was planted on him while he was unconscious.”

  “So? He can claim any dumb-ass thing he wants in court—I’m sure the judge has heard every screwball story there is. C’mon, Horatio, I’ve got things to do.”

  So he told her about the fingerprint, Pathan’s reluctance and sudden reversal of attitude.

  There was a long pause while she considered it, then a loud expulsion of breath. “Hoo, boy. So what happened?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Horatio said. “But I was at the scene myself, and I can tell you one thing for sure: no mistakes were made in gathering or processing the evidence.”

  “That’s a shame. Because losing that fingerprint, in light of all the other evidence, is not exactly the worst thing that could happen.”

  “I won’t tamper with evidence, Alison.”

  “Of course not. But if our friend Pathan is pulling a fast one, then he cer
tainly understands the significance of that fingerprint and won’t hesitate to use it in court. And if you can’t prove it was faked, we don’t have a case. Actually, it’s worse than that—the fingerprint proves Pathan’s innocent. Which, despite the unlikelihood of his story, I have to consider.”

  “He’s not,” Horatio said. “I talked to the man he assaulted, but apparently not soon enough; the victim refused to give a statement, claimed he couldn’t remember anything. Somebody got to him first, Alison—he was scared out of his wits.”

  “So even our vic won’t come forward? Horatio, I can’t put this in front of a judge. He’ll kick it so fast the guy’ll bounce all the way to civil court. Then we’re talking lawsuit for false arrest, and that’s not going to do either of our careers any good.”

  “I know, I know. But his story is thin, we still have the security footage, there may even be blood on the scarf—”

  “Not good enough, Horatio. If the clerk won’t ID him, then the fingerprint is more than enough to create reasonable doubt. Let him go.”

  Horatio paused.

  “You still there?” Alison asked.

  “Yeah,” Horatio said quietly. “Have a good time on vacation.”

  He hung up.

  * * *

  In the basement garage of the crime lab, Delko went over the aluminum skiff carefully. The seat of the blast was in the stern, and the direction the metal had buckled in clearly showed that the bomb had been inside the boat when it detonated.

  He scraped samples from the charred edges of the hole. It would probably match the explosive used on the vic, but it was always best to be sure. As with the first bomb, there was little evidence of shrapnel damage.

  The sophistication of the device would tell Delko a lot about the person who’d made it. One of the simplest bombs to make was a pipe bomb, which you could build by pouring the black powder from a few shotgun shells into a pipe, closing off the ends, and adding a fuse. When the powder ignited, it quickly produced a large volume of gas, which was compressed inside the pipe. But only for an instant—once the walls of the pipe gave way, the compressed gas expanded, generating a shock wave that moved at close to seven thousand miles an hour. A black-powder bomb was classed as a low explosive; while it was sensitive to heat and friction, making it somewhat dangerous to transport or store, it didn’t require a primer and almost anyone could make one.

  High explosives—such as TNT, PETN, or RDX— could generate a shock wave that moved at nearly seven thousand meters per second. They were harder to obtain and required a primer to detonate, but were more stable to handle. He didn’t think he was dealing with that kind of firepower, though; the damage just wasn’t extensive enough.

  Chemical analysis would tell him, one way or the other. He was more interested in the activation device, what actually set the bomb off. Almost all bombers came up with their own unique variation, which they tended to use over and over; this was known as their signature.

  Unfortunately, between the swamp and the explosion, little of the activator had survived the blast that had sunk the boat. He would have to concentrate on the fragments that Alexx had retrieved from the DB.

  First, though, he did his best to find any kind of identifying marks on the boat. An aluminum boat had to have been manufactured; therefore, there should be the equivalent of a serial number somewhere on it.

  He found it stamped into the port gunwale, near the oarlock. There was no manufacturer’s name, though, just a number.

  Looks like I’m hitting the nautical databases. At least it’s something . . .

  When Abdus Sattar Pathan walked out the front doors of the Miami-Dade Pre-Trial Detention Center, Horatio was waiting for him.

  “Mister Pathan,” Horatio said coolly.

  “Lieutenant Caine.” Pathan had his coat draped over one arm. “Are you here to offer an apology?”

  Horatio’s smile barely justified the word. “I don’t think so. I just came by to tell you this isn’t over.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Whoever attacked me—and that poor shopkeeper—certainly must be brought to justice.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. At the moment, he’s no doubt congratulating himself on how clever he is— but that won’t last.”

  “No?”

  “No. You see, I’ve dealt with his kind before. He’s thinking he’s gotten away with it. The witness isn’t talking, the evidence won’t stand up in court—besides, it’s not like anyone was killed, right? All he has to do is keep his head down, and all this will blow over.”

  “I hate to contradict you, Lieutenant—but that sounds like a fairly accurate assessment to me.”

  “It’s not.” Horatio pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket, unfolded one arm of them, then the other. He paused, holding the shades in both hands, turning them over as if they were a rare artifact he was studying. “You see, I’m not satisfied. A man wound up in the hospital, through no fault of his own, and the criminal that put him there is now walking the streets. That kind of arrogance and contempt for human life is not something I take lightly.”

  Horatio looked up and met Pathan’s eyes. Pathan stared back steadily, his expression unreadable.

  “I applaud your commitment, Lieutenant. I’m sure you will need it for an opponent as devious as this . . . criminal . . . seems to be.”

  “He’s not an opponent, Mister Pathan. He’s just another felon who thinks he can beat the system. They’ve got a word for people like him in Vegas.”

  “Which is?”

  “A loser, Mister Pathan.” Horatio slipped on his sunglasses. “A loser.”

  Horatio turned and walked away. He’d only taken three steps when Pathan called after him. “Lieutenant Caine!”

  Horatio turned halfway, glanced over his shoulder.

  “I’m not unfamiliar with Vegas myself; I’ve played there many a time. I don’t gamble, of course.”

  Horatio waited.

  “I’m sure you’ll want to keep me updated on your progress.” Pathan unfolded his coat and slipped it over his shoulders. “You have my address, but my personal cell number is on my business card.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Just in case. Right-hand pocket,” Pathan said briskly, then strode down the steps and away.

  Horatio stared after him for a moment, then reached into the right-hand pocket of his suit jacket.

  The card he pulled out was black, the printing in silver.

  “‘The Brilliant Batin,’” he read out loud. “ ‘Amazing feats of skill and prestidigitation. Cruise ships a specialty . . .’”

  He glanced up sharply.

  Pathan was gone.

  The rowboat turned out to be manufactured by a small company named Effundo Enterprises. Delko traced the serial number to the boatyard that had sold it, over twenty years ago, to a man named Christopher Silverbeck. Silverbeck had died two months ago, and his estate had sold the boat through the marina where Silverbeck had a live-aboard. When Delko tried calling the marina, all he got was voice mail. He wasn’t surprised; over the holidays, some businesses ran on a skeleton staff, while others were so overworked they didn’t have time to answer the phone. A marina, he supposed, could be either—residents and employees might be visiting relatives, leaving the place deserted, or it could be crammed with tourists looking for a tropical Christmas vacation.

  “Uh—hello?” The speaker was a young man with short brown hair, standing in the doorway. He wore a lab tech’s white coat with L. FRANKEL stitched on the breast and had large, worried-looking eyes.

  Delko was examining a fragment of the bomb under a microscope. He looked up and said, “Yeah? What can I do for you?”

  Frankel stepped inside and held out a file folder. “Trace told me to bring these to you. Results on that explosive you wanted analyzed?”

  “Thanks.” Delko took the folder and flipped it open. “Hm. That’s what I thought.”

  “Pipe bomb, right?”

  Delko gave the tech a fr
iendly nod and smile. Frankel was new, and a little overeager, but he seemed like an all right guy. “Yeah, straight black powder. The kind of thing kids make out of firecrackers or ammo they stole from their dad’s closet.”

  “Yes. Munitions are very interesting,” Frankel said, his head bobbing nervously. “When Alfred Nobel created dynamite in 1866, he used twelve percent nitroglycyerin and seventy-eight percent sodium nitrate, which of course is nothing like today’s dynamite, or more properly, gelignite, so-called because it’s a gel composed of ammonium nitrate mixed with guar gum, or a hydrocarbon base with added resin, glass, or ceramic micro-spheres. It can give you a headache. If you absorb it through your skin.”

  After this outburst, Frankel suddenly went quiet. He blinked at Delko with large, watery eyes, reminding him of a dog convinced he’s done something wrong, but not sure what.

  “Uh, yeah,” Delko said, his smile even wider. “You know a lot about explosives?”

  “I do. I was directing a great deal of my energy toward a career on the bomb squad, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really. What changed your mind?”

  “Oh, I just lost interest. I didn’t find it challenging enough.”

  “Right . . . well, there’s more than enough challenges around here. Welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you. Good-bye.” Frankel spun around and left.

  Makes Wolfe seem normal, Delko thought.

  He went back to studying the fragments of the bomb. Either the timer hadn’t survived or there hadn’t been one; he had some metal shards that looked as if they came from the pipe, a shred of duct tape, a tiny piece of plastic with no discernible purpose.

  Pretty low-tech. Whoever made this, they probably didn’t have a lot of experience in blowing things up.

  The next thing he took a look at was the chemical residue from John Doe’s arms. He ran it through the mass spectrometer, which identified it as a mix of hypochloric acid and sodium hydroxide, with trace amounts of cellulose.

  “Lye and a sodium salt,” he murmured. “Household drain cleaner, in other words.” Again, easy to get—but highly effective. Lye was strong enough to eat through a metal can in a few hours and could easily corrode a corpse’s hands away. With all the plant matter in a swamp, trace amounts of cellulose were to be expected.