Raising Cubby

by John Elder Robison

  A few years later, Alfred Nobel mixed nitroglycerin (an unstable and dangerous liquid) with diatomaceous earth (known today as kitty litter) to create dynamite, the first safe, stable high explosive. My son followed in his footsteps, as fast as he could.

  Cubby wasn’t interested in blasting, so he did not bother to make sticks of dynamite. He preferred to master a chemical process and move on to something more complicated. There was always a next reaction, and nitroglycerin was just one of many stepping-stones for him.

  By the time he turned seventeen, Cubby had taught himself how to make a wide variety of military-grade explosives, mostly by reading books from the University of Massachusetts library and studying texts he found online. Not only that, he had taught himself to use an inexpensive point-and-shoot camera to record the blasts and he’d even succeeded in photographing the fast-moving shock waves from his test explosions.

  Those things would be significant achievements for a college student working in a well-equipped lab at a university. Modern-day grad students have written master’s theses based on less. For Cubby to have achieved that and more in a home lab, with household chemicals as a starting point, was most impressive. And when you consider that he did it all as a kid with no formal education or training, it was nothing short of amazing.

  I imagine the cops didn’t know quite what to make of Cubby. His was not the voice of a bomb maker or someone who laid deadly traps. He was obviously a scientist, albeit a young one with unusual credentials. The investigators had been expecting an older person in the background, perhaps a chemistry professor with keys to a well-equipped lab. To hear that Cubby had mastered so much on his own would have been unbelievable, but for the way he told the story.

  The investigators interrupted his narrative occasionally with questions, but mostly they just listened, amazed. One subject they kept coming back to was his raw materials. Even as trained explosives investigators, I think they were shocked at the variety of chemicals he’d found on the shelves of ordinary stores. And whatever he couldn’t find in town, eBay offered in abundance. Like most people, the investigators had assumed the chemicals needed to formulate sophisticated high explosives could only be obtained from chemical supply houses—places a sixteen-year-old would not be expected to shop.

  However, all of Cubby’s so-called precursor chemicals were totally legal, unregulated compounds that are common in homes, garages, repair shops, and farms. The longer they listened, the more obvious it was that Cubby was not a criminal. The compounds he had created might well be dangerous, but Cubby had no malice in him as he made them.

  Still, for people charged with preventing bad guys from making bombs, my son’s answers were troubling. He had created state-of-the-art explosives with raw materials from Rocky’s Hardware, Stop & Shop, and Amherst Farmer’s Supply. Ingredients included liquid cleaners, powdered detergents, drain cleaners, hand warmers, and of course bleach and ammonia.

  There were still more questions.

  “Did you ever experiment with trip wires or booby traps?” they asked.

  “Of course not!” said Cubby. “I’m a scientist, not a bomb maker!” His speech was always extraordinarily precise.

  “So there aren’t any bombs in the house?”

  No, Cubby told them, slightly annoyed at such a ridiculous question. “I never had any bombs, just experimental explosive compounds.” Cubby did his chemical reactions in the lab and stored the results in test tubes or plastic containers until he was ready to test them. When they asked where he did his lab work, he explained that he had set up a lab in his mother’s basement.

  The longer they talked to Cubby, the more relaxed the agents became. In fact, they began to reassure Cubby, who was feeling pretty anxious himself. Agent Murray said this did not look like a criminal case, at least from the federal point of view.

  “You’ve got, what, a hundred grams of homemade explosive? You’d have to have more like a hundred pounds of PETN to get prosecuted by us. And we’re looking for bombs, not chemistry experiments,” he said. Trooper Perwak chimed in, saying, “You haven’t described yourself committing any serious crimes. I’m not arresting anybody right now.” Promising as that sounded, right now wasn’t never, and he was still in their clutches, so he only relaxed a little.

  After threatening him in the beginning, when he wanted to call his parents, they had turned friendly and encouraging. I guess they realized the easiest way to see his lab was with his help. Cubby was already cooperating, but his mom had no idea what was going on, and she owned the house. It was time to call her. But first, they needed to give Cubby a task.

  “Can you write us a description of what you’ve been doing?” Agent Murray asked Cubby in the friendliest of tones. My son had seen spy movies in which the fascist police have their victim write his confession, which they subsequently use to convict him. Then they have him shot. With a sinking feeling he agreed—what else could he do? He was careful not to write about anything that could be even vaguely construed as a crime. Of course, the people in the movies probably had the same notion while writing their confessions, and they got shot anyway. Cubby wondered where he would be at that time the next day.

  A few minutes later, he handed his inquisitors this summary of their conversation:

  My interest in explosives began when I was very young. I had read on many websites simple formulas for black powder and sugar rockets. I was intrigued.

  I was unable to perform experiments due to a lack of a bank account until about the end of 9th grade. Once I got my own account, I quickly ordered a few pounds of potassium nitrate (from eBay) and began experimenting. For a while I tested “candy” rockets, which are made from cast sugar/potassium nitrate. These were moderately successful. I also made sugar/nitrate smoke compositions. Gradually, my experiments grew more complex. After a while, I began experimenting with magnesium flash powder. That was a fantastic success. I made the powder by filing down campfire starters.

  Then I began researching high explosives. I studied the reactions and the properties of many common explosives before I even considered experimenting with them myself. After several months of research, I performed my first acetone peroxide reaction. The yields were not great, but I learned a fair bit. All the precursors came from the hardware store and the pharmacy (drain opener, hydrogen peroxide, and acetone). I never used the TCAP alone; I always mixed it with ammonium nitrate to increase stability. I also never stored it dry.

  After a few experiments with acetone peroxide, I decided to attempt my first nitration. I followed a common process for the production of picric acid from aspirin, battery acid, and potassium nitrate. This was by far the most interesting reaction I ever performed. I was fascinated by the color changes as it progressed. In the end, I wound up with a decent amount of picric acid.

  While he was writing, the agents sat in the next room, planning their visit to his lab. The school day was over by then, so Special Agent Murray called Little Bear. At that time, she was teaching at a high school in Dalton, a bit more than an hour’s drive from home. After introducing himself, Murray said they’d been talking to Cubby, who said he had explosives in the house.

  “We’d like to see the lab and make sure it’s safe.” He was polite, but there was no putting them off at that point. I don’t know if they could have gotten a search warrant earlier, but no judge would turn down their request now, after what Cubby told them.

  That was when Cubby called me.

  I felt like I was under siege—an attack on Cubby seemed like an attack on me. I’m sure many parents would feel the same. Turning to our service manager, I said, “I gotta go, kid emergency” and zipped out the door. Driving on instinct, I headed for home. I knew Cubby was at school with the cops, but what would they do next? Were they planning to tear up his mom’s house and mine? That sure seemed likely. If so, I’d better get home to protect my rights.

  I called Martha right away to warn her and report what had happened. Shocked and scared, she looked ou
t the windows. There were no lawmen visible. If they were outside the house, they were well hidden. If they weren’t outside, I knew they might arrive any second. When they came, would they knock politely or break down the door? We had no idea what to expect, especially from the ATF, which had recently been characterized as “jackbooted government thugs” by the executive vice president of the National Rifle Association. I could almost hear the helicopter gunships circling as I drove.

  With Cubby in the hands of the police and raiders headed for his mom’s house and maybe my own, I knew it was time to find a lawyer. Luckily, I have a number of friends in the legal community, and they were unanimous in their recommendation: David Hoose. One of my friends called him and made the introduction. He called me back immediately and left me his cell number. But there was little more to say until I got there and learned what was really going on.

  With the lawyer question settled, my thoughts returned to my house. Had Cubby left anything illegal there? Were there explosive materials on the workbench in the garage? At times like that, you realize how much you may not know about your own home and family. I also wondered what, if anything, I could say on the phone. Were they tapping my line? Years ago that would have sounded like paranoia, but thanks to the new Patriot Act, I knew it was entirely possible.

  I was glad I didn’t do drugs, raise fighting dogs, smuggle guns, or do anything else obviously criminal. But in today’s climate of fear who knows what’s legal and what’s a felony? Just two weeks before I had been accosted by a Boston policeman, who claimed it was illegal to photograph subway trains in the city of Boston. What kind of crazy talk is that? He was good enough not to arrest me, and I went home and looked up the law. To my disgust, he was right. Freedom slips away by inches, while we aren’t looking, with little things like that. Nothing had really happened yet, but already my neck muscles were tight from stress. I called Martha again and told her about the lawyer and my fears about Cubby and being raided and what might become of us.

  Worried as I was, all was quiet when I turned into my street. There was no invasion army in the cul-de-sac, and no troops visible in the woods. If they were out there, they were singularly well hidden. At that moment I was glad for winter, because the ground was snow covered and I could see that the terrain around my house was untrampled.

  Later, when I described my worries, some people dismissed them as alarmist. I felt vindicated when I talked to the investigators during the trial and they told me they had visited my house before the raid but they didn’t see anything suspicious so they didn’t approach too close. When I asked why, one cop said, “We didn’t want to leave tracks and call attention to ourselves if something was going on. We watched, but nothing happened there.”

  Opening the door, I was relieved to find an intact home. I wondered how long it would stay that way. More than that, I wondered how Cubby was doing. I dialed his number, but he didn’t answer.

  He would have called if they’d arrested him. I was sure of that. What was going on? Finally, he called back. He was still free, and alone in his car. “They’ve been asking me questions for the past two hours. Now we’re going to my mom’s,” he said. “They want to see my lab. They were impressed at what I told them,” he said. He sounded pleased with himself, which was crazy, because he was in the clutches of the police.

  “Just be careful,” I replied. “These cops are not your friends. They are asking questions to see if they can build a case against you. If they do, they’ll try and send you to prison.” I didn’t want to make him any more worried than he already was, but he had to know what was at stake.

  “I told them everything was at Mom’s house and there was nothing at your house. I think they’ll leave you alone. My mom is pretty upset, though.” Cubby sounded stressed.

  Knowing my own house was intact and that the Feds were headed for South Hadley, I decided to go to his mom’s myself. I told Cubby to say as little as he could and trusted in his judgment. He was the one on point, and it was all we had.

  It was an anxiety-filled drive. I made sure there was nothing troublesome in my car before I left, just in case. I didn’t have a gun, but I did have a very powerful flashlight. At that time, they were still legal.

  Cubby was the first to arrive, with the investigators in tow. Agent Murray had told Cubby’s mom that four plainclothes cops would conduct the search. Amazingly, he’d suggested that the tour of the lab would take only fifteen minutes.

  When she arrived, they were waiting, just as they’d promised when they called her. They had not broken into the house, and they had not brought an army. There was just one new person: Special Agent John Murray, also of the ATF. At first I thought I’d heard his name wrong, but I soon realized it was a bizarre coincidence. Of all the federal agents who could come calling, who’d have imagined the ones we got would have the same last name? It was like meeting Darryl and the other brother Darryl, from the sitcom Newhart. At the time, though, it didn’t seem funny. After asking Little Bear to sign a form allowing them to search the house, they left her in her car in the driveway while Cubby showed them his lab. And so the circus began.

  First a South Hadley police cruiser pulled into the yard. Then another, and a third. They’d gotten wind of something from the state police, and they wanted in. After all, it was their town. But Agent Murray was firm. They could guard the driveway, but they weren’t getting inside. “No sightseeing,” he told them. As they sat there, more cars and trucks from the state police began to arrive. Then the fire department appeared with their ambulance. The street in front of Little Bear’s house filled, and new arrivals lined both sides of the road. Neighbors wandered outside to see what was going on. Someone called the news, and vans full of reporters appeared.

  Inside, the cops were deciding what to do. Cubby had walked them through the house and shown them to his lab. He pointed out every jar and tray and beaker, and what each one contained. Knowledgeable and cooperative as he was, the list was long. Some of Cubby’s chemicals were packed in commercial containers; others were in glass or plastic containers, labeled in Cubby’s handwriting. A few weren’t labeled, but he knew what they were.

  The vast majority of Cubby’s chemicals weren’t explosive or even dangerous. The explosives he’d made were in very small quantities, and stored separately from all the other chemicals. There were no bombs, detonators, or anything else scary.

  Now the investigators’ job was to verify what Cubby had told them, and to carry off and dispose of any explosives. It was taking some doing for the cops to decide exactly how to go about that task. The bomb techs were accustomed to simpler scenes, where there was a box of dynamite, or a grenade, or even a cache of weapons. Cubby’s lab, with a hundred different chemicals in bags, jars, and bottles, was unlike anything they’d ever seen. Frankly, the array of compounds he had was way beyond their range of expertise. They were trained to recognize weapons, but there were no weapons to be found, just chemicals, and they weren’t chemists or engineers.

  If they insisted on testing everything, cataloging individual samples, and removing the contents of the lab bit by bit, we knew it would become a very long job. However, that’s what they chose to do. The bottle may have said Drain Cleaner, but they tested it just to be sure. Lots of guys made good overtime that weekend.

  As they would soon discover, every chemical my son had bought for his lab was legal and unregulated. Nothing was spilled and nothing was leaking. There was no cocaine hidden in the sugar. Despite that, the state police called for more bomb techs and what they described as a “Tier One hazmat response.” That meant another squad of technicians had to be summoned, with bags of Speedi Dri (an absorbent cleanup product), and many more forms to be filled out. It was shaping up to be a long night.

  Cubby’s mom lives in a 1950s-era subdivision, one of a hundred Cape-style houses on orderly landscaped lots. Her neighbors are a solid conservative bunch, and the neighborhood is generally quiet and peaceful. Not that night. When I pulled in, the Sout
h Hadley cops had the street blocked off, and flashing emergency lights were everywhere. It was a Friday night, and there was more action on that street than anywhere else in western Massachusetts. Maybe all of New England.

  What are all these people doing here? I was shocked at the scene I encountered when I drove up. Cubby had said he was heading to his mom’s house with a few plainclothes cops following. What went wrong? For a moment I feared Cubby had something really bad in his mom’s basement—something I knew nothing about. Suddenly scared, I talked my way past the barrier and drove down a street clogged with people, police cars, fire trucks, ambulances, and finally Cubby’s little Subaru. I saw my son, standing with his mom in the yard, and felt a huge wave of relief. If he had anything awful in there, he would not have been walking around loose. I parked and got out of my car.

  There were uniformed people everywhere. Some were cops, some were firemen, and others were not so easily identified. They flowed in and around the house and gathered in clumps in the street. Two cars had spotlights trained on the side door, which stood open to the night air. The whole thing was like a scene from a horror movie, where they light up the doorway and some slime-dripping monster walks out. But these weren’t monsters. They were the ATF.

  After a moment, Agent Murray and Trooper Perwak walked over and introduced themselves. They’d been talking to my son for a few hours, but this was the first time I’d seen either of them. To my surprise, they did not seem monstrous at all. Perwak impressed me as a solid plainclothes trooper, the kind of fellow who might visit my company, seeking help in an investigation. I wasn’t too worried about him. It was the Feds who scared me. I turned to Murray, shook his hand, looked him up and down, and my first sense was of … relief. He struck me as a reasonable, intelligent, and articulate guy. Both of them were polite, respectful, and professional. There were no guns in sight.