The Color of Wounds

by Frank Martorana

  Kent handed the keys to MacKinnon. “It’s your ball game.”

  “Right. We’ll let Gus lead the way.”

  MacKinnon signaled one of the officers who brought up a black-and-tan German shepherd that would have won at the Westminster Dog Show.

  Kent glanced down at Lucinda, who was batting her eyelashes at Gus.

  “Handsome boy,” Kent said, more to Lucinda than the handler.

  “Straight out of the academy. He joined the force about three months ago.”

  “Is he different from the other bomb sniffers?”

  “Yep,” the handler said. “He works by himself.”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “Gus here adds a new level of safety to bomb locating. He’s been trained to search off lead. No handler. It’s way safer. He makes a general search for bombs or bodies. If there’s any booby traps or motion detectors, he’ll trip them.”

  Safer for whom, Kent thought. He didn’t want to think about what happened to Gus if he tripped a booby trap. Probably it was better than losing a man.

  He noticed Lucinda’s tail whipping back and forth like it would fly off. Her eyes held the giddy expression of a teenage girl swooning at a rock star.

  “I bet you’d like to run into him in a bar some night,” Kent said.

  “What?”

  “I was talking to my dog.”

  “Gus is not perfect because there are so many kinds of bombs and trip devices,” the handler said, “but if he doesn’t find anything, we have an improved margin of safety. If he does. . .”

  “You live to work another day,” Kent said, finishing his sentence.

  “Let’s get started,” MacKinnon said, and headed to the door Hoffman had indicated. He shone his flashlight around the entire casing and then examined the knob. “Looks clear.”

  Kent watched as MacKinnon took a three-foot aluminum rod and telescoped it out to a full twelve feet like a golf ball retriever. “Every little bit of distance helps,” he said. “Step back, everybody. The number one site for detonation is point of entry.”

  The group dropped back and took cover behind the vehicles. MacKinnon carefully inserted Hoffman’s key into the latch and attached his ball retriever to it. He stepped to the end of it and crouched behind a five-foot-tall, half-barrel shaped shield that a second officer handed him.

  When the door opened without mishap, Kent breathed again.

  Gus’s handler, standing next to Kent, said, “Step one.”

  Kent realized this was going to be a long night.

  MacKinnon eased his way inside a few steps and used his flashlight to locate the closet where Hoffman had said he would find the control panel. He opened it, studied the panel, then flipped a series of switches. Instantly the mansion came alive. Chandeliers came on in every room, fires began to flicker in a half-dozen fireplaces, soft music emanated from hidden speakers. Hoffman’s pride and joy.

  MacKinnon backed out of the building. “Okay, let Gus do his thing.”

  The handler brought Gus to the door. “Go to work, boy,” he said, as he unsnapped Gus’s leash and directed him in.

  The German shepherd disappeared into the mansion. Lucinda whined softly.

  Kent ran his hand over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, girl. When he gets back I’ll see if I can get you his phone number.”

  Then, to MacKinnon, he said, “Now, what?”

  “We wait.”

  Kent nodded slowly. “Why did I even ask? Got a time frame?”

  “I’d guess half an hour to an hour.”

  MacKinnon and Kent retreated to MacKinnon’s car and stared at the mansion that was now lit like a Christmas tree.

  MacKinnon lifted a brown-streaked to-go cup from a holder, stared at the remaining coffee, and put it back without taking a sip. He said, “When Gus sticks his nose back out the door, we’ll send in the dough boy.”

  Kent gave him a questioning look.

  “A guy in a bomb suit. Full armor. A man can hardly move in it. Looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “That way only one man is in the detonation zone. Step two.”

  “Who gets the short straw?”

  MacKinnon shrugged. “Usually not a problem. Somebody’s almost always having an adrenalin rush.”

  “Jesus. Adrenalin evolved as a biologic safety mechanism. It is supposed to help you get away from danger.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Cops are weird that way.”

  “Then what?”

  “Step three. A team of guys makes a very thorough sweep through with the viper. Every inch of the place, basement to that little room on top.”

  “The widow’s watch. First you go through with a dog, then a snake.”

  “It’s a plastic explosive detector.” He brought his hands up and spread them apart the diameter of the steering wheel. “It’s about this big. Weighs about four pounds. A handheld gadget. It measures particles of vapors of SEMTEX, RDX, PETN. Even good ol’ TNT and dynamite. We use it to double-check Gus. Nothing personal against him, but he checks for the stink plastic explosives make. The Viper is looking for dinitrotoluene and stuff. I mean, we’re talking bombs here. We want to be real sure.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “If we don’t find anything, about six hours I’d guess from the time Gus gives us the all clear.”

  Thirty-five minutes later, Gus slinked out of the mansion still in his super sleuth mode. He didn’t relax until his handler reattached him to his lead and praised him with a barrage of kind words and rousing petting.

  “How do you know he didn’t find his way to the first comfortable sofa, take a half-hour siesta, and come back out?” Kent asked.

  Lucinda frowned at her master.

  “We’ll soon find out,” MacKinnon said, motioning toward a six-foot-tall mass of padding that lumbered toward them one slow step at a time.

  To Kent it looked like a combination of a hockey goalie’s protection and knight’s armor. “That’s a dough boy?”

  “That’s a dough boy.”

  “I’m surprised he can move at all.”

  “He can’t move very fast, but since you can’t outrun an explosion anyway, it pays to have the armor.”

  MacKinnon took the radio from his belt, turned a knob to adjust its frequency, and spoke into it. “All good in there, Jack?”

  The dough boy’s blunt thumb went up. “Five by five, sir,” came back through the mic.

  MacKinnon gave a few instructions that the dough boy acknowledged, then they watched the mass of armor move into the mansion as if in slow motion.

  Kent drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Now we wait. Again.”

  MacKinnon slid down in his seat and closed his eyes. “Ain’t this fun?”

  “Come on, girl,” Kent said to Lucinda. “We’ll sleep in our own car.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The first fuchsia and gold rays of sun were reflecting off the east side of the Ledyard mansion when Merrill tapped on Kent’s window. He stirred and rocked his head slowly back and forth. His neck hurt, his clothes were damp, and he was cold.

  “Stage three done?” Kent asked, morning hoarseness in his voice.

  “No.”

  Kent squinted at his watch. “They should be done by now.”

  “The place is bigger than Norm figured.”

  Kent stretched and yawned. “Why’d you wake me up?”

  “Look what’s coming.”

  Kent let his gaze follow Merrill’s finger and, through eyes still fogged by sleep, he saw a white panel truck rolling slowly up the Ledyard Estate driveway. On its roof, crouched like a spider, was a hydraulic lift platform. WSRS-TV was written on the side in letters two feet tall and painted to look as though they were being buffeted by the wind. Under them, s
maller type read: The eyes and ears of Syracuse.

  “They found us,” Kent groaned. “Now the shit is going to hit the fan. I wonder how they got wind of us.”

  “Who knows,” Merrill said, as he climbed out of the car. “They always seem to find out somehow. I’ll see if I can make them happy.”

  “Fat chance.”

  “Hey. If they want to sit and watch nothing happen, let ‘em.”

  As Merrill spoke, a second and then a third TV team pulled onto the Ledyard Estate grounds.

  “Shit. Now things are going to get hopping,” Merrill said and walked away.

  Lucinda let out the whine she reserved as a signal to Kent that she needed a walk. Obediently Kent escorted her to a nearby group of trees. As he stood patiently by, he could see Merrill stringing yellow police tape across the driveway. He was fending off questions from sharp-dressed reporters who were waving microphones in his face with one hand and directing grungy cameramen with the other.

  The walk revived him a little, but the coffee Nigel Hoffman brought from the Quik Stop helped a lot more. He killed a few minutes talking to Nigel, who was visibly calmer, thanks to a handful of Valium, Kent suspected. By the time he and Lucinda climbed back into the Cherokee, the clock on the dashboard read eight-forty. What the hell were they doing in there?

  Five minutes later, MacKinnon and his crew emerged from the mansion. His face looked tired.

  “It’s clean,” he said. “We searched every inch of the place, and I mean that literally. I’m telling you, there is no bomb in that building. Period.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Kent saw Hoffman sink onto a lawn bench. “Thank God, thank God,” he mumbled.

  The news people seemed disappointed and began to break down their equipment.

  “In fifteen minutes we’ll know for sure,” Kent said and immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  The whole assembly got his drift—the TV people stopped their packing, the bomb crew stopped stowing their gear, Merrill looked up from the clipboard he was writing on, and Nigel stopped praising God. Every eye fixed on the mansion fifty yards away.

  For the next fifteen excruciating minutes, no one said a word. No one moved.

  Merrill’s police report would later say, “The explosion occurred at exactly 09:00.”

  The concussion was mammoth. It drove the air out of the observers’ lungs as if they had been punched by Muhammad Ali. The widow’s watch was launched skyward from the mansion’s roof like a missile off the pad at Cape Canaveral. Smoke and flame rose out of the hole that was left.

  Shocked witnesses ducked and scattered, covering their head as debris fell around them.

  Merrill and MacKinnon both shouted, “Holy shit!”

  Nigel Hoffman did not sustain a single physical injury but required hospitalization at Community General because of his mental state.

  CHAPTER 20

  The veins on Kent’s forehead stood out like mole tunnels on a groomed lawn.

  “This goddamn thing bomber is taking over my life,” he said, to Lucinda.

  He glared straight ahead through the Cherokee’s windshield and gripped the wheel as if strangulating it. The clock on the dash flipped to ten-thirty. He was exhausted from last night’s vigil at the Ledyard Estate, and now he was headed to one of the most important meetings of his career.

  The pinnacle achievement of his life would be to get the CVC accredited as a veterinary college. The crucial moment was at hand—the accreditation committee was right there at that moment. It’s where he needed to be, but nooooo, he was off screwing around with this bomber thing. Why don’t you just do your own job, Kent? he told himself. Let Merrill do the police work.

  He hadn’t exactly ignored the committee, but letting staff members stand in during his absence was a risky default. Egos needed to be stroked, proper first impressions made, ingratiation by the one in charge registered. He couldn’t be an absentee owner if he expected to realize his dream, the ultimate honor for the CVC.

  Merrill had tried to talk him out of it. “You don’t need the aggravation,” his brother had said. “The CVC is big enough, prestigious enough. It’s got everything you need.” But Merrill was wrong. Aggravation or not, the CVC was not complete without a veterinary college.

  Merrill had said, “Remember, before you go building a monument to yourself, there’s a nut out there blowing them up.”

  He thought of MacKinnon and his crew, right now, slogging through the mansion searching for bits of evidence, trying to find clues they had been unable to uncover when the building was intact. A chill ran down Kent’s spine as he figured what was coming next—a call from ol’ static voice. The bastard would want to gloat, but he’d be damned if he was going to sit next to the phone and wait.

  So, he had not cancelled out of the eleven o’clock meeting with the committee. He had raced home, exchanged his soot-laden clothes for a suit, and wolfed down a fried egg sandwich. He glanced at his watch as he entered the CVC—right on time. Thank God.

  Loren was half an hour late. Kent and the other members, two men and two women from various parts of the country and various disciplines of veterinary medicine, waited in the CVC conference room. They were full of coffee and about out of small talk when Loren whisked into the room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, as she flopped her briefcase onto the table. She offered no explanation.

  Kent swallowed his irritation, rose from his chair at the head of the conference table, and extended a hand. “Good morning, Dr. Summer.”

  Loren ignored his formality and embraced him with an inappropriately long hug and a kiss. Then she observed him carefully at arm’s length. “You look terrible. I mean exhausted.”

  Kent straightened his tie and smiled nervously at the others, who returned awkward looks.

  He cleared his throat. “I had a long night last night. Shall we get started?”

  “Yep,” Loren said. “Just let me get a cup of coffee.”

  The others waited while Loren fixed a cup of coffee at a side table, then flopped into a chair at the opposite end of the table from Kent. Her choice left a gap of several vacant seats between her and the others but gave her a straight-on view of Kent.

  Kent let his eyes drift over the five members of the committee. “I trust you’ve had a chance to wander and inspect the CVC on your own. Likewise, I hope you’ve received full cooperation from everyone on our staff. My instructions were that all doors were to be opened to you.”

  Several heads nodded appreciatively.

  He hesitated. “I’ve been...distracted...by some police business in town lately, and I want to extend my deepest apologies to you for not being on hand at all times myself.”

  “Those terrible bombings, you mean. We heard. How awful,” one of the committee persons said.

  “Yes. The one this morning made the news, I understand.”

  He did not want to get sidetracked into a discussion of the bomber.

  “Your brother is police chief. Right?” Loren asked.

  Kent masked his irritation. She knew full well Merrill was police chief. “Yes. That is correct.”

  “What do you know? I mean, have the police figured anything out?”

  “Not much. Only that the bomber seems to be targeting historical sites.” Before any more questions could be asked, Kent said, “I’m more interested in your findings. Where do we stand?”

  A committeeman of near-retirement age, with a thin neck and thick glasses, said, “You can be proud of your staff, Kent. They did follow your orders. They treated us royally. Overall, the inspection went very well. However, as always, we have a few concerns.”

  Kent gave a short laugh. “As long as it’s only a few, I guess I’m okay.”

  The man held up a clipboard. “We put together a list.” He turned to Loren and said, “Dr. Summer, as chai
rperson, would you prefer to take over? Or…”

  Loren shook her head and signaled with a wave for the man to continue.

  “Yes. Well, then,” the man said, holding the clipboard well away from his face in spite of his glasses. “You would need to centralize your library and enlarge it.”

  “That is not a problem.”

  “You would also need classrooms. I’m sure you’re aware of that. But we would need architectural drawings at the very least.”

  “They are in the works. State-of-the-art. Designed by architects that have a long track record with many existing veterinary colleges. There will be a floor added over the diagnostic lab and clinical pathology division. We chose that area because it ties in nicely to the auditorium and existing education center.”

  “We’d like to see a minimum of three classrooms and laboratories for each of the three underclasses and two for the seniors.”

  “We’ve planned more than that,” Kent said, nodding confidently.

  The man made a bold check mark next to a paragraph, apparently satisfied with Kent’s answers. “What about housing and food services?”

  “We own two hundred acres of farmland that adjoins us to our south. It lays nicely and percs perfectly. They’ll go there. Again, the plans are in the works.”

  “Funding?”

  “For housing and cafeteria?”

  “For all of it. We’re talking a lot of money by the time we’re done.”

  “That’s where the state comes in.”

  A woman, the youngest of the group at about thirty who had been quiet to this point, broke in. “But you’ll be private. The state won’t fund you.”

  “They can, and we hope they will,” Kent said. “We can contract with them, students for money. It’s the way U. of Penn works in Pennsylvania.”

  “Your alma mater won’t like that arrangement. Competition, I mean.”

  “That’s Cornell’s problem. But really it’s not. There is a huge demand for veterinarians. Every year there are a lot more well-qualified applicants than there are places for them. Besides, Cornell is to veterinary medicine as Harvard is to the legal profession. They will fill their seats with ease. I don’t foresee any problems for them. In fact, I envision us working together.”