by Moore, TJ
“Mr. Hansen!” Vince barked.
“We don’t have time for this.” Amy backed away and turned, running for the door with her right leg extended. The first kick was unsuccessful, and Vince made sure she knew it.
“Working those quads, I see.”
“Shut up!” She reset her stance and tried again, but the door was stronger than she thought.
Vince couldn’t help it. “I can call the S.W.A.T. unit if you want.”
“Not a chance.” Amy reset her stance one more time, bracing herself on the ledge of the mobile home porch. “It’s one slime-ball, Vince. We can take him.” She ran and waited a split-second longer before extending her leg into the door, and in one swift motion, the door swung into the house and smacked the living room wall, shattering a nearby mirror.
Derek Hansen sat on the couch, smoking a joint.
He was eating potato chips and listening to 80s rock music. Derek calmly placed another chip into his mouth and chewed, eyeing the two detectives with glassy eyes. He then spoke slowly, jutting his bottom row of teeth forward as he formed the words. “You guys know I’m in New York City right now. You can’t arrest me.”
Amy took a step towards the couch, reaching for her handcuffs. But just as her thumb touched the cold metal of the cuffs, Derek Hansen bolted from the couch and ran into the kitchen, brandishing a butcher knife from the cupboard.
Vince drew his gun, sliding from the front entry to take cover behind the couch. “Hansen, you don’t want to do this.”
Derek clumsily twirled the knife, dropping it just inches from his left foot. Then he rummaged through his kitchen cupboards, searching for another possible weapon.
Signaling Vince, Amy also drew her gun and moved up closer to Derek, taking cover behind the fridge. Vince then moved closer, nearing the kitchen table forming a two-person barrier, blocking Hansen from running out the front door. Hansen was still furiously opening and closing drawers. When he saw Vince’s new position, he jumped back and ran for the set of glass doors near the back of the kitchen, leading to the backyard porch.
With great speed, he ran and slipped on the kitchen floor, falling headfirst into the glass door, shattering it with his skull. The piercing shards of glass left tiny cuts across his face, and he hit the ground, letting no time pass before pushing himself up with his arms. The bits of glass pressed into the palms of his hands, but the pain only increased his adrenaline. Hansen pushed himself up, barely brushing the glass from him as he ran on the porch.
Vince followed close behind, jumping over the shards of glass just under the doorframe. “Stop! Hansen, it’s over!”
But Hansen had already clambered across the wooden surface of the porch. His socks pulled up splinters. He lunged behind the stainless steel grill and planted his feet against the porch railing, pushing the grill with his upper body. The heavy grill slid at first, scraping like the brakes of a small train. Hansen dug his feet against the railing, pushing the grill with now bloodied hands and grimacing with his now bloodied face. Showing pure resistance, the whites around his pupils bulged like a bullfrog as he shoved the grill over, toppling it to the ground. The gray propane tank clanked and squealed as it hit the porch. One of the cooking prongs that had just been dangling from a hook on the handle of the grill had fell underneath the propane tank, landing just in the right spot where it both pierced the tank and sparked simultaneously, causing a fiery explosion that sent Hansen flying over the porch railing and into the bushes behind him.
Vince and Amy kept their distance from the grill, and jumped off the opposite side of the porch before Hansen pushed the grill over. But the blast from the propane tank pushed them even further from Hansen. Amy covered her face with her shoulders to avoid burns from the blue fireball: more sound than flame.
As the empty propane tank spun in a wild frenzy of smoking aluminum, the side door of the grill fell off in a clank. Although brief, the explosion left a black ring on the porch. As Amy peeked through her elbow, she saw Hansen running from the bushes.
His pants were on fire. As the orange and yellow flames engulfed his jeans, Hansen ran in figure eights, screaming in agony before rolling on the ground to smother the smoking denim.
Amy pulled herself up, slightly weak from the shock of the blast and tried to yell to Vince over the sharp ringing in her ears, but the words came from her mouth in a jumbled mess of vowels.“Ooo uuuu iiii!!”
Vince pressed into a crab position from the blast and used his wrists to push himself back on his feet. Hansen’s yard spun around him in a blurred vision that was nothing more than a smear of green and orange and yellow. He groped the grass for his gun and when he found it, Vince aimed it directly at Hansen’s rolling body. The moving target was too much for Vince’s uneasy palms, yet he reached towards the trigger and fired one shot into the sky. Vince tried to shake the blurred lines from his eyes and almost lost his balance while Amy kept yelling. The words were clearer now, but Vince felt as though he were hearing them through cotton balls shoved in his ears.
“On’t oot im! Vince! No!DON’T SHOOT HIM!”
Vince moved closer to the smoking blur of Derek Hansen with both his hands clutching his gun. He fired another round into the bushes near the porch. His walk became a march, moving in strong strides towards Hansen. He was about to shoot him right then and there.
“Vince! Don’t!” Amy lunged towards Vince and batted the gun from his hands. She stepped in front of Hansen and put out a foot, pressing it into his lower back to stop him from rolling. But Hansen wasn’t ready to go down.
He hooked his smoking ankle around Amy’s inner-knee, pulling her down into the grass before digging his fingers into the lawn, yanking himself forward like a leopard escaping a trap. And in no less than two long leaps, he was over the backyard fence, chasing Hansen down the sidewalk. Vince gained on him, following the smoke trail from Hansen’s jeans.
Within a block, Vince tackled Hansen, shoving his face into the pavement and twisting his arms behind his back.
“Sit down, you bastard!”
Amy wasn’t far behind, and she pressed her knee into Hansen’s back as he cuffed him. “Derek Hansen, you are under arrest for possession of illegal weapons and the murder of Fred Stefani. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”
This time, Derek didn’t squirm or fight or try to run.
He was too high to attempt another escape.
Back at the Fourth Precinct, Derek Hansen received mild care for the burns on his legs: nothing more than some disinfectant and ace wrap bandages. Vince made Hansen tend to his own wounds since they had been self-inflicted.
Next, Vince brought Hansen to the interview room, dropping his file on the metal table before he sat across from him. Derek’s eyes were still glazed over, and his greasy brown hair fell across his face in jagged clumps. The smoky odor from the incident just minutes ago lingered on him. Colonies of acne covered Derek’s dimpled cheeks, and he stroked his scraggly goatee as Vince asked him the first question.
“So, we both agree that you’re a dumbass?” Vince opened the file. “No argument? Great. You should be glad my partner and I didn’t get hurt. Let’s just say that wouldn’t have helped your case.”
Hansen confidently leaned back in his chair. He shook his head and motioned to zip his mouth shut, almost chuckling to himself.
“I’m not going to waste any time with you, Hansen. You killed Fred Stefani. We have your prints on the gun and the bullets. The evidence is conclusive. Now here’s what I want to know.” Vince leaned forward, sliding Hansen’s file aside. “Why did you do it, Derek? Why did you kill Fred Stefani?”
Hansen shook his head and put his hands up, smirking.
“You don’t want to talk? Alright, fine. I’ll talk. We found quite the pile of C4 next to some cardboard boxes in Stefani’s basement. Were you aware of that the night you killed Stefani?”
Hansen sat still and said nothing.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ Now
, were you also aware of his targets? It was a rather impressive display – hard to miss.”
Still nothing.
“Okay, then. Stop me if I’m wrong. Mr. Hansen, we checked Fred Stefani’s bank account, and I’m not sure if you’re going to like what we found. We couldn’t really figure out why Stefani was targeting civilians – seemingly at random. But all we had to do was follow the money. I’m assuming you knew about Stefani’s victims. The victims of the San Fran Bomber.”
Hansen starred blankly ahead.
“Good, then you know why he targeted them. They owed him money. Every last one of them. Funny thing is Stefani wasn’t the only name on the account. You weren’t just friends with Fred Stefani. You were business partners, am I right? And that’s why you killed him.”
Hansen ran his tongue over his upper teeth and scratched under his right eye with his pinky.
“Surely you can’t deny that, Hansen.” Vince crossed his arms over his chest. “So why did you kill him? Was it money? Or maybe you just didn’t like him.”
Looking to the ceiling now, Hansen appeared to be counting the tiles.
Vince wanted to jump across the table and grab Hansen by the shirt. He wanted to threaten him and lay not just Stefani’s murder on Hansen, but all of the bombings too. But Vince knew it was more important to let Hansen confess on his own. “What was going on with your business, Mr. Hansen? It must have been something to kill for.”
“Sloppy.” Hansen released just the one word.
“What do you mean, sloppy?”
“Stefani was sloppy,” Hansen repeated. “All he cared about was the money.”
“The money. Right. And when the clients didn’t pay him, he didn’t send a warning or a letter…he sent a bomb.”
“That’s right.”
“And you thought that was sloppy?”
“It just didn’t make any sense. Why would you kill off half your clients like that?” Hansen rubbed his temples. “It’s just bad business.”
“You know it’s more than that, Derek. Your clients were purchasing illegal weapons. But some of them must have paid you. How did you want to run the business?”
“The whole thing could have been prevented.”
“How?”
“I kept telling Stefani to have a meeting with the clients at his house to talk things over, but all he could think about was violence. He just wanted to get rid of them passively.”
“You think a mail bomb is passive? No, I don’t buy it, Derek. You must have agreed to those bombs. You helped make them didn’t you?”
“No! I had no part of that. That was all Stefani.”
“And yet you waited. Yeah, you waited until the bombings actually happened. They were in the newspapers, TV; of course you were aware of the exposure the bombs were getting. You can’t tell me you didn’t participate in it.”
“I didn’t. I swear. I run a gun shop and I just thought…”
“You thought what, Hansen? You thought you would just make a little extra money on the side – with illegal weapons. Is that it?”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, I think I do. Black market weapons yield a lot of money if you know what you’re doing. So you’re telling me you killed Stefani to stop the bombings? Is that right?”
“I didn’t murder him.”
“Derek, you can deny a lot of things, but your fingerprints were all over the murder weapon.”
“It wasn’t murder, it was self-defense.”
“Really? How’s that?”
“Stefani tried to kill me that night.”
“And you thought ‘kill or be killed’?”
Hansen shrugged. Then he said something Vince had never heard a suspect say in that room before:“You should be thanking me.”
Vince couldn’t help himself from snickering. “Thank you? For what? For putting the lives of innocent civilians in jeopardy?For killing Fred Stefani?”
“For stopping the bombings.”
Vince leaned back and started a slow, dry clap, mockingly applauding Hansen’s confession. “Thank you, sir. Mr. Derek Hansen, thank you for your bravery. I’m so glad you had the courage to save the lives of so many of your black market clients.”
A gruff bitterness swept across Hansen’s face. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Do what Hansen?”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me.”
“Oh, you’re going to have to get used to a lot worse than that where you’re headed.”
Hansen shook his head and looked down while the slightest smile crept across the corner of his mouth. “You think this is over, don’t you?”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“You think just because Stefani’s dead and I’m in here that the bombings will stop?”
Vince stood and stared down at Hansen. “It’s over, Derek.”
“I wish it was. I really do.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out. Eventually.”
“Is there someone else, Derek? Someone else who knew about the bombings?”
Hansen took a deep breath, exhaling not in relief but out of anxiety. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“Listen to me, Derek. You don’t have anything to lose. If you help us stop these bombings, we may be able to negotiate certain terms of your sentence.”
“I’m listening.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, but yes. If you have the opportunity to keep other people safe at this point, I’m asking you to take it. You may not get this chance again. Who else was involved?”
Derek nervously shifted his weight in the chair. Even with glassy eyes, Derek’s answer was perfectly clear. “His name isWilson. He helped plan the bombings.”
“Okay, what was his role? Be specific.”
“I can’t tell you anything else. That’s it.”
“Derek, I can tell you’re a decent guy. You wouldn’t have stopped Stefani if you didn’t care about the people on the outside of the business. The clients. Their families. I think it’s safe to say that you even like those people. That’s why you stopped Stefani isn’t it?”
Hansen nodded. The resistance from before faded from his body language. Now, he appeared to be legitimately frightened as if he were a schoolboy about to soil himself. Hansen’s lingering high only made his lips looser. And the words slipped out like sheep meandering from a gate. “Wilson…tracked the clients.”
“How, Derek? Is that how he got the addresses to send the bombs?”
“Yes. Exactly. Wilson attached tracking devices to the products – the weapons – so he could keep tabs on the locations of the clients. It was Wilson’s idea to use the mail bombs for the clients who didn’t pay in full. Stefani just went along with it.”
“And where was Wilson the night you killed Stefani?”
“He was there with us. Actually, he saw the whole thing. Stefani fired at me and missed. I fired back and got him in the gut.”
“And Wilson just…watched?”
“At first, I thought he was going to try to kill me,” Hansen said. A bead of sweat formed just above his brow. “But he just went back to work like nothing happened. I think he figured with two of us instead of three, his cut of the money was better anyhow.”
“So, he was there that night? In Stefani’s house?”
“That’s what I said.”
“What does Wilson look like?”
“You wouldn’t forget him if you saw him. He’s a really scary old guy. He’s got crazy white hair – kind of wild looking.”
“What else?”
“Wilson’s a big guy. He probably benches four-thirty-five.”
“Sounds buff for an old guy.”
As Hansen went on to describe Wilson’s appearance, Vince realized Derek was describing the man Cameron and Amy had seen in Stefani’s underground maze – typing at the computer before vanishing from the glass room.
“So Wilson’s still
out there?” Vince asked urgently.
“Yeah, and he’s not going to be easy to track down. If you think I put up a fight, you have no idea. Wilson could kill me for telling you this much. He’s very organized.”
“Like a stamp-collector?”
“No, organized like dangerous. I’m serious,” Derek said. “Keep your head on a swivel. Wilson knows how to find people. And he’s persistent. Go ahead. Lock me up. Wilson won’t find me in jail. And if he does, I’ll be ready for him.”
Captain Jones didn’t watch sports.
He didn’t go to the movies or even take his family on vacation. Jones had not left San Francisco in the last ten years. He believed traveling might blind him, even for a few days or weeks, of the happenings within the city limits. For him, work was never over. Jones spent his free time on the lookout for local crime. This is how he filled the Rolodex on his desk with the phone numbers of ballistics specialists and chemical analysts. For a man with a short attention span, Jones also had a surprising knack for building bridges of trust with city officials.
Still, the Captain’s heightened awareness of the city’s dark deeds could not prepare him for the event that unfolded at his favorite Italian Restaurant,Hector’s Meatballs.
He took his family there every Tuesday night, and they each had their favorite menu item: the Captain’s pre-teen daughter ordered a personal garlic chicken pizza, Mrs. Jones ordered a stuffed pasta dish, and the Captain always indulged in a deep dish of spicy meatballs in fettuccine pasta. After the meal, the Captain stepped outside for a quick smoke while his wife and daughter played games on their smartphones.
As Jones puffed on his cigarette, he looked down the street, over the hill, and into the city, surveying the blinking lights with a gaze of respect. Taking in the night air, the Captain watched the smoke from his cigarette swirl across the skyline. In that moment, he appreciated the calm. It was a peace that he never quite felt while sitting in his office at the Fourth Precinct.
Just the city and his cigarette.
Suddenly, a violent explosion erupted from within the Italian restaurant, shattering the windows, and sending a rumbling shockwave out to the tilted street. The momentary flash of light from the blast set off a few car alarms near the restaurant as the shards of glass from the windows bounced on the sidewalk. A portion of theHinHector’s Meatballsflickered and went out.