Spinner opened her mouth the speak, but McCabe added, "It was later demonstrated that these disarmed devices were in fact sixth and seventh bombs, designed to detonate during the rescue operation. The first bomb, four thousand eight hundred plus pounds of ammonium nitrate, was in the truck that McVeigh parked in front of the building. An additional four bombs, timed to explode simultaneously, had been positioned by McVeigh and at least three other individuals on Thursday April Eighteen. "
Spinner paled, but then she said, "That's not proof, McCabe. That's interpretive. Where's the evidence that additional bombs existed?"
"The United States Geological Survey published findings that two seismic waves were produced as a result of two detonations; the truck bomb, followed a moment later by the four placed charges attached to columns inside the building. These charges blew simultaneously."
"That theory came about only because the shock waves from the truck bomb travelled through bedrock and through the air at different speeds," she countered swiftly. "I'm not a geophysicist, but even I know that."
He looked at her oddly. "You're telling me the USGC report is 'just a theory', and instead you're quoting something proposed by a newspaper journalist?"
Eyes blinking rapidly, she said, "I thought-"
"The journalist's opinion was debunked when the remains of the building was demolished, and only one seismic train was detected for each detonation." Shaking his head, he added, "Spinner, the evidence I present may be open to interpretation, but it's based on sound science, not urban legends and grandstanding tabloid journalism. You said you're willing to do anything. Does that include shelving preconceptions based on what you've been led to believe?"
A range of expressions he might once have found fascinating crossed her face. "Or chosen to believe" she mumbled bitterly. Meeting his gaze, she added, "I've had a few scales ripped from my eyes these past few days, Agent McCabe. That doesn't mean I'm willing to abandon reason. You furnish proof, I'll listen."
An unfamiliar emotion nudged him, so he ignored it. For now. "There's also another theory, namely that the second seismic wave occurred when the front of the building collapsed. But the seismic signature for that event is entirely different from a high-energy event like a detonation. The extraordinarily well-ignored USGS report vindicates the premise that there were two separate high-energy explosions , followed several seconds later by a low energy impact event."
He picked up a packet of sugar, opened it and poured it into his coffee. "Forget the seismic theory," he said, stirring his spoon. "Let's go for hard, scientific fact. Spinner, a blast through air is a woefully inefficient coupling mechanism against heavy reinforced concrete beams and columns. The math is simple; at detonation, the ANFO in the tuck bomb that McVeigh left out front would yield a maximum pressure of one-half million pounds per square inch. By the time the blast wave hit the nearest of the building's columns, that pressure would have dropped to three hundred and seventy-five pounds of pressure per square inch. By the time it reached the nearest column in the second row of columns-and remember, it was the second row that collapsed-it would have been down to between twenty-seven to thirty-five pounds per square inch. Yet the compressive yield strength of concrete is around three thousand five hundred pounds per square inch . Columns and fragile materials like sheet rock and furring strips close to the explosion remained intact, while columns and structural beams behind themcollapsed-with less force than I use on a punching bag!"
"Those columns snapped when the floors above collapsed," she said, but her voice was uncertain. Questioning, not refuting.
"Have you seen the photographs of the column breaks? They unequivocally show very smooth and localised fractures-exactly as you'd expect from neatly placed cutting charges, and not from structural collapse."
Another penguin wandered by. Somewhat shorter, it came with a seal and promises of punishment if Tommy didn't leave his sister alone. Tommy looked like he would be happy to leave his sister alone, preferably in Antarctica.
"I can show you testimonials from over sixty international experts, all stating the same thing. Even more perturbing is the unprecedented rush to blow up the crime scene and bury the evidence before forensic experts could even examine the remains. As one USAF general said, The effort required to bomb the Murrah Federal Building pales in comparison with the effort to cover up evidence . The evidence has been shaped to fit the theory that McVeigh acted alone. Anything to the contrary is discarded or removed-one way or another.
"Exactly the same thing happened with the World Trade Centre," McCabe added, watching her hands. She was unconsciously shredding a paper napkin. "Blame an individual, built a solid case against him, ignore or destroy any evidence that could dilute that conviction. The evidence was selected to shoehorn McVeigh into the US Justice System's frame of reference."
She looked up at him. "Problem packaged and conveniently disposed of."
He saw it in her eyes. It had been eating at her, probably for months, but like every other victim, she'd clung to an explanation that fit her needs. "Good ol' US know-how caught the Bad Guy. Truth and justice-as long as they suit the American Way-will prevail. If the facts prove otherwise, bury them, because Democracy is sacrosanct, even at the expense of truth."
"If you are right-and I don't necessarily accept that you are-I had no knowledge of the-" She paused and lowered her voice. "The subject now under investigation. Besides, destroying the building and stealing my computer got them nothing but a computer."
"Why?"
"We used PCs at work. I used an Apple at home. No hacker can break into the files."
"Why use different systems?"
"Computers are tools. Just like you, McCabe, I like to control my tools, not the other way around, so I do-did-most of my work on the home computer."
Her jibe did not go unnoticed. Susan had obviously been talking to her. "How did you transfer files between the two? Floppies?"
"Good God, no. Floppies are unreliable and a security nightmare. I saved my work to a server so I could download it wherever and whenever I need it."
"The local network in the building-"
"Do you have any idea how many times the FBI servers, both internal networks and on the Internet, have been hacked into and screwed up? I use a private server, same as anyone with their own web site, except I use an encrypted one to store and transfer files. Whenever I back up, I dump the files off the computers, along with the cache. Everything I was working on right up until…that morning…is still on the server."
"Who else knew that?"
"No one except my husband. I was married to a software and network engineer." She met his eyes. "There's nothing there. What wasn't personal I've already passed on to the FBI; current cases and such like. There are dozens of ways that other in the building could have backed up their files. The notion of blowing up a building to destroy evidence on someone's computer isn't reaching, McCabe. It's fantasy."
"That's what Major Peter Jarhling at USAMRIID said four years ago, about a chimera. Is it also fantasy to suggest a group of conspirators would sacrifice the population of an entire island and unleash a potential planet-wide Andromeda virus just to demonstrate their point, using methods a little more sophisticated than a truckload of fertilizer?"
Spinner scrunched up the shredded tissue, then looked down, only now aware of what she'd been doing. Buzz cut and attitude notwithstanding, she was actually quite attractive. Some might even say beautiful. He tapped her hand to get her attention. "What happened to your personal effects after the bombing?"
"The FBI notified me that a few items had been found." She carefully placed the wadded ball of tissue on the table, and clasped her hands around her coffee. "Jamie's hat, of all things-it had his name and my telephone number inside, and Doug's wedding ring. They never found his hands, but they found a finger with his wedding ring."
She reached for the locket around her neck. Beside the locket, hanging on the chain, was a gold ring. He couldn't be cert
ain but it looked to be a larger version of the one she wore on her left hand.
"As you said," she continued in a low voice. "They seemed very anxious to bulldoze the site and destroy what remained."
"Identification?" He watched her grapple with her emotions. Spinner had been a surprise from the start. He had pushed her, pressing every button she had then some, but she refused to let that interfere with her professionalism.
"Doug had a birthmark. Dental records confirmed his remains. Jamie…a recent surgical scar and broken arm still in a cast. He'd been climbing a tree at his former care centre. Broke his arm and fell on a stick, stabbing himself in the buttocks. Naturally, we placed him a more secure day centre."
Her expression abruptly snapped shut. She had revealed more than intended. Why was she determined to hide her emotions? Did she fear they would empower him-or endanger her? Or both? "Spinner," he said in a tone that surprised him more than her. "Professionalism does not preclude compassion, and compassion is not synonymous with weakness, or pity." He gave her no time to reply before adding, "The funerals?"
"A week after their bodies-what they could be sure were theirs-were released. That was almost a month after the bombing. Why?"
"Personal effects. What was withheld?"
She looked uncertain, took a mouthful of the coffee, and then said, "I don't follow."
"Agent Adams was assigned to evidence. Most of the evidence from the Murrah Building consists of personal effects that the prosecution will use to maximize the emotive reaction of the jury. The forensic evidence is minimal, except where it confirms the composition of the truck explosives. As you can now see, the FBI is not building a case on the type of bomb used. The truck blew up, the building fell down; ergo the truck bomb knocked the building down. Agent Adams was familiar with every piece of tabulated evidence. He found or saw something; Five knew who ."
"Five people in the building?"
Impatient now, his reply was sharp. "Obviously. But who? Adams found something in the FBI's evidence room that pointed to five specific people. He didn't recognise it at the time, but something, some outside piece of information triggered the connection in Adams' mind."
"Didn't Brant just tell you that Adam's computer had been sterilised? Which means any other evidence would also have been cleaned up by now."
"The defence attorneys have seen the full catalogue of evidence, including photographs. It was Adams' job to crosscheck everything so that nothing could be excluded by the defence. You should know that, Spinner. The same rigid rules applied to the autopsies."
Eyes narrowing, she said, "Which means that everything in the evidence room would have to remain untouched, otherwise the Consortium would draw attention to whatever went missing."
"So we're back to his computer."
"Which has nothing on it. So you need victimologies-and I'm one of the victims," she said, suddenly understanding. Downing the last of her coffee, she added, "Okay, Doug's files are also on the server."
He looked around. He wanted access to these files, preferably via a public Internet café, but there was nothing here.
"I don't have the codes," she said. "It'll have to wait until we get back."
Pushing back his chair, he stood.
"McCabe, sometimes tools need maintenance." She stood and grabbed his hand. Despite himself, he didn't pull away. Spinner had pieced together information and come up with conclusions that had eluded others. That she did not yet see the entire picture was mostly because he had not shown her sufficient pieces. All right, she was useful; he'd let her tag along.
Picking up her bag, she added, "When we get back, I want to see the evidence-"
"You'll never be allowed access to the evidence room." He placed a guiding hand on her back as they walked between the tables and past the gift shop.
"I want access," she added impatiently, turning her head briefly to scowl at him, "to see every affidavit, testimonials, engineers' reports, everything you have that supports your claim that McVeigh did not act alone."
-Chapter 24-
Mathew Island
Dispersal: Plus 5 days
Nate spent the morning setting up drips and dispensing medication to those who remained in the clinic, but the blue plastic suit and HEPA mask he now wore only deepened the villagers' perception of him as an outsider. He spent the rest of the day going from hut to hut, distributing medication where he could and begging those who were not yet ill to come to the nakamal for treatment. Few would even talk to him.
Packs of skinny dogs trailed him everywhere. Tails curling between their legs, they whined and yelped skittishly. The animals normally lived off whatever meal scraps they could salvage, but with no one eating the pickings were slim. A large number of pigs were also wandering around. The black, razorback boars were normally hand fed cooked food so that their tusks would grow into a full circle; a sign of wealth for the owners. The animals had escaped by knocking over fence posts worked lose in the saturated ground. They looked up from snuffling through rotting garbage only long enough to establish that Nate had not come to feed them.
From inside a large hut at the edge of the village, Nate heard dogs growling and pigs grunting. He went inside-then ran back out, ripping his mask off as he went. Falling to his knees in the damped ground outside, he threw up.
Nettie, the young ni-Vanuatu girl who had been such an enthusiastic assistant at the clinic, had been heavily pregnant. The baby, covered in pustules, had spontaneously aborted, along with most of Nettie's blood and the contents of her bowels. But that wasn't what had made Nate ill. The children that Nettie and Emily had been tending were all dead, and the animals were feeding on the grisly remains.
Closing his eyes, Nate sat on the ground for a long time, letting the incessant rain saturate him. It was only when he realised that his rubber gumboots were filling with water from the inside that he rose on shaky feet and climbed into the Land Rover. He wanted to give into tears of despair, but he couldn't afford that, not now. He had to get back to the clinic. Judi still needed him.
Based on what he'd seen in the huts, more than half the population of the island was dead, and the remainder symptomatic. He parked the Land Rover under the shed that separated the cottage from the clinic, stepped out into the thick, gooey slop and grimaced. Mud and more mud, the stuff was driving him crazy. Leaving his boots on, he entered the cottage. Once Judi got better he would burn most of the contents of the cottage, including the mats, and douse the rest in bleach.
"Hey, Judi, how's it…" Nate stood at the door for a moment before pulling up a chair, sitting by her bed, and taking her grossly swollen hand in his gloved one. Sometime during the three hours that he'd been gone, Judi had suffered a massive vaginal haemorrhage and bled out.
Too physically and emotionally exhausted to cry, he sat with her for a long time. He shouldn't have left her alone, but she'd urged him to go to Nettie and Emily. At least he didn't have to lie about what he'd found.
A massive burst of lightning hit nearby. It must have triggered something inside of him, because Nate finally curled his lip into his mouth and sobbed. Judi Holloway had dedicated her life to helping communities in third world countries because, like him, she knew it made a difference.
Abruptly standing, Nate picked up the chair and smashed it into the machine by her bed. It was a hundred thousand dollar unit to monitor blood pressure and heart rate. For that much money he could have built fifty water tanks in fifty villages to collect clean, fresh rainwater. Or had thirty septic tanks installed and funded an education programme through community theatre groups, or a follow-up vaccination programme against Hepatitis B. Grass-roots solutions that didn't stomp all over their culture, but helped prevent disease and improve their quality of life. He could overlook the death of one or even a dozen individuals, not because he lacked compassion, but because he took a longer, broader perspective. Mathew Island had been a spectacular success in community health care. And for what?
The unit crashed t
o the floor, and his anger instantly evaporated. Everything, machinery, Judi's body, the clinic and the cottage, the entire village, all of it had to be torched, but it was raining too hard. Meanwhile, he had to protect himself.
Picking up Judi's corpse, lighter now that most of her fluids had gone, he carried it from the cottage and into the clinic. Dogs were milling around outside, lapping at the darker patches on the wet ground. He locked the body in a storage cupboard, returned to the cottage, and dragged her mattress and bedding out through the window. Then he mopped the floor and walls and ceiling with bleach. Afterwards, he stood under the outdoor disinfectant shower until the bucket ran empty. Finally, he went to the hot springs, removed the plastic suit, HEPA mask and his scrubs, stepped into the steaming waters-and rapidly withdrew his foot. The muddy water was near boiling.
He glanced at his arms. The warm rain, speckled with ash from the volcano, landed in heavy grey blotches on his skin. Filthy, stinking, sweating even in the goddamned rain, up to his knees in fucking mud, all he wanted to do was get clean and dry for five minutes! Fine! He snatched up his things, went back to the cottage, tossed everything into the bleach tub, then, still naked, he walked down to the bay where the launch was anchored. The hot springs bubbled out onto the beach. Using the warm sand to scrub off the filth, he went for a swim. On the way back to shore, he stopped at the launch, grabbed a plastic cover, and used it as an umbrella on the walk to the cottage. The island now seemed deserted of all life, except for the animals, which so far, appeared unaffected by the virus.
There was canned food in the larder, and more cookies. Opting for baked beans, he opened the tin, collected a spoon from the drawer and then sat down in from of Warner's laptop. It took him almost three hours to detail his clinical assessment of the situation, the treatments he'd tried, time lines, all nice and neat in little black scrawls across the computer screen. The upshot, he said in his email, was that nothing appeared to hinder the progress of the disease. The index case, Tom Kaleo had died thirty-six hours after the first symptoms. Judi Holloway had died approximately thirty-seven hours after the onset of symptoms. Regardless of treatment, a similar time line, plus or minus two hours, applied to every victim he'd tracked.
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