06 Every Three Hours

by Chris Mooney

  ‘He’s not a psychopath.’

  ‘Then what is he?’

  ‘Determined.’

  Fire and ambulance sirens pierced the air. Both she and Coop started at the sound, the combined wail of the sirens hammering into her skull like nails. Darby threw open the door, thinking about the gunman, how meticulous he was.

  And that makes him dangerous as hell.

  20

  +03.04

  The MCP had a tiny galley right off the main door. Darby ducked inside and squeezed her way past another agent who was pouring coffee and grabbed a banana from a fruit plate. As she wolfed it down, she opened the refrigerator and grabbed an ice-cold can of Coke and a pre-made sandwich wrapped in plastic.

  The trailer walls were insulated and soundproofed, but she could still hear the sirens. Everyone inside could. As she trailed Coop down the narrow hall, she felt the ground shaking under her boots as her imagination began to conjure up all the grisly scenarios that happened in the aftermath of an explosion: people with missing limbs, people trapped underneath rubble and screaming for help, some fighting for air, everyone bleeding and in pain. Frightened.

  She hoped to God her initial theory was correct, that the gunman – Call me Big Red. After your father – had chosen a ‘soft target’ for the site of his first bomb, to display his power: someplace where people wouldn’t get hurt.

  Darby stepped into the middle of the cramped control area and saw Howie Gelfand standing in the centre, a phone pressed to his ear, his face looking bloodless underneath the canister lights. The flat screen on the wall was playing shaky camera footage recorded by the Channel 5 Sky Copter. Darby saw an aerial shot of herself throwing her clothes out the front door of the station.

  Gelfand put his hand on the receiver, looked to Darby and Coop. ‘Reports are flooding in from Quincy about an explosion.’

  Darby felt her stomach tighten, then sink. Gelfand’s gaze darted to the man seated to his right, a federal agent with a blond crew cut who looked like he had just stepped out of a Marine recruitment poster. ‘Jeff, show ’em what we got.’

  Jeff tapped at his keyboard. Darby moved behind him and, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen, saw BPD camera footage of the area just outside the station’s front doors. A Metro City taxi with a dented rear bumper pulled up against the kerb. She couldn’t see the driver or who was sitting in the back.

  Three seconds passed, and when a back door opened – the one behind the driver – the footage turned fuzzy.

  Jeff froze the frame. Advanced the footage slightly. Paused.

  ‘Here you can see he’s walking with his head down, and he’s wearing a black hat,’ Jeff said. ‘This is probably the best shot we have of the guy.’ He resumed the normal playing. The screen practically turned white. ‘When he enters the lobby … here, the interference for the outside cameras begins to settle down and then slowly turns back to normal eight to ten seconds later.’

  Coop said, ‘So he turned on the jamming device before he got out of the taxi.’

  On the screen, the static abated and then disappeared. The taxi was trying to pull away from the kerb, the driver waiting for someone to let him into the heavy morning traffic. When it finally pulled away, Darby caught a flash of the rear licence plate.

  Coop said, ‘Can you enhance that?’

  Gelfand answered the question. ‘Already did,’ he said, and handed Coop a folded piece of paper. ‘Track down the driver. Doc, you’re with me.’

  Darby took a large bite of her sandwich, chicken salad loaded with too much mayo on cold and soggy bread, and had drained half the can of Coke by the time Gelfand closed the door to the conference room. He left the lights off, and he didn’t sit.

  ‘Where’s Donnelly?’ Darby asked.

  ‘Fielding phone calls from the mayor and governor. I don’t have a hard address for the bomb yet.’ He rubbed his forehead for a moment, then studied his fingers. ‘Looks like this guy wasn’t bluffing.’

  ‘He’s the real deal.’

  Gelfand’s gaze jumped up.

  ‘He’s intelligent and well organized,’ Darby said. ‘And he’s prepared to see this thing through to the very end.’

  ‘You think he’s suicidal?’

  ‘I think he’s willing – and prepared – to die for his cause, but that’s not the same thing as being suicidal. Coop tell you about the FBIRD?’

  ‘Yeah, he did. That, and this shit about this lunatic deciding he wants to be called your old man’s name. What’s that about?’

  Darby told him, then said, ‘You reset your watch?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. But let’s check times to see that we’re both properly synched.’

  ‘Howie, that bomb was going to go off no matter what we did.’ Darby wondered who she was trying to convince – herself or Gelfand. ‘He needed it to go off. That first target, whatever it is, is key to his agenda.’

  Gelfand’s phone buzzed. He ignored it. ‘I realize that,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.’

  ‘Any abandoned buildings in that neighbourhood? A location that isn’t near any homes?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘I think the first bomb was designed to serve as a warning – a display of his power. He’s using the bombs to ensure Briggs’s cooperation, force him into a face-to-face in the lobby.’

  ‘Then he’s one stupid son of a bitch because there’s no way Briggs is going to walk in there, not after what just happened.’

  ‘And what if Briggs agrees to go in? Will you let him?’

  ‘He’ll die if he goes in there.’

  ‘His senate bid will die if he doesn’t.’

  ‘Which is why we’re going to keep the gunman’s request under wraps for the time being.’

  Of course, Darby thought. ‘The gunman isn’t going to kill Briggs.’

  ‘You suddenly develop psychic powers I don’t know about?’

  ‘The fact that he wants the interview to run on live TV suggests he wants to embarrass Briggs on a national platform, get some confession out of him. What better way to do it than on live TV? I’ll tell you something else about him. The gunman is playing us.’

  ‘That shit about the taxi pulling right in front of the station.’

  Darby nodded. ‘He knew the cameras were there, recording him. He wanted us to see him, find the plate so we can start the process of tracking him down.’

  ‘You’re the one with a PhD in nut-jobs. What do you think?’

  ‘He’s already put external pressure on Briggs by telling us he’ll give us the hostages and disarm the remaining bombs, however many of them there are, if Briggs agrees to the live interview. Now he’s going to apply internal pressure. Supply us with clues as to what his agenda is by dropping breadcrumbs – tracking down the taxi and this stuff with Anita Barnes.’

  Darby filled him in on her conversation with Barnes. Saw his eyes widen when she mentioned Rosemary Shapiro.

  ‘What the hell does Shapiro have to do with this?’ Gelfand asked.

  ‘She’s the go-to lawyer for suing the BPD. How much has she won in judgements?’

  ‘Too much to count.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s gone head-to-head with Briggs on more than one occasion. We should bring her in – the gunman wants us to bring her in, ask questions. What can you tell me about Briggs?’

  ‘I don’t know about any skeletons in his closet, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘No scandals?’

  ‘Nothing comes to mind.’

  ‘Would you tell me if you knew anything?’

  Gelfand straightened a little, looking like he was going to hurl an insult her way. Then he chuckled.

  ‘Doc, I’m gonna give you a free tip,’ he said slyly. ‘You want to tickle a guy’s balls first, you know, create a rapport, get him all relaxed before you give ’em a squeeze.’

  ‘Clock’s ticking, so foreplay’s off the table.’ Darby took another bite of her sandwich.

/>   ‘Day Briggs was inaugurated, Boston had one of the highest homicide rates in the country. Every good politician is interested in statistics, so he was heavily involved in homicide cases, applying pressure to the police commissioners and other department heads to increase their clearance rates and improve the safety in high-crime areas like Roxbury, Dorchester and Mattapan. And he achieved that. Did he bust heads along the way? Goes without saying. That’s life, the cost of business. But if you’re asking me about some scandal or incident, I don’t have anything to tell you – you probably had more interactions with him than I did, back when you were still in the BPD’s good graces.’

  ‘Mainly I avoided him.’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear this.’

  ‘Nothing much to tell, other than he’s the textbook definition of someone who suffers from narcissistic personality disorder: arrogant, grandiose and believes the world centres around him.’

  ‘You two sound like a match made in heaven. I’m surprised it wasn’t love at first sight.’

  ‘He also lacks empathy for others and displays psychopathy and Machiavellian tendencies.’

  ‘In other words, the perfect politician.’

  ‘The mentally ill always rise to the top spots. How did you rise to the top, Howie?’

  ‘Results and people skills,’ he said. ‘You get results, but you lack people skills. You’ve got the personality and warmth and subtlety of a wrecking ball.’

  ‘Thank you. Seriously, I mean it.’ Darby ate the last of her sandwich.

  Gelfand, grinning, gave her the finger as his phone rang again. This time he answered it.

  As he listened to the person on the other end of the line, he picked up a remote and fumbled with the buttons. The wall-mounted TV turned on, and then he flipped over to Channel 5, where a news copter was showing live aerial footage of a suburban neighbourhood, the banner at the foot of the screen reading: BREAKING NEWS: EXPLOSION IN QUINCY.

  The TV had been muted. Gelfand didn’t turn up the volume – didn’t need to. The images of the house practically torn off its foundation and looking like a molar tooth cracked in half, the damage to the surrounding homes, the emergency personnel – police, fire, paramedics, even some civilians – scrambling through the smoke and the debris lining the lawns and streets told them everything they needed to know.

  Gelfand, she saw, was no longer on the phone. His attention was locked on the screen when he said, ‘I don’t have any solid information yet – who the target was, casualties.’

  Darby felt as though her midsection had disappeared. Her theory about the gunman/bomber choosing a soft target for his first IED was wrong.

  She swallowed dryly and sucked in a deep breath through her nose.

  ‘There’s something else we need to consider, Howie.’

  Gelfand tore his eyes away from the destruction. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If the gunman didn’t call Anita Barnes, someone else did – someone who could be working in tandem with the gunman.’

  ‘That crossed my mind, too,’ he said sombrely. ‘And you know what? I keep hoping to God I’m wrong.’

  21

  +03.17

  Coop had made quick work tracking down the taxi driver, who had no problem remembering the soon-to-be gunman. The man had tipped generously – twenty bucks on top of a thirty-dollar fare. Federal agents, along with a sketch artist, were on their way to Metro Cab’s main office in Allston to interview him.

  Darby needed to talk to the man herself and did so while riding shotgun in the Bureau car, a black Ford Explorer with tinted windows. Coop drove, following the lead car, another Explorer that had its lights flashing and sirens wailing to clear a path to Jackman Square in Dorchester, the place where the cabby had picked up the gunman. The EOD vehicle that had delivered her to BPD headquarters followed in the rear. Gelfand wanted the bomb squad in Dorchester in case any suspicious packages or items were found. Like Darby, he wondered if the gunman might be sending them into a trap.

  Most witnesses act and speak like they’re on their way to a firing squad. Not Michael Friedrich. The sixty-two-year-old cab driver wasn’t in the least bit reticent or disturbed by the fact that he had delivered a terrorist to the front steps of the Boston Police station this morning. In fact, he sounded downright excited by his part in the unfolding drama.

  ‘Guy didn’t give off a bad vibe, didn’t look or act weird, nut’in’,’ Friedrich said on the other end of the line, then snapped his gums for emphasis. ‘He was just standing there alone on the corner of Dumont and Parsons, waiting and looking relaxed even though he’s the only white face in that neighbourhood. I don’t mean any disrespect or to sound, you know, racial or politically incorrect or any of that crap, but that neighbourhood is … let’s just say a different class of people live there now, okay? I grew up in Dot, and back then, in that neighbourhood I’m talking about? You could walk anywhere you wanted, day or night. You can’t do that now, even if you’re wearing a bulletproof vest out and about in the daylight, you’re still taking your life in your hands, understand what I’m saying?’

  Darby knew the Dorchester neighbourhood all too well from her BPD days: alleys full of crack vials and buildings spray-painted with graffiti; homicides that were as predictable and steady as the sunrise; witnesses with bloodshot eyes; and tired and weary black and brown faces who were eager to close the door on the police, or not answer the door at all.

  ‘Describe him to me,’ Darby said.

  ‘He looked like a, you know, a regular guy. And he was white, like I said. I don’t know how tall he was – average, I guess – and I couldn’t tell you if he was thin or fat because he was, you know, all bundled up ’cause it was freezing out this morning.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘He had on one of those overcoats that business people wear over their suits. He was also wearing a hoodie underneath it.’

  ‘A grey sweatshirt, right?’

  ‘No, it was black. Definitely black.’

  Same as the gunman, Darby thought.

  ‘He had the hood on and tied, you know, underneath his chin. He also had on, like, a ski hat underneath the hood, one of those knit things. That was black, too. Oh, and sunglasses and a scarf. The sunglasses were all black, including the lenses, and the scarf was … a dark blue, maybe. I’m not sure.’

  With the exception of the sunglasses, the man Friedrich was describing was a dead ringer for the gunman. ‘When he got in your cab, did he take off his hat or sunglasses?’

  ‘No,’ Friedrich said. ‘He stayed all bundled up, even though I had the heat on in back.’

  Some cabbies had diarrhea of the mouth; they didn’t want to make conversation necessarily, just enjoyed hearing themselves talk. Darby suspected Friedrich was one of those types.

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Sure I talked to him,’ Friedrich said. ‘I mean, he didn’t tell me what he was planning to do, if that’s what you’re asking – and I didn’t get no hint that something, you know, bad was about to go down.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Not much. He couldn’t really talk on account of his cold or laryngitis or some shit, I forget.’

  Which was pretty much the same thing Anita Barnes had told her about the man who had called her last night pretending to be Rosemary Shapiro’s assistant.

  ‘I went through the usual song and dance – “Hey, how are yeah, how’s it going.” Typical chitchat,’ Friedrich said. ‘So I asks him about the nor’easter that’s coming, asks if he’s all stocked up and ready, all that stuff. He didn’t speak, just nodded.’

  Her thoughts shifted to Briggs, the focus of the gunman’s agenda. Was it possible the gunman knew Briggs would be in Vermont today?

  ‘After that he kinda lapsed into silence,’ Friedrich said. ‘We were, like, six blocks or so away from the station – I could see it from the window – and we’re sitting in dead stop rush hour traffic when I says to him, “You wanna get out and walk? It’s not
that far.” Guy shakes his head. Couple of minutes pass and then I ask him again because, truth be told, I wanted him to get out ’cause there ain’t no good fares out that way, and I didn’t want to be stuck in that traffic trying to get back into the city. If I got him out, I could’ve turned around and headed on over to South Station, you can always pick up someone there coming off the train. But it was all good ’cause he tipped me real nice, a double saw-buck.’

  ‘The twenty he gave you, you wouldn’t happen to –’

  ‘Yeah, I got it right here in my envelope. He didn’t wear gloves when he touched it, either, I’ll swear to that on a stack of Bibles. Told that to the FBI man I spoke to a few minutes ago, whatshisname, Cooper. Told me to leave it alone, not to touch it.’

  ‘The federal agents on their way to you will need to take your fingerprints for –’

  ‘Comparison prints,’ Friedrich said proudly. ‘I watch all the CSIs and Law & Orders so know all about fingerprints and handling and securing evidence. Everything’s good and safe. Oh, and in case any reporters ask, I live at Sixty-two Alabaster, the old sawmill building in Watertown that was converted into condos.’

  ‘I’m sure Agent Cooper already explained the importance of not sharing any of this information with anyone – and no posting on Twitter, Facebook or any other social media platforms.’

  ‘I sound like an eighteen-year-old girl to you? Like I got to get online and share everything that happens in my life?’ Friedrich chuckled. ‘Don’t you worry, ma’am, my lips are sealed.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Friedrich. You’ve been very helpful.’

  Darby hung up, knowing that the news was going to get out soon, if it wasn’t out already. Michael Friedrich was no doubt the talk of his taxi company right now; someone there had most likely already called or shot an email to his or her spouse or a friend, maybe even posted something on Facebook or Twitter.