“Like some joe?” he said, working the plastic stirrer around in the Styrofoam cup on his desk.
Diaz and Kahn shook their heads in unison.
“Can’t blame you. Why doesn’t the powdered milk ever fully melt—floats on top like toxic residue.” He sipped it anyway, smiled. “Burbette ain’t coming. Says he’s got other stuff to do, but I think he just wants to give us some room.”
“Generally his style,” Kahn said. “At least until they start giving out medals or until you screw it up. Then the FBI rides to the rescue.”
“On whose horse?” O’Shea laughed. While Diaz and Kahn settled in, he lowered his feet to the floor, opened a file on his desk, and plucked a pen from the suit jacket that hung over his chair.
He was tall and lanky with red hair cut close, light skin and blond eyebrows that almost disappeared over his blue eyes. Diaz thought a clerical collar would become him, and O’Shea had in fact attended Jesuit seminary in his youth. But in the end he’d opted for the family business, following his father, his grandfather, his uncles, and his older brother and sister onto the police force. No pressure, just couldn’t help himself. Old school.
“I’ve looked at the pictures,” he said, “and read the preliminary coroner’s report. What’d you guys scrape up yesterday?”
“Pieces of what appeared to be both of the suspect’s prosthetic legs. The crimp and two partial leg wires, and possible remnants of what looks like a pretty small device. Not much hardware in the vicinity of the seat.”
“They dug a bunch of ball bearings out of the guy’s abdomen, though. Really cut him to ribbons inside.”
“Maybe the bomb maker didn’t want him to survive and testify.”
“Overkill, though.”
“Or he strapped it on wrong.”
“That’s possible.” O’Shea looked into the middle space. “Not a vest. It must’ve been low in his pants, to judge by the pattern. It slips down further, he tries to adjust it, maybe it flips sideways when he does so and the direction of charge misses its mark.”
“Could’ve slipped down right in front of the recruiting center,” Kahn added. “Explains why maybe he set it off prematurely. Accidental detonation when he grabbed for it.”
“Wait a second,” Diaz interrupted. Kahn had told him to keep a low profile for this meeting, being the junior detective. But Diaz couldn’t help but wonder at this train of thought. “There was some evidence of heat on some of the artificial leg parts that we found. We also found cell phone parts.”
“You mean in addition to the intact phone in evidence?” O’Shea said.
Diaz nodded. “This other cell phone took it on the chin—pulverized.”
“Maybe the guy carried two, and bigger pieces just flew farther than the perimeter you marked off.”
Kahn shrugged. “Could happen.”
“Bullshit,” Diaz said. “The cell phone was part of the bomb.”
“How do you know? We didn’t find a SIM card.”
“SIM card maybe got reduced to dust with the rest of it. Only happens if it’s in close proximity to the main charge.”
“Burbette couldn’t get an explosive identification reading at the scene,” Kahn said. “Rain washed away the residue, it seems.”
“Raining that hard?” O’Shea asked.
“It was what your people would call a soft day,” said Kahn with a grin. “Gets wetter than it lets on.”
“Kinda like most Irish girls.” O’Shea laughed.
“Forgot to mention,” Kahn said, “we had better luck with the swab. Turned up C4 in the lab, not powder.”
“C4?”
Kahn hadn’t yet shared this with Diaz, but the junior detective nodded like he knew anyway. “Explains some witness reports of black smoke, though some others had it white.”
“And still such a small charge…” Kahn wondered. “Maybe it was homemade stuff.”
“Yeah, right,” O’Shea said. “Your guys didn’t find a lab at his house—clean as a whistle, in fact.”
“Maybe he had a secret place.”
“That shit’s near impossible to make in the kitchen and you know it.”
“Just thinking aloud.”
“Maybe—damn.” O’Shea bit his lip. “Not good if it’s C4.”
“Was there a taggant?” Diaz asked
“FBI crime lab’s running that one down.”
“So what do you figure so far?”
O’Shea sat back. “Incompetence possibly exacerbated by panic. Not a major terrorist-type operation. Maybe a gripe.”
“Against the army?” Kahn asked.
“Sure. Could be. Or an individual in the recruiting center.”
“You interview anyone there yet?”
“Only preliminarily. I’ll go back today.”
“And?”
“No one knew him there.”
“When did he get out?”
O’Shea consulted his file. “Four years ago. Spent nearly two years rehabbing in Texas. Honorable discharge.”
“So...a grudge for the lost legs. But the guy’s working, holding down a job, getting around. Why do this now?”
“I’ll hit the sister and the employer today. Maybe they have some insight into what set him off.”
“You think there are others?”
“I doubt it. No evidence of coordinated attacks. No claim of responsibility. Incompetent bomb maker.”
Diaz hated where this was going. They couldn’t be right about Horn. Angry about losing the legs, how the army treated the guy...maybe he could accept that. But his gut told him this didn’t add up. “Not that incompetent,” he muttered. “The thing went off, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. In his nuts. I don’t want to sell it short, but it feels like a lone act to me. I’m guessing depressed, maybe a touch of PTSD. Cry of pain. Albert Horn wanted to go out with a bang.”
“He got his wish,” Kahn said.
“Aw, that’s just stupid,” Diaz finally blurted.
O’Shea looked a little startled.
Diaz struggled to tone himself down. “Did the guy leave a note?”
“Not that we know of.”
“So what makes it suicide?”
Kahn sat up, red-faced. “Were you out on the street with me last night, Diaz?”
Diaz ignored the sarcasm. “I’m not buying it. What type of unit did this guy serve in?”
O’Shea consulted his folder. “Cavalry regiment.”
“Not engineers? Nothing like that?”
O’Shea shook his head.
“So he had no access to C4, probably wasn’t even close enough to steal any ever.”
“He might’ve acquired some on the black market.”
“The guy’s working for—what?—a bible publisher? And he’s on the black market for plastic explosives in his spare time?”
“Could be the bible thing was his cover.”
“But you said yourself he ain’t no terrorist.”
“I said he might not be one.”
“So, let me get this straight.” Diaz knitted his brow. “Probable suicide bomber, acting alone, manufactures a bomb with an apparent directional charge. Even though he wants to make a statement, he doesn’t make one, and he limits the damage to himself. Plus, even though he can build a bomb with a directional charge, he’s incompetent.”
O’Shea’s face looked as placid as ever, but his eyes hardened. “Cool down, Diaz. We’re just working on theories here. The charge may’ve been meant for someone else—I give you that. Maybe he planned to dance on someone’s desk in that recruiting office before pressing the button.”
“No one found—”
O’Shea talked over Diaz. “But I still say Horn easily could’ve set the thing off by accident. Happened on a regular basis in the early days of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. The RUC called them ‘own goals’”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” Diaz snapped.
O’Shea ignored him. “You guys find any kind of switch with whic
h he might’ve initiated the charge?”
“No,” Kahn said, confirming what Diaz had been about to say. “We would’ve told you.”
“The cell phone,” Diaz said, “and maybe it was remote detonation.”
“Maybe,” O’Shea said. “Either way, I think we’ve accomplished everything we can sitting in this room. I’ll loop you guys in when I got more. I presume you’ll do the same.”
They sat there for a minute, frowning at one another, not a great feeling in the room. Then O’Shea grinned at Diaz and cocked his head. “With respect, you could lighten up a little, pal. This looks like a high-profile situation right now. I already got two calls from my boss. It won’t be your ass on the line if I get this wrong.”
Diaz took a breath. “No disrespect intended by me, either, Brian. But instead of your ass or Kahn’s here, if this isn’t suicide I hope there ain’t someone else who’s got his ass on the line.”
“Like who?”
“Someone out there. Someone we don’t yet know about.”
O’Shea closed his file folder. “We always hope for the best, soldier.”
“YOU DIDN’T TELL ME IT was C4,” Diaz said from behind the wheel of the squad car.
Kahn didn’t look at him. “I found out right before we left for the meeting. Wanted to see how you guys reacted to that news side by side.”
“Side by side. Me and the guy who’s hoping it turns out all right,” Diaz mocked. He knew that wasn’t the real reason Kahn had held back. It was punishment for the cathedral thing. “He hopes it turns out all right,” he repeated for emphasis. “And I’m the one who’s a danger to others. Since when is hope an investigative strategy?”
Kahn looked unhappy. “Brian’s a good guy. You seemed pleased that he was on the case when I told you yesterday.”
“That was before you and him started railroading this suspect.”
“He’s not railroading anybody. We’re just testing out theories.”
“It’s not him. How about that theory? He’s a victim.”
“Why do you think so?”
“The cell phone—”
“Yeah, you mentioned that, like, six times. Did anyone find an SCR tied to the cell phone? No. So why’s that any more convincing than the obvious? We know for a fact that the guy had a bomb on him and that the bomb went off. The most plausible explanation so far is that he blew himself up.”
“You ever serve in the army, Sandy?”
“Here we go again.” Kahn rolled his eyes. “As a matter of fact, no. I served in the marines.”
“That so?”
“Does the pope wear a funny hat?”
“You see combat?”
“No. So I guess I’m a pussy.”
Diaz nodded silently.
“No disrespect to your prior accomplishments, Manny, but having seen combat doesn’t give you the right to run wild or jump rank or put your damned pet theories ahead of someone else’s.”
“I didn’t say it should.”
“And furthermore, your attitude sucked in there. Did I not ask you to keep it cool and let the man do his job? Now O’Shea’s gonna have a hard-on against you, which means he won’t be so happy seeing me coming either. How will that help the investigation? How much trouble do you need to stir up in one week?”
Diaz sat brooding.
“We’re not even twelve hours into this investigation and you’ve prejudiced yourself by defending this guy Horn in an unwarranted fashion. Why? Because you both served in combat? Maybe you don’t belong anywhere near this case, Diaz.”
“You got it backwards.”
When Diaz hesitated at the changing light, a dump truck rumbled by, drowning out all thoughts and belching a cloud of choking black exhaust for good measure.
Kahn absently watched the truck go past, stared a moment at Diaz, and then turned his attention out the window. “This one time when I was in homicide, I had a case where we got called to a crime scene in Brooklyn. Bensonhurst. You probably know that’s a solidly Italian neighborhood, but the guy who got stabbed to death in his sleep was a Jewish guy. I saw pictures of him on the piano and he reminded me of my dad, who was then still alive. There was no wife. The son—seventeen years old—reminded me of myself at that age. He had a Camaro on the street that didn’t have a mark on it...kept it so immaculate. My partner says the kid cleaned it for traces after murdering the father—quarter million in life insurance on the line, plus the house. I’m like, No way. I know this kind of kid. He cherishes that damn car is all, saved every penny he had to buy it, begged his father to help him out, took great pride in that machine, always under the hood, adding pieces of after-market equipment every chance he got. That’s what I’d done with my Mustang. I knew exactly what it meant to be that kid.”
“I still have my legs,” Diaz said.
“Okay. Let me finish.” Kahn licked his lips and frowned. “Everything pointed to the kid. Motive, means, opportunity. There was a knife missing from the kitchen block. My partner wanted to home in while the kid was soft, nail him before he could re-gather his wits. Me—I felt sorry for the little bastard. Not because he deserved my sympathy but because I could relate to the pain he must be going through.”
“Sure, but—”
“And another thing. Here’s this Jewish family living in this Italian neighborhood. The kid kills the father for the money? The money? No. I couldn’t handle that. Because when you’re the only Jewish family on the block you stand in for the whole Jewish race. I didn’t say this even to myself at the time, but it was back there in a corner of my mind. I was rooting for the kid not to have done it.”
“But he did.”
Kahn smiled sardonically. “All that cleaning stuff he had for the car—carpet shampoo and whatnot—he used it to make the house spotless before calling for help. Kid did a helluva job, too, would’ve made his grandmother proud. Not a trace of evidence in the house and to this day I don’t know where the knife went. But we found the bloody sponges and chamois a mile away, in a dumpster near a park where the kid used to hang out. My partner broke the case, not me.”
“So based upon that story, I’m protecting Horn as a fellow vet and I’m wrong?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Diaz. O’Shea’s job—and ours—is hard enough without taking sniper fire from your nearest colleague.”
Diaz reflected. He understood the story well enough, but as for sniper fire he felt more like the victim of that than the perpetrator. Hadn’t he received news of a reprimand via Kahn just this morning? Evidence conveniently not shared with him? And now here was Kahn again riding him for speaking out of turn, emphasizing the pecking order as much as their search for truth.
He planned to keep the story in the back of his mind—always worth learning something and maybe it gave a glimpse into where some of the land mines were planted around Kahn. His own instincts…sure, maybe he related to a vet, didn’t want him to be a bad guy. But that didn’t mean he’d ignore the man’s guilt if someone could prove it.
For the rest, all Diaz could think was how he couldn’t catch a break from the sergeant, and yet he had to ride around with him almost every day.
WHEN THE PHONE RANG AT his desk and Kahn heard it was Burbette of FBI, he considered whether to bring Diaz into the conversation. Diaz had just returned from a false alarm and was somewhere in the building, according to the in-out board. He might be in the john or in the garage or in the break room. He wasn’t in the main squad room at the moment, and Kahn decided not to bother.
Check that. Kahn decided he didn’t need the added stress of having Diaz on the call, especially when Burbette suggested that they conference in O’Shea, so the Fed wouldn’t have to say everything twice. O’Shea was riding in a car on the way to an interview.
“Everyone hear me okay?” Burbette asked.
“Yeah,” Kahn said.
“Roger,” said O’Shea.
“As you guys know,” Burbette said, “the ETK at the scene didn’t show anything definitive, b
ut the swab that NYPD took from the crater tested positive for RDX. I just got the results from the taggant trace and it’s interesting, to say the least. It’s military.”
“Confirms our hunch,” O’Shea said.
“What hunch is that?”
“Well, just with the guy being a vet that it’s a possible self-inflict.”
Burbette paused. “Not exactly an earth-shattering deduction, considering the results on the sidewalk.”
“Course not. All the same, it’s something.”
Kahn wondered why he was the only guy not riding O’Shea hard these days. Maybe because he was the only one not having his stones busted by someone from above, Cap being out of commission, too sick even to phone in regularly. With the luxury of space, Kahn thought maybe to give O’Shea a bit of a rescue. “Brian, didn’t you determine that Horn was infantry?”
“Roger. Cavalry, actually. Same thing for our purposes, I guess.”
“Can you confirm that, Don?”
“Yes, I can. Eighth Regiment. No obvious reason this guy would’ve had access to plastic, but you never know. I’m gonna try to run that down. Also I’ll see whether the taggant can be traced more narrowly to a particular base or a particular service. That’ll take awhile. In fact, it could take forever. But I’m on it. What else you got?”
“Bomb parts and body parts,” Kahn said. “Minimal shrapnel and some fragments of a cell phone. Also, of course, scraps of the suspect’s artificial legs.”
“Enough for CSU to reconstruct them?”
“I doubt it. Not completely, anyway.”
“Horn was employed.” O’Shea jumped in. “Worked just a few blocks away. His boss says his normal commute from work wouldn’t take him past the recruitment center. Usually walks a different way to the subway. Plus, it wasn’t quitting time. Apparently, he was on his way to the theater, courtesy of his employer. Boss says he was distraught and needed a break. CSU found a pair of Spider-Man tickets in his shirt pocket, confirming. He was just a block away from there when the bomb went off.”
A Danger to Himself and Others: Bomb Squad NYC Incident 1 Page 6