A Danger to Himself and Others: Bomb Squad NYC Incident 1

by J. E. Fishman

  No one was worried. They figured a guy living out of a post office box was not likely to be an early riser. Diaz pictured them waiting there all week, in fact, doing shifts. Not being accustomed to stakeouts, he wondered how he’d keep himself alert.

  Kahn had an egg sandwich in his hand, dripping yolk into the aluminum foil wrapper on his lap. The thing smelled rotten—but maybe that was the melted cheese. He told Diaz to pull to a stop just up the block from the post office and across the street.

  Diaz peered through his side window. Everything looked normal. Then, all of a sudden, it didn’t.

  There was a guy walking with a pronounced limp in the direction of the post office. He fit the sketchy description that O’Shea had provided from army records, tall and exceedingly gaunt. Whether he matched the more youthful picture would require much closer examination.

  “Holy crap. I think that’s our man Salinowsky.” Diaz looked at Kahn, who dropped his sandwich to the floor between his legs.

  “So soon? Shit.”

  They hit their phones.

  “No one’s in position yet,” Kahn said. “Tail him but hold back. I’ll get them organized.”

  Just as Salinowsky reached the entrance to the post office, Diaz opened his door. Kahn grabbed his partner’s arm and Diaz twisted around so their eyes met.

  “Remember,” Kahn said. “Procedure.”

  Diaz nodded, closed his door, and jogged across the street, putting out his hand to stop traffic. No one hit the horn. Short coat flapping in the cold breeze, black turtleneck hugging his Adam’s apple, hand on his right hip, he had to present as a cop, he thought. But Salinowsky didn’t look out through the post office window. Even through all the obstructions, Diaz had a bead on him.

  He paused at the glass door. From this perspective he could see the line of post office boxes. Salinowsky confirmed his identity by going to the one they knew was his. A moment later he shoved an envelope into his coat pocket and turned to go.

  Diaz would have preferred to approach Salinowsky in the street, but his backup wasn’t in place and Kahn had warned him. He put his shoulder against the building and watched Salinowsky exit and limp from the plaza. His pants were too long for anyone to see his ankles, but Diaz figured from the way he walked that the right leg was the prosthetic one.

  There were a lot of people on the street going to work. A woman held a closed umbrella in the air and spoke to a crowd in French. Probably a tour of the Financial District. Salinowsky was on course to walk right past them.

  Senses on high alert, Diaz reviewed the sources of incipient danger. By the time he arrived home last night, he’d already calculated the chance at eighty percent that Salinowsky was a potential victim—not the bomber. His conversation with Jennifer raised those odds to ninety-eight percent in his mind, which meant that the man in his sights might this very moment be unknowingly carrying a bomb. There was a very small chance Salinowsky wasn’t a potential victim at all, and a slightly better than small chance, in Diaz’s mind, that he operated as an intentional suicide bomber. The overall uncertainty—in addition to Kahn’s warning—kept him from stopping Salinowsky in the street. If the man felt threatened, he might run and plow into a group of civilians, like those French people, before detonating.

  Another consideration: Diaz knew that there was an armed forces recruiting office just five blocks south. Presuming that GPS governed this device, as it likely had the others, Salinowsky could not be permitted to walk in front of that location, either by accident or by design. Notwithstanding Kahn’s warning, Diaz intended at all costs to stop him if it came to that.

  As luck would have it, he watched as Salinowsky limped in the opposite direction.

  Diaz released some air from his lungs and got Kahn on the speed dial. “Subject proceeding on Worth toward Broadway. How we doing on the other guys?”

  “Not in place yet. Maintain your distance.”

  “I don’t know,” Diaz said.

  “I repeat. Maintain your distance.”

  “Roger that.”

  Diaz disconnected.

  Salinowsky crossed Broadway and limped into the shadow of some scaffolding, which sent a surge into Diaz’s chest, thinking he might lose him. He angled his head to cut the glare and watched Salinowsky disappear into a store called E-Z Cash. Of course. Guy probably didn’t even have a bank account.

  Diaz called Kahn again and reported the location.

  “We’re behind you,” Kahn said.

  “I’m going in.” Diaz reached for his Glock.

  He hung up before Kahn could reply, slipped the phone into his pants pocket and jogged across Broadway. As he did so he saw Kahn running toward him down the sidewalk. Their eyes met. Like true partners, they didn’t have to exchange a word.

  Diaz beat Kahn to the door, but only by a few steps. He didn’t hold it for him. He burst through and saw Salinowsky in a line of three or four people. The clerk slammed her window shut as Diaz called out, “Police!”

  A black guy in line hit the floor like he’d been shot. Two women grabbed their chests. Kahn watched Salinowsky’s spine stiffen. He hesitated for a moment. Then he turned around with excruciating slowness.

  DIAZ LEVELED HIS GUN AT Salinowsky.

  “Police,” he repeated. “Get to the floor.” But the tall man just stood there.

  By the door behind them, Diaz heard Kahn radioing for backup and issuing instructions to evacuate the area. He wasn’t using the cell phone any longer.

  Salinowsky stood still, his eyes heavy and uncertain. Yelling wasn’t likely to move him, so Diaz decided upon a different tack. He opened his free hand. “Lewis, will you let these people leave?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Salinowsky said. “Wha—what’s going on?”

  “These people need to leave, Lewis. Okay? They may be in danger.”

  “Danger?”

  Diaz gestured to them. “C’mon.” He showed Salinowsky the heel of his hand. “You just stay there.” He still had his Glock leveled at the tall man’s chest. The women started easing toward the door and Diaz saw through a reflection in the Plexiglas that Kahn held it open for them. Surreal. Like a doorman.

  “Go to the corner,” Kahn told the women. “There should be a perimeter. Stick around.”

  You never knew who was involved, but Diaz understood that Kahn couldn’t take himself away to deal with unlikely accomplices. He could see in the reflection of the teller’s window that there were a few blue uniforms outside now, the sidewalk emptying of civilians. But if any other Bomb Squad guys showed up, they wouldn’t come for another ten minutes at least.

  “You, too,” Diaz said to the black guy with the do-rag. “C’mon. Go!”

  He watched the man struggle to his feet with his hands raised, clearly afraid of the cop or the gun. Maybe both. He cut Diaz a wide berth as he left.

  Diaz didn’t look behind him. “We clear, Sandy?”

  “Clear.”

  The teller had disappeared. Maybe she’d ducked under the counter, Diaz thought. For her sake he hoped instead that she’d used a rear exit.

  He gestured to Salinowsky with his gun. “I really need you to take off your coat, Lewis.”

  “My coat?”

  “So I can see you better.”

  “My coat.”

  “Just drop it to the floor. Do it now.”

  Salinowsky stood frozen. “I don’t know. It’s my only one.”

  “Is your name Lewis Salinowsky?”

  “That’s what my mother said.”

  “Take off your coat, Lewis. You’ll get it back. You got anything in those pockets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything dangerous?”

  “I don’t know. Some—I don’t know.”

  Diaz studied his eyes. They were milky, puffy. “Drug paraphernalia?” he asked. “Syringes?”

  “Maybe a few.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Finally, Salinowsky shucked the overcoat. It fell quietly to the floor.


  “I know guns,” he said. “I don’t like them.”

  “Let’s put them away, then, okay?”

  “Done,” Kahn said behind him.

  Diaz slipped his gun back into its holster. “Better?”

  Salinowsky said, “What do you want with me?”

  Diaz pointed. “Do you have an artificial leg, sir?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I told you. NYPD. I’m with the Bomb Squad.”

  “The Bomb Squad?”

  “Would you sit on the floor for me?”

  Salinowsky didn’t move.

  “I’m not gonna ask you again, Lewis.”

  Salinowsky still stood frozen.

  Diaz issued a sigh. He took half a step forward. “Tell you what. Let’s both sit.”

  They heard sirens outside in the background, closing in and then dying to silence.

  “It’s hard for me,” Salinowsky said. “On account of—I’m not like normal people.”

  “Take your time.” Diaz bent at the waist to indicate he was going down.

  Salinowsky looked past him at Kahn.

  “He’ll remain standing,” Diaz said. “Guard the door. Make sure no one barges in. As a matter of fact,” Diaz said over his shoulder, “you can cover it from the other side, can’t you, Sarge?” He thought about who else might be out there, even ten minutes from now. With the flu still ripping through, the squad was fielding skeleton crews, and he suspected the two of them might be the only bomb techs in the vicinity for a good long time. “You got a suit out there, right?”

  Kahn hesitated for a second. Diaz knew that, as a sergeant, he was no longer accustomed to donning the bomb suit. But there was no one else. “Okay,” Kahn agreed. “Going out. But I’m right here.”

  Diaz heard the door drift closed. It didn’t reassure him.

  “WE’RE GOING TO THE GROUND NOW,” Diaz said. “One. Two. Three.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Salinowsky said. But he finally began to move. He lowered himself awkwardly to the floor, first sticking the right leg straight out, then bending the left, finally collapsing to his rear end.

  Diaz went to his knees, rested his butt on his heels. “I need to see your prosthetic leg. Can I see it?”

  Salinowsky, lips now trembling, lifted his pant leg about six inches.

  “Good. That’s good. You’re cooperating. See, no one’s gonna hurt you.”

  “Oh.” Salinowsky looked off. “Is this about the church?”

  “What church?”

  “St. Euph’s.”

  “Not that I know of. You Ukrainian?”

  “Half.”

  “Used to be a lot of them in that part of town.”

  “Nowadays not so much.”

  “Maybe you can give me a tour when this is all over.”

  Salinowsky looked puzzled. “This? What do you mean by this?”

  “Are you carrying a bomb?”

  “Why would I do that? I don’t even like loud noises anymore.”

  “That’s good. But I have reason to believe you’re carrying a bomb.”

  “I told you I’m not.”

  “Will you do me a favor, Lewis? Would you take off your prosthesis for me?”

  Salinowsky went ramrod straight. “That’s my leg.”

  “I know, but I need to examine it, on account of it may be dangerous.”

  “I can’t walk without it.” He paused, lip trembling. “I never hurt anyone. Not even in Iraq. Dove into the road to evade live fire. Got run over by a damn APC.”

  “I’m sorry. Really. I was there too once.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning. I was lucky.”

  “Messed me up plenty good.”

  “You went to the hospital. There was a nurse there. What was her name?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I think you had an unusual experience in that hospital bed. Someone might be jealous of what she did with you. Do you remember her?”

  “Nurse Ritchie, I guess. It’s all pretty foggy. We did it standing up. Hurt like hell every time, but felt good too. She mad at me now?”

  “Not her. I don’t think so. Someone else maybe planted a bomb in the leg. Can you take it off, let me examine it?”

  “No.”

  “I need to look at it, Lewis.”

  “No, I said. Enough.”

  A loud sound outside made both of them flinch. Salinowsky reacted worse than Diaz. He spasmed as if electricity had hit him.

  “I need a fix. Can you get me a fix?”

  “I can’t get you drugs, Lewis. I’m a cop. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “But you want something and I have my needs, too.”

  “I can’t get you drugs. I can get you treatment.”

  “That’s nothing. Father Igor can do that. What’s your game?”

  “I need to see the leg now. It could explode any minute and hurt us both.”

  “You can’t!” He was shivering, more volatile. “I need my fix. The leg is mine!”

  Salinowsky reached for his waistband and Diaz had to presume he was going for a detonator. He couldn’t outrun a blast but he might outrun Salinowsky’s shaking hands. He covered the six feet between them in less than a second and yanked Salinowsky’s arms away from his body. He lay spread-eagle over Salinowsky, pinning down all four limbs.

  A guy rushed in behind, so much as you could rush wearing a full-body bomb suit. It was Kahn. Muffled, through the visor, he screamed at Diaz to go, but without thinking Diaz had wrenched the leg away from Salinowsky, torn it clean off his stump.

  “There’s no wire,” he said.

  “I got it,” Kahn said. “Get out! Get him out!”

  Diaz grabbed Salinowsky by the back of his shirt and dragged him screaming through the door and out onto the sidewalk, his one remaining shoe scraping along the pavement. Two uniformed cops fell on him and patted him down while Diaz caught his breath.

  KAHN SENT A UNIFORMED COP with his keys to get the ScanX equipment from the trunk of his car. Three minutes later, he stood over the prosthesis, already sweating in the Kevlar suit and blast-resistant helmet. Detached from its owner, the mechanical leg looked inert and none too clean. If there was a bomb inside, it was well hidden.

  It had been a while since Kahn stood over a suspicious item like this. As SDS, he was rarely called anymore to don the suit. Desperate times call for desperate measures, he thought, but immediately tried to force the drama of that expression and the novelty of this situation from his mind.

  He stood for a moment, assessing the best way to set up the x-ray. With the artificial leg lying so flat, it would be difficult to get a good shot. He contemplated whether to bring in a pulley, attempt to hook the thing and get it partway off the ground. Recalling that the other two bombs in this case had charges directed at the wearer, he slowly walked around so that the thickest section faced away from him. Then he bent to examine it more closely, thinking how calm Diaz looked when he crouched over that bag on the steps of St. Patrick’s. Crazy S.O.B.

  But then Kahn realized that his own breathing had slowed to a uniform pace, almost like meditating. All the training and experience would undergird every move he made from here, but it was composure and concentration that had the best chance to protect him.

  Kahn peered through his visor, homing in on the leg. On the edge of the seam, he saw something. He set the x-ray equipment aside and leaned closer as he ran a finger with great care over the seam. Kahn realized he still had on his reading glasses. He’d been staring at his phone as an SOD detective helped him suit up, and he’d never removed them.

  The glasses allowed him to see what he otherwise would have missed. It was there clear as day, a serial number stamped into the notch of the seam.

  Kahn remembered Diaz’s observation that Albert Horn’s normal prosthesis had a serial number while none was ever found on the remnants of the one that carried the bomb. No serial number found among the remnants of
the prosthesis that killed Gavin Littel either. The bomb maker had overlooked these infinitesimal details.

  The discovery now of this serial number gave Kahn the confidence to extract his Leatherman from a pocket of the Kevlar suit. They could summon the robot and tie up much of lower Manhattan for another four hours, but—again thinking of Diaz—Kahn liked his chances to deal with this properly here and now. He flicked open the knife and got down on his knees over the prosthesis. Then he inserted the tip of the knife into the seam and gently pried the two sections apart.

  DIAZ HAD HIGGINS WITH HIM in the response truck this time, with Higgins driving and Salinowsky squeezed in between them looking dazed and glum. Higgins always smelled vaguely of curry, and now it combined none too well with the reek coming off of the homeless man. They were in a convoy heading for Allen Street—two cruisers in the lead, followed by the truck Higgins drove and a bomb disposal truck. Also mixed in were a couple of unmarked Suburbans and another response truck with Cam Fowler and his EDC.

  St. Euphrosyne, according to the radio, had already been evacuated.

  “Tell me again,” Diaz told Salinowsky. He had him in handcuffs as a precaution. “The bomb is in the pantry closet?”

  “The cabinet.” Salinowsky nodded. “I didn’t say it was a bomb.”

  “Excuse me. The other leg, which may contain a bomb.”

  “You said that, not me.”

  “But you did switch legs this morning.”

  Salinowsky nodded. “I rotate them every couple of days. Keeps the blisters down.”