by Diane Kelly
I nodded.
“Her dog got hit with a nail,” the EMT added from his spot next to me, his words punctuated by the movie’s laugh track coming from the tablet’s speakers. He lifted his chin to indicate me. “She got a screw in her ass.” He reached over, plucked the screw and nail from a small plastic bowl, and held them out.
Chief Garelik’s upper lip curled back in disgust. “No, thanks.”
I took the screw and nail from the EMT’s fingers and slipped them into my pocket. Might as well keep them as a memento, right? Maybe one day I’d visit an elementary school with Brigit, present the nail and screw at show-and-tell.
The chief asked me some questions and I told him everything I knew. When I finished, he looked past me and waved someone over. A moment later, a fortyish black woman with short, perky braids walked up, her strides wide and confident. Like the chief, she was dressed in civilian clothes, though she had a police-issue gun holstered at the waist of her khakis.
“Detective Jackson,” Chief Garelik said, addressing the woman, “this is Megan Luz. She was here at the mall when the bomb exploded.”
I shook the woman’s hand.
“It’s hotter’n hell out here,” she said. “Let’s talk in my car.”
She gestured for me to follow her to her vehicle, which was a plain white unmarked police cruiser. I led Brigit over and we climbed inside, the detective and me in the front, Brigit in the back. Detective Jackson turned on the engine and cranked up the AC.
She pulled a pen and small notepad out of her breast pocket and turned to me. “Got some questions for you.” She asked first about the bomb itself: “Describe it for me.”
I repeated the information I’d told Seth. “Three metal pipes attached to a kitchen timer. It was inside a bag from Stick People.”
“Stick People? What’s that?”
“The shish-kebab stand in the food court.”
She made notes on her pad. “You know the staff there?”
“Some of them,” I said. “Most are high school or college kids. The owner’s name is Serhan Singh. He’s at the stand most days during lunch, but today he and his wife were in the shoe store shopping for their daughter. She starts kindergarten soon.”
“Serhan Singh,” she repeated. “He’s foreign?”
“Yes. He’s from Turkey. He came here to attend school at UT Arlington years ago. He met his wife in c-college and decided to stay.”
“She Turkish, too?”
“Indian,” I said. “I’m not sure if she was born in the U.S., but she was raised here.”
“Anything unusual about them?”
I shook my head.
Jackson eyed me intently. “Given that the bomb was in a bag bearing Singh’s logo, he might be the one who planted it.”
As much as I didn’t want to believe it, she could be right. Nobody would think twice if they saw him carrying a bag from his own food stand. Still, it felt as if we were barking up the wrong tree.
“He just doesn’t seem like the type,” I said. “He’s assimilated well. He’s a huge Cowboys fan.” The Dallas Cowboys were America’s Team, after all. It just didn’t seem like an ardent fan could do something so awful to his fellow Americans. “He’s always been very friendly to me.”
“Maybe too friendly?” she asked, her lip quirking in question.
I couldn’t deny it. “Maybe.”
Were my warm feelings toward Serhan misguided? After all, the fellow members of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s high school wrestling team had thought he was a good guy until he was arrested for his part in the Boston Marathon bombings. People were routinely shocked to learn that their nice-guy neighbors were murders, rapists, or pedophiles. Appearances and behavior could be deceptive and misleading.
She tapped her pen on the pad. “How deep was the bag in the can?”
“Only a foot or so,” I said.
“So whoever put the bag in the can must have done so fairly soon before the bomb exploded.”
I nodded. “The food court was very busy today. The cans filled up fast.”
Detective Jackson proceeded to lead me back through the events preceding the explosion. Had there been any unusual activity in the food court today or in the recent past? Had I seen anyone suspicious? Did I know of anyone who might have a reason to target the mall?
“Maybe a former employee who’d been fired?” she suggested. “A pissed-off customer? A tenant who has a beef with management?”
I racked my brain, but the only people who came to mind immediately were the skateboarders and the women who owned the wine store. Other than that, things had been business as usual at the mall. “There were a couple adolescent boys skateboarding here yesterday,” I told her. “I made them get off their boards.”
“They seem dangerous?”
“Not especially,” I said, but what did I know? A sadistic criminal had slipped a bag of explosives into a garbage can not fifteen feet from me and I didn’t even notice. Not exactly the kind of attention to detail a wannabe detective should possess. Then again, I had been on my lunch break. Nobody can be on 24/7, right? “They were back here this morning. They set off some fireworks in the parking lot.”
The detective arched an interested brow. “Sometimes fireworks are used in bombs. They’re a cheap and easy-to-obtain source of gunpowder.”
Maybe I’d underestimated the risk the boys posed.
She cocked her head. “Did you see any fireworks in the bag with the bomb?”
“No. Just the pipes and the timer and what looked like utensils or scrap metal.”
“Any idea who the boys are?”
I shook my head.
“Anyone else who might have a motive?”
“The two women who own the wine shop have been struggling financially,” I continued, noting the conversation I’d overhead between them and the mall manager a while back. “They asked to be let out of their lease, but he refused.”
The detective jotted another note.
I glanced across the street. The demonstrators had left the gas station and were nowhere to be seen.
“There were antifur protestors here earlier,” I added, though it was doubtful a group advocating compassion and the sanctity of life would do something so violent and potentially deadly. Despite the revealing bikini, the too-short bike shorts, and the saggy sunburned butt cheeks, the group hadn’t seemed extreme. Besides, I hadn’t noticed any of the protestors in the food court. Still, the group might have a rogue member who’d taken things too far. At this point, we couldn’t rule out any possibilities.
“You know who the protestors were?” Jackson asked.
“No.” Since their group was small, no city permit would have been required for the gathering, so there would be no official documentation of the participants, either.
“What did they look like?”
The only ones I could remember in any detail were the curly-haired blonde wearing the red bikini and bright-orange sneakers and the gray-haired, bearded guy in the tiny bike shorts and hiking boots. I described them to Jackson.
She made some notes on her pad. “Sounds like a freak show.”
“It drew attention to their cause.” I shrugged. “Honestly, they seemed harmless. I spoke with them briefly and they were polite and nonconfrontational.”
“Old hippies?”
“Exactly.”
She seemed to weigh my assessment for a moment before moving on. “What about after the explosion? Anything unusual happen during the evacuation?”
“I saw a U-Haul pull out of the lot. I know rental trucks have been used in bombings before, so it caught my attention.”
“Did you get the license plate?”
“No. It was too far away.”
She made a note on her pad. “I’ll check the outside security cameras, see if the feeds picked it up.”
I told her that Ariana Brackenburg had seemed relatively nonplussed and nonchalant. Then again, the woman dealt in death. Maybe a bomb was nothing to someone
who sold electrocuted and skinned rabbits for a living.
Jackson made another note. “Any heroes?”
“What do you mean?”
She circled her pen in the air. “Anyone acting unusually brave? Helping out?”
I thought back. “The guy who runs the carousel pulled a kid or two from the horses, but he didn’t stick around long.” The only ones who hadn’t hightailed it out of the courtyard as quickly as possible were me and Brigit.
The detective glanced out the window at Seth’s Nova, her eyes taking in the flames painted on the sides, the “KABOOM” license plate. “How quickly did the first responders arrive?”
I thought back. “Ten minutes or so for most of them, but Officer Mackey was here just a m-minute or two after the bomb went off. I ran into him on the mall’s southwest walkway when I left the courtyard.”
“Is he assigned to this division?”
“Yes.” Unfortunately.
“So he wouldn’t have been too far away, presumably.” She glanced over at him, her eyes raking him up and down as if trying to scratch below the surface and see what lay underneath. “How much time would you say elapsed between when you first began evacuating the food court and when you saw Mackey on the walk?”
I mentally calculated. “Four minutes,” I said. “Maybe five.”
She looked up in thought. “I suppose he could’ve made it here that quickly. Calls came in to Dispatch before the bomb even went off.”
Shoppers must have dialed 911 from their cell phones as they fled the food court.
She turned her focus back to me. “What about the other first responders?”
“The first bomb tech to arrive was the guy who drives the N-Nova. His name’s Seth Rutledge. He got here right after the ambulance and fire truck.”
“He came in his own car?”
I nodded.
She tapped her pen against her lips before speaking again. “He must have been close by, too. Did he mention where he’d been before the bombing?”
When I shook my head she made another note.
After I’d told her all I could, she turned off the AC and cut the engine. “Let’s have a chat with the mall manager and the security team.”
As we climbed out of the car, she glanced into the backseat. The upholstery and floor mats were coated in Brigit’s long black fur. “Lord,” the detective said. “I’ll have to get this thing vacuumed.”
We went over to Mr. Castleberry and the security guards. Detective Jackson asked them many of the same questions she’d asked me. Unfortunately, they had even less information to offer than I had. None of them were aware of any disgruntled employees, angry shoppers with an axe to grind, or unhappy tenants other than the owners of the wine shop. None had noticed anything unusual at the mall this morning. Not surprising, really. Ricky and Scott had probably spent the morning in front of the televisions at Macy’s again.
“As soon as the bomb techs are done,” Jackson directed the manager, “pull the security tapes. I want to see all of them.” She looked over the notes she’d made, slid the notepad back into her pocket, and handed business cards to the men. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
* * *
As we waited outside the mall, my cell phone vibrated with an incoming text. I checked the screen. It was from my little sister, Gabrielle.
Heard about bomb at mall. U ok?
I texted her back: I’m fine. A blatant lie if ever there was one. But I had to keep myself together. No way would I let the Big Dick or the chief see me cry.
Two long hours later, Seth and the other bomb techs emerged from the mall. No more bombs had exploded, and from the fact that the men had removed their helmets it appeared the bomb detection dogs had uncovered no further explosives.
The men made their way back to their vehicles. After removing and stowing their protective gear, they pulled out white gym towels to freshen up. Judging from the sweat stains on their T-shirts, their suits must’ve been extremely hot.
When Seth pulled his T-shirt off over his head my lungs released an instinctive, primal rush of air in response: Huhhhhh.
Seth’s back was broad and muscular, with a tattoo of an eagle spread across it, the wings spreading over his shoulder blades. The eagle clutched the traditional olive branch in one talon, a bunch of arrows in the other, symbolizing the eternal irony that to have peace you sometimes had to fight for it. Maybe one day humans would learn to get along, to coexist, and the eagle could trade in the olive branch and arrows for a TV remote and a caramel macchiato. One must retain hope, right?
My eyes moved down to Seth’s lower back. My God, it looked as if someone had used the guy as a piñata. A number of haphazard scars crisscrossed his skin. Some of the scars were thin, short, and faint, while others were wider, longer, darker, and deeper.
What had caused his scars? Could it have been a bomb?
I watched, but pretended not to, as Seth ran the towel over his shoulders and chest. I was tempted to offer to help with those hard-to-reach places on his back, but as hot as he’d made me already, I feared touching him would cause me to self-combust. At least there was a fire truck on-site for that eventuality. They could hose me down.
Dressed in fresh tees now, the bomb squad made its way over to Chief Garelik, Detective Jackson, and the Big Dick for a quick powwow.
When the group broke, Derek came over and informed the waiting firemen and EMTs they were free to leave.
I bade good-bye to the tech who’d tended to me and Brigit. “Thanks.”
Detective Jackson waved me over. “The lead bomb tech and I are going inside with the crime scene techs to take a look around. We want you to come with us.”
TWENTY-SIX
DOGGIE BAGGIN’
Brigit
Megan and Seth led their K-9 partners into the enclosed courtyard, found an out-of-the-way spot, and ordered the dogs to stay. Given the abundance of food scraps within belly-crawling distance, Brigit was more than happy to comply.
Blast stayed put as ordered, but the second Megan turned her back Brigit slunk forward and snatched the remains of a chopped-beef sandwich from the floor. She returned to her designated spot and wolfed down all but the last bite. She dropped the final piece to the floor and nudged it toward Blast. No need to be stingy. Besides, the yellow Lab was kind of cute. She’d always had a thing for beta males.
TWENTY-SEVEN
IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED …
The Rattler
Through a window of a pizza place across the street he watched the first responders mill about the mall parking lot. The beer he nursed did nothing to tamp down the rage roiling inside him.
Things had not gone according to plan.
The only ones hurt had been that stupid female cop and her dumb hairy dog, and from what he could tell their injuries had been minor. The EMT had slapped Band-Aids on them and sent them on their way.
But as they say, the second time’s the charm.…
TWENTY-EIGHT
SOMETHING FISHY IS GOING ON
Megan
Once Seth and I got our dogs settled in a quiet place in the courtyard, Jackson handed us blue paper booties to put over our shoes. “Stick close to me,” she advised. “Don’t touch anything without talking to me or one of the crime scene technicians first. We don’t want to contaminate the evidence.”
A half-dozen crime scene techs milled about. Three made their way around the space taking photographs, while the others trailed after them, picking up the shrapnel with tongs and placing it in large plastic evidence bags.
I followed the detective and Seth around the courtyard as they examined the evidence. As we neared the epicenter, I pointed to the trash can, which now lay on its side. The thick plastic remained surprisingly intact.
Jackson motioned to the lid, which rested on the floor nearby. “Looks like the blast blew the lid off.”
“No,” I said. “When Brigit alerted on the can, I took the lid off to search it.”
It dawned on me that if I’d put the lid back on the can it might have suppressed the blast and prevented it from wreaking such widespread damage. I’d unintentionally assisted the bomber in his evil deeds. Dammit! I was tempted to whip out my baton and hit myself in the head. It was my own fault I’d been screwed in the ass, my fault Brigit got a nail in her hip. She would definitely get some extra treats later.
Seth knelt down to examine a section of floor littered with metal and small shards of thin glass.
Detective Jackson knelt down next to him. “What do you think?”
“There’s the usual nails and BBs and screws,” Seth said, pointing, “but there’s quite a bit of glass, too.”
Jackson leaned in for a closer look, then looked up and around, her eyes taking in the sconces on the nearby pole. All of the oversized bulbs inside had been busted, a few pointy shards remaining attached to the base and sticking out of the sockets. “Looks like this glass is from broken lightbulbs.”
Irving.
“One of the maintenance guys replaced those bulbs just before the bomb went off,” I said, remembering back to yesterday when he’d been fixing the door outside. His toolbox had been filled with assorted screws and nails. But that was to be expected, wasn’t it?
Still crouching, the detective pulled her pad and pen back out of her pocket. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“His first name’s Irving,” I said. “I d-don’t know his last name.”
“I’ll get it from the mall manager,” Jackson said, scribbling a note.
Seth pointed at some metal pieces a little farther away. “Are those fishhooks?”
Jackson took a look. “Yup.”
Did the hooks mean something? I bent down now, too. “Think the fishhooks could be a signature of sorts? Or maybe intended to send a message?”
The detective lifted a shoulder noncommittally. “Could be. Course it could just mean the bomber was being creative. Or that fishhooks were easily accessible to him. Or that they’re cheap.”