Exceptional Clearance

by William Caunitz

  Vinda strapped himself into the harness and was lowered into the cavity. The air inside was filled with a fine mist of dust particles, and smelled of coal and cornstarch. Unstrapping himself, Vinda looked into the chief of detectives’ worried face, and asked, “Why the ‘forthwith’?”

  “A bomb did this. It was planted in the first-floor loft where The Women’s Register was holding a meeting.”

  Vinda’s thoughts leaped to May Gold, the former cop turned lawyer. Then he focused on the crumpled cardboard drum wedged between beams and timbers, and asked in a puzzled tone, “What has this got to do with my caper?”

  “The victims were all women.” Leventhal pointed at the drum, adding, “Take a look.”

  Vinda made his way around and between the I-beams and timbers into the space where the drum stood in an upright position. Looking inside, his face contorted in an ugly expression of disgust. A woman’s body had been wedged into it; the lower torso was mired in ruby-colored mud. He reached down into the drum, tilted the head, and examined the enormous, ghastly wound in her throat. Looking up at Leventhal, he called, “Have someone give my team a ‘forthwith.’”

  Standing under the opening, Leventhal shouted out orders.

  Measuring the wound, Vinda brushed his fingers over the marks of the vampire kiss, knowing his killer had struck again. A multiple homicide this time. He wondered what had caused him to make such a radical departure in his MO. Probing the wound with two fingers, he pulled out severed arteries that had the same clean cuts as the others. He cleaned his hands on Kate Coswell’s bulky sweater. Hearing a commotion behind him, he turned to see Dr. Patricia Marcal being lowered in the harness, holding her medical kit against her chest.

  Leventhal rushed to unstrap the doctor.

  “Over here,” Vinda called.

  The assistant medical examiner passed her medical kit through to Vinda and, stretching her leg over the first beam, climbed into the chamber. Hunching over, she made her way over to the drum. “Take a look,” Vinda said.

  After a brief examination, she looked up at Vinda and announced, “It’s him again.” She plunged her hand into the awful mass in the drum and pulled out the dead woman’s slim hand. With her own hand she carefully wiped off some of the fingers and said, “Get the Baggies out of my bag. Looks like she scratched him. Those skin balls under her nails will give us his genetic fingerprints.”

  Twenty-two minutes later, Vinda, Leventhal, and Dr. Marcal watched the drum being hoisted up and out in the parachute harness. “It’s a miracle that it survived the explosion,” Leventhal said to Vinda.

  “I’ve seen things like that before,” Vinda answered. “A building explodes and things like the stained-glass windows survive intact. The girders protected it when the rest of the building came down.”

  The detective whom Leventhal had dispatched to notify Vinda’s team returned from temporary headquarters to report that Moose, Agueda, and Hagstrom had all been notified. Detective Marsella’s wife stated that her husband was not at home; he was playing cards with a friend in the city.

  Vinda walked into the temporary morgue. Missing Persons Squad morticians were kneeling on the floor, trying to make identifications. A woman detective moved along the file of bodies, attempting to match up a severed leg with one of the blackened hulks.

  Lowering himself onto one of the aquamarine plastic-covered counter stools, Vinda said to the C-of-D, “It’s getting worse instead of better. Now he’s blowing up buildings.”

  A badly shaken chief of detectives moved his head in agreement. “Something must have set him off.” Leventhal looked at Vinda and said in a frightened voice, “Jesus, we gotta find this guy now, John. He’s going to shut this city down.”

  A few minutes later the team arrived. Vinda motioned them outside. They gathered around the Whip. “The few survivors have been rushed to Bellevue. Hagstrom and Agueda, get over there and try to interview them. Tony, I want you and Moose to hit the bars and restaurants. It’s Christmas-party time, and someone might have seen our boy.”

  “Right, Lou,” Marsella said, avoiding the Whip’s eyes.

  Vinda walked over to the Bomb Squad station wagon, noting the array of tools aligned on the sidewalk: wheelbarrows, power saws, cutting torches, metal detectors, screens for sifting debris. He went up to the sergeant who was standing by the opened rear door, and identified himself.

  “I’m Sergeant O’Boyle, Lou,” the sergeant told him.

  “Have your people come up with anything yet?”

  “Yeah, a few things. First off, whoever did this is a pro. He planted the stuff in the vicinity of the load-bearing walls. When those support walls blew, the entire structure came tumbling down.” The sergeant arched his back and stretched. “Most people say the dead don’t talk. That’s not true in a bomb case. All sorts of shit ends up embedded in victims. My guys went over the bodies and dug out the plastic end cap from a block of plastique. We also found pieces of a detonator in the same body.”

  “Plastique,” Vinda said, a desperate edge to his voice.

  “When that crap blows, it hurls debris at the rate of twenty-six thousand four hundred feet per second,” O’Boyle said.

  “Is it easy to come by?”

  “Not really. The military and a few police departments use it to take out steel doors, and a few demolition companies around the country. It’s a tightly controlled substance. Here, lemme show you something.” Vinda moved up to the station wagon’s lowered rear door. A black box with an eyepiece sat on the door. “Take a look, Lou.”

  Vinda peered into the eyepiece; a slate blue pebble shone against a black backdrop.

  “You’re looking at a chunk of Semtex we scraped off a twisted grille. Semtex is a Czech-manufactured plastique, a favorite of terrorists.”

  “How can you tell it’s Czech?”

  “By the color.”

  “And where would a guy get his hands on this Semtex?” Vinda asked, again thinking of May Gold, and hoping she had not attended tonight’s meeting.

  Corregidor’s tunnels were almost empty.

  Vinda walked into the bar and saw the barkeep playing chess with one of the five night owls. A starry-eyed couple held hands across one of the alcove cocktail tables.

  Vinda waited for the bartender to work out his next move: Bishop to Knight six, Check. The barman looked up at Vinda. “It’s kinda late for you, isn’t it, John?”

  “Soothsayer around?”

  “In the back,” the bald man said, going back to his endgame.

  The tables were set for the next day, gleaming white tablecloths, sparkling place settings. As he entered the largest of the dining rooms, he saw the man he sought, sitting at a corner table partially hidden in shadows. Another man was with him, leaning across the table, whispering.

  Vinda stood by the entrance, waiting his turn to see Soothsayer. This man’s epic spanned forty years; some was legend, some myth, but most of it true. Not many people in the Job remembered his real name. They knew he was a retired first-grade detective who had spent his entire career in the Job’s various intelligence units; they also knew that he had body-guarded some of the most powerful and influential men in the country, men who considered Soothsayer a friend and confidant. It had even been whispered in the corridors of the Big Building that Soothsayer had been the head Watergate bagman. Yet his name was never mentioned in any court papers, nor did it appear in any newspaper. Nowadays he could be found in one of Corregidor’s tunnels after 4:00 P.M. Monday through Friday, bringing people together, making deals, dispensing favors, calling in markers.

  The man at the table got up and left, passing Vinda without acknowledging he was there.

  Soothsayer’s wrinkled, age-spotted hand came out of the shadows, beckoning him. Vinda crossed the room, pulled out a chair, and sat. Soothsayer was a dark, undefined shape in the shadows. Only his right hand, resting on the table and toying with an eighteen-karat gold ring shaped into a replica of a detective shield, was in the light cast b
y the nearest overhead lamp.

  “Nice ring,” Vinda said admiringly.

  “Nelson gave it to me when he came back from Washington.” His face came forward into the light. Deepset eyes like those of an ancient sea turtle dominated his face with its pale wrinkled skin and thick, cracked lips. His hair was cropped short, in military fashion. “I hear you caught a real bitch of a case, Lou. Anything I can do to help?”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Vinda went over the details of the bombing. “The Bomb Squad boys told me Semtex is difficult to get hold of.” He let the unasked question hang.

  Soothsayer’s thumb toyed with the ring. “All you have to do, Lou, is know where to go, who to see, and what to say.” He picked up a bottle of Delamain and poured cognac into a snifter. He held the glass under his nose, inhaling the aroma, then set it down firmly. “Would you like a drink?”

  Vinda shook his head no.

  “You know, Lou, years ago we could take a handshake on a homicide.” He cradled the snifter in his hands, gently swirling the cognac. “The perp would tell you he had something important to do over the weekend, and that he’d surrender himself first thing Monday morning, and like clockwork, Monday morning he would show up. He’d show his appreciation, of course, and everything would be cool.” He sipped cognac. “That’s all changed now. You got yourself a high-tech, remote-control killer. Who also happens to be as crazy as a bedbug. He’s clever, resourceful—and he isn’t going to turn up in any of the usual data banks.”

  Soothsayer shook his head slowly and muttered, “This one was a sleeper. My guess is he’s been a walking bomb for years. He’d be a loner, keeping the wild side secret, waiting for the right moment. Hell, I don’t think even he knew when it would be.”

  Vinda frowned in perplexity. “So how do I get a line on this phantom?”

  Soothsayer smiled. “He’s done you a favor. Using the Semtex—that is going to leave a trail. And knowing how to use it—that means he got demo training somewhere. Most likely the military. So you gotta start looking for him in his past—not his present.” He looked at Vinda and something resembling a smile drew back his lips. “Tell me what little you know about this perp of yours.”

  “Male, white, doesn’t like women or the Job.”

  “A hard-on for the Job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hispanic?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “That probably eliminates the narco crowd. They don’t much trust gringos.”

  Vinda watched him sip cognac and waited for more.

  “There aren’t too many local hardware guys who deal that type of explosives. The Feds keep a tight lock on it because of the terrorism business. Your best bet is one of the bomb freelance dealers, not any one of the true believers like the IRA. There are only four or five of them in this area who deal plastique. Now, I can tell you who some of them are and where you’re likely to find them, and I can also tell you they don’t deal with strangers. Either they know you, or someone vouches for you. Take out a pen, Lou. Hope your insurance is paid up.”

  After leaving Corregidor, Vinda drove to the Photo Unit to try to match up the names Soothsayer had given him with mug shots and yellow sheets.

  When he arrived back at the disaster scene fifty minutes later, the fire department was still hosing down the debris.

  Climbing into the temporary headquarters trailer, Vinda saw the police commissioner angrily chewing on a cigar. A cloud of smoke hung in the air. “Are you sure it was him?” the PC demanded of Leventhal.

  “Yes,” the chief of detectives said.

  The PC slumped down on the counter of the communication console. “Exxon and Met Life have just announced that they’re leaving the city for Connecticut, citing crime as one of the main reasons for the move. Our department stores are half empty because women are afraid to leave their homes.” He glared at the detectives. “If we keep losing business, it won’t be long before we lose our tax base, and Fifth Avenue looks like a ghost town.” He glared at Leventhal. “Am I getting through, Chief?”

  “Loud and clear,” Leventhal said.

  The PC turned his attention to Vinda. “What have you come up with so far?”

  “We have a list of forty names from CCRB, mental patients who might fit, but we haven’t had time to check them out.”

  The PC looked at Leventhal and ordered, “Assign more men. I want every one of those people checked out by seventeen hundred tomorrow. And I want Vinda and his people out in the street pushing for real leads, not sitting around doing record checks.”

  The police commissioner left the van. Leventhal held a brief conference with Vinda, and then he left. Vinda went over to Hagstrom, who was leaning against a file cabinet checking her notes. “Anything from any of the witnesses?”

  “Negative. There were only seven survivors, and they were all being worked on when we got to the hospital,” she said, looking into the Whip’s eyes and adding sadly, “May Gold’s body has been identified.”

  Vinda winced with pain at the memory of her intelligence and spirit. He let down a folding seat from the wall of the trailer and slowly lowered himself to it, staring down at the floor. For a time he sat in silence, grieving for the families of the dead, wondering how parents were able to survive such heartbreak. And he thought of his Jean, and all the suffering she had to endure, and he grieved for all the anonymous crime victims whose sufferings went unnoticed, and he wondered what kind of world it was that created monsters who killed and maimed. Finally he muttered to himself, “You do what ya gotta do,” thrust himself up off the tiny seat, and hurried outside.

  The Emergency Service truck was parked behind the headquarters van. A sergeant knelt on a tarpaulin, oiling a hydraulic jack. “Hi, Sarge,” Vinda said, walking over.

  “Some mess, hmm, Lou?”

  “Yeah.” Vinda needed to make an instant friend, so he asked offhandedly, “How’s things in Emergency Service?”

  The sergeant rolled his eyes. “The Palace Guard just sent us a new CO, an empty suit who spent the last twenty years in the Big Building pushing paper. They sent him to us for field experience, so they can justify this rocket’s next promotion. Deputy Inspector Irwin J. Sheaffers, know him?”

  “Yeah, I know him. The hump wouldn’t piss up your ass if your guts were on fire.”

  “That’s the one, Lou,” the sergeant said to his new best friend in the Job.

  Vinda spent the next five minutes commiserating with him over the sad state of the Job. “Look at what’s happenin’, Lou, we got dwarfs on patrol.”

  “Yeah,” Vinda agreed sadly, “they lowered the height requirement in order to bring in women and Hispanics, and all they ended up with was a lot of short Italians.” Squatting on his haunches with an expression signifying deep thought, Vinda confided, “I’m about to throw a surprise party for a couple of scumbags, and was wondering if you might help me select a present or two for them?”

  The sergeant looked at him suspiciously for a moment and then grinned. “Why not, Lou. What’s your pleasure?”

  Fifteen minutes later, holding a canvas sack in his hand, Vinda stuck his head inside temporary headquarters and shouted, “Agueda, grab your pocketbook, we’re going for a ride.”

  They rode in silence over the Queensboro Bridge. Agueda was driving, the Whip relaxing in the passenger seat, staring past her at the tram sliding below the bridge on its descent into Roosevelt Island.

  Passing headlights illuminated her olive-hued skin, throwing the lines of her face sharply in relief against the darkness. She felt his eyes on her and smiled. “This is the first time we’ve been alone in a long time, John.” Her voice was filled with an easy intimacy that took Vinda back in time.

  “I know,” he said, reaching out and touching her face, gliding fingertips over her cheek and across her chin. “Has life been what you wanted it to be?”

  She didn’t answer him, just reached over and gave his hand a brief squeeze.

  A sudden spark of
excitement ignited inside of him; he remembered the passionate moments they had shared, Adriene’s magnificent body moving easily under him, then thrashing with abandon. She would press her face into his shoulder to muffle her shout when she climaxed. Equally vivid in his memory was the expression on her face when he told her it was over, that he had met Jean and had fallen in love with her. He looked at her and said softly, “Adriene, I’m sorry for the pain I caused you.”

  A flicker of anger crossed her face. “I’m tired of listening to men’s ‘I’m sorry’s.’”

  As she drove off the bridge into the Queens Boulevard lane, she asked, “Did Jean know about us?”

  “Yes. There were no secrets between us,” he said, looking out at the hookers cruising for tricks on Bridge Plaza South. “Why haven’t you married?”

  She winced at the clumsiness of his question, forced a smile to her face, and said, “I’ve never met anyone who could speak Portuguese.”

  A metallic squeal resonated off tenement walls as the F train navigated the winding curves at Thirty-second Avenue. Overhead tracks cast down slatted shadows on the roadway, while the sidewalk was aglow with the blaze of gaudy lights from Hispanic clubs and restaurants. El Capital, Los Borrachos, Los Cuatros Papagayos.

  As the unmarked car moved along Roosevelt Avenue, Vinda reflected on how this once working-class Irish neighborhood had, in a few short years, been transformed into a miniature Sodom where every form of sin was for sale—and where most of the clubs and restaurants served as consular offices for the Medellín and Cali cartels.

  Agueda drove into Sixty-second Street and parked near the corner, facing Fitzgerald’s bar. She switched off the headlights, noticed the Motor Transport’s warning sticker pasted to the dashboard—Carbon Monoxide Kills—and cracked the window a few inches at the top. Cold air swept into the warm car, bringing with it the sounds of reggae.

  Vinda pulled a multi-use department envelope from his inside pocket, took out a mug shot and yellow sheet, and handed them to her, saying, “Otto Holman.” Pointing to Fitzgerald’s, he added, “That’s his place of business.”