by Jon Mills
In the cruiser a few minutes later, the sirens blaring and lights flashing, Romero smashed his foot to the accelerator and fishtailed around traffic, almost losing control of the car. He was driving like a NASCAR racer and by the look on his face loving every second of it.
“Slow down,” Hudson yelled. “We’ll be dead before we even get there.” The number of casualties of officers rushing to the scene of an incident outweighed those who were shot. In the heat of the moment and under stress to get there fast, officers either lost control or were blindsided by traffic. She flashed Romero a glance. He wasn’t listening to her. He continued to speak as he drove like a madman through the city’s streets. As the car slid from side to side and she nearly toppled over, all she could think about was what Charley was going to find.
“Fucking guy uploaded a video showing three victims who had bags over their heads and were loaded in the back of a van. One by one you see him release them, and then he tells them that they have one hour to follow a set of instructions to find keys and a combination code located in the mall he dropped them outside. If they did what they were told, they would locate the keys and combination that would free them from the bomb. Failure or any attempt to remove it without those items would result in death.”
“Is the bomb squad on the way?”
“Yeah, but dealing with all three individuals, and bombs that are booby-trapped to go off? And without knowing who they are? All we know is the location of where they were dropped off, and the clothes they were wearing. Their faces aren’t shown from the front.” He cast a glance at his watch. “I saw the timer on that video, Hudson. We have less than forty minutes or not only will they be dead but so will hundreds of people. He only sent the video to the police department. So no one in the mall knows.”
“Well they’re going to know real soon.”
There was no way to hide the presence of countless police officers as SWAT and the bomb squad filled up the road on the busy intersection outside Westfield, the largest of the malls. Romero veered onto the sidewalk and brought the cruiser to a stop just shy of the building. As they hurried across the street, it was already beginning to fill up with cops. Sirens wailed and lights flashed. Locals must have thought the city was under attack, and in some ways it was, by a madman seeking chaos. Cruisers were quick to block off the roads on Mission Street, 4th Street, 5th Street and Market Street. Uniformed officers hurried people away from the building as Romero and Hudson sprinted into the south entrance. Over the radio they could hear officers arriving at the other two malls. It was complete pandemonium. All their resources were being pushed to the max as this wasn’t just about identifying three people, but it was making sure everyone else was safe. A task that was near impossible.
It was bustling inside, shoppers eating, others riding the escalators or going in and out of stores. She gazed up at the nine floors and turned in the middle of the crowd. That bastard knew what he was doing sending someone hooked up with a bomb into this. Did the victims honestly think they were going to escape? Officers immediately coordinated with security to see if they could spot the woman who was seen on the video running away from a van into the mall. She had blond hair, and been wearing black pants, a jean jacket and flats. That was all they had to go on. Romero and Hudson split up and began scanning faces. Hudson hopped onto an escalator so she could get to higher ground and survey the masses of people. It was like trying to find Waldo, except harder, excruciatingly harder. She cast a glance at her watch, thirty-five minutes left. She cursed under her breath as she watched other officers thread their way through the crowd. Due to a large police presence, shoppers began to take notice. It would only be a matter of time as they started telling them to get out. The problem was, they didn’t want to create mass panic. It had to be done in an orderly fashion so some of the cops were stationed by the exits and were preventing anyone from entering and hurrying out those that were closest. The rest were working their way through the crowd, with officers heading up to every floor. She already knew it wasn’t going to end well.
“Hudson, you got anything?”
“Nothing.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” she heard him say over the radio. “He still had two more attacks to do before the school bus shootings.”
“He’s changing the game, because we changed ours.”
As Hudson passed people, she would tell them to leave the mall in an orderly fashion. She never stopped to provide answers even though a few tried to badger her.
“Ma’am, just do as I say.”
In her peripheral vision she could see a number of the mall security officers were going through the same procedure. They were easy to identify as they wore white shirts, black pants and had a radio attached to their hip.
All they had to go on was a printout of a rear shot of the woman. Hudson homed in on any blonde wearing a jean jacket. Her eyes darted from one person to the next. Her pulse raced, not just at the thought of not finding her but at the prospect that she was near and she wouldn’t know until it was too late. Until a member of the bomb squad could locate her and see what kind of device they were working with, all they could do was direct people out of the building as fast as possible. Within five minutes a real sense of danger fell like a blanket over the shoppers and many didn’t even need to be told to get out, they headed for the elevator, escalators, stairs, any exit that was available.
Just as Hudson was directing several women towards the escalators, a security officer speaking on his radio hurried over to her. “We’ve found her. Follow me please.”
He pressed ahead down between two stores heading for a stairwell. As they broke through the door, Hudson peppered him with questions.
“What level?”
“Ground floor.” She was in a clothing store, the man said leading the way. They raced down the stairs until they made it out of the exit and he beckoned her towards a double set of doors that led into a corridor that was only accessible to mall staff and security.
“She’s been taken to an office?”
“No, it’s a shortcut through from the east to the west side. Detective Romero is on scene and the bomb squad is assessing the woman as we speak.”
She hurried down the narrow corridors passing by several store workers who looked panicked. As they got closer to an exit door, Hudson got on her radio to speak to Romero. She glanced at her watch. They still had twenty minutes left. A smidgen of hope ignited inside her. They could still stop this. That bastard wasn’t going to win.
“Come in, Romero.”
“Hear you loud and clear, go ahead,” he replied.
“I’m on the ground floor, I should be there in a matter of minutes.”
“What?”
With a wave of the hand the large security man motioned to the next set of doors. With her head down and about to respond to Romero, she shouldered it, breaking forth into sunlight. What the hell? Outside? She was outside the mall. “I think we’ve gone through—” She turned in the middle of asking him if they’d gone through the wrong door when her body was hit with what felt like a thousand volts. Every muscle in her body went into spasm and she hit the ground, dropping the radio. It clattered across the concrete. Over the radio, Romero’s voice bellowed.
“What are you on about, Hudson? We’ve located the girl on the fourth floor not the ground floor.”
The world around her spun, a helter-skelter of color, and what occurred next came in snippets: a thump on the back of her head, darkness, then light, being carried and tossed into what felt like a cardboard box. Her body fell into a fetal position. Her eyes fluttered, she was still in shock as she tried to make sense of what was happening. The security guard loomed over the box and pulled back her sleeve, a sharp needle jabbed into her arm and then she heard a voice.
“There, there, detective, it’s going to be okay.”
Cardboard flaps were folded over her head, blocking out what little light remained. She wanted to cry out but all her energy was gone as if
she’d been hooked up to an IV and was being pumped with a sedative.
“Sleep now.”
His voice distorted, a devilish grin, and his face blurred before she passed out.
“Come in, Hudson. Hudson? Where are you?”
Nothing but the sound of Romero’s voice bellowing over the radio on the ground.
A minute later a brown UPS truck roared away from the scene.
Chapter 30
Later, halfway down Prospect Avenue in Bernal Heights, Officer Charley Whitaker’s cruiser parked at the top of a rise. Dark ominous clouds squeezed out what remained of blue sky. A light rain pattered against his windshield as he looked through the blur at the home. He checked the two addresses that Hudson had given him. He thumbed through the paperwork and phoned through to dispatch to let them know where he was before getting out.
She’d given him instructions to speak with the homeowner regarding Jillian Bernard.
Charley tossed his half-smoked cigarette to the curb as he got out and crushed it beneath his boot. He adjusted his utility belt and pulled a rain jacket out of the trunk of the car before he hurried up the steps to the home belonging to Leonard Tomlinson.
He pressed the button beside the door but didn’t hear any bell ring so he knocked a few times then looked out across the neighborhood. A bicyclist shot by, his wheels flicking up water. Still considered a new officer to the department, he had the same sense of excitement rushing through his veins as the day he graduated. There was no other career quite like it. He still had to pinch himself at the realization that he was paid to patrol the city, maintain peace and order and at times get to deal with cases like this. Could there be a better job?
Still there was no answer. He banged a few more times on the door and then heard movement inside. Charley shifted over to the window, cupping a hand over his eyes.
“Mr. Tomlinson? San Francisco Police Department. I just had a few questions.”
He wasn’t sure if it was him or someone else choosing to not come to the door. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d encountered it. People saw the uniform and immediately thought they were in trouble. He gave it a few more minutes and then knocked again, this time he heard someone approaching. The door cracked open, the security chain still slung across.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, I’m Officer Whitaker from the San Francisco Police Department. I had a few questions about Jillian Bernard. Your neighbor. Would you mind stepping outside?”
The guy had beads of sweat on his head.
“Can this wait? This is really not a good time.”
“Actually it won’t take long. It’s important.”
Charley heard him curse under his breath, then the slide of metal as he unhooked the chain from the doorframe, and pulled it open. The first thing he noticed about the man was the uniform he was wearing. It was a brown UPS outfit. He was a large stocky man, more muscle than fat. He stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.
“Work for UPS?”
“No, I was getting ready for Halloween,” he said before giving a sarcastic chuckle. “I’m just joking. Yeah, I do. Been with them for a couple of years. Look, how can I help?”
Charley made a gesture with his head towards the house next door. “Jillian Bernard. We got a report that she was deceased but our records don’t indicate any information regarding her death.” He looked down at the paperwork he was holding. “Cancer, is that right?”
The man looked down the street before replying. “That’s right, three years ago.”
“And you are…” he looked down at his paperwork again, “Leonard Tomlinson, is that right?”
He frowned. “That’s right. What is this regarding?”
“Nothing to be concerned about, sir, it’s just a welfare check. We have you listed as someone who was taking care of Jillian in her final days, however, there is no death certificate, nor any details regarding burial. You wouldn’t happen to know why that is, would you?”
His features hardened. “They probably lost it. You know what the government is like.”
“Possible. You wouldn’t have a copy of her death certificate, would you?”
He stared back at Charley blankly, then nodded. “Actually, yeah, I do. If you want to follow me, I’ll go get that for you.”
“Sounds good. Sorry to be a bother. You working today?”
He brushed past him and headed towards the house next door.
“Oh no bother, yeah, I was on my lunch break. Was having an extended one because of some lockdown in the city. Would you know anything about that?”
“Someone called in a bomb threat.”
“Really? What is this world coming to? First murders, now bombs?” He turned as he walked on. “Is everyone safe?”
“So far,” Charley replied.
He led Charley into a clean but mildew-smelling home.
“You’ll have to excuse the smell, I’ve not opened a window in here in a while.”
“This was Jillian’s home, right?”
“You got it.”
“She must have been upset losing both her husband and son in such a short span.”
“Indeed. In fact I think that’s what might have contributed to her getting cancer. You know, stress and all.” He stopped in the living room and asked him to wait there while he went and retrieved the certificate.
There were two entrances into the living room: one via the kitchen and the other through a set of French doors. Charley could hear Leonard fishing through paperwork as he continued talking. “Yeah, makes you wonder why these people go to such great lengths to cause harm to others, doesn’t it?”
“What’s that?” Charley asked, just catching the tail end of what he said. He was focused on the pale white décor and a couple of photo frames on a side table. Charley crossed the room and picked one up. It had a picture of three people in it. A woman, a man in his late fifties and a younger boy.
“Ah, here we go!” Leonard said from the kitchen. Charley turned and strolled into the kitchen. Leonard was getting himself a glass of water. “It’s just over on the table.” He gestured towards a stack of paperwork, and one piece that was folded up. Charley approached, and as he was just about to pick it up, Leonard remarked, “I hope that will clear things up.”
No sooner had he turned his back and reached for the folded paper than he felt a sharp pain to the side of his head. Charley stumbled to one side and before he could register what had happened, it occurred again except this time it was even harder. Charley buckled and fell to the floor. “You fucking pigs can’t keep your nose out of anything,” he heard the man say. As he collapsed to his knees, he reached for his radio, squeezed the button and just managed to croak out “Officer down” when he was struck again. How he avoided going unconscious was beyond him. He rolled and felt another hard whack. This time he saw what he was hitting him with, it was a stone rolling pin. Another strike, and he could feel warm blood on the side of his face, and blackness creeping in at the side of his eyes. He knew in that moment if he didn’t fight back he was going to die.
“Die. Fucking die!”
He reared his arm back for another swing and Charley kicked his knee as hard as he could, causing him to stumble back and wail in agony. He dropped the pin, and Charley reached for his sidearm, and through the blood soaking his eyes he fired off a round, then another and one more. The rounds peppered the walls, shattering the tiled backsplash in the kitchen.
He heard boots running, and a door swing wide. Charley immediately got back on the radio and called for backup. He staggered to his feet and caught his reflection in a glass cabinet. Half of his face was covered in blood. Charley stumbled into the doorway, leaning against it. His eyes darted around, looking to see where he’d gone but there was no one there.
He staggered out the door and managed to make it to the steps before he collapsed.
Rain pelted against him and though he knew the guy was out there somewhere and poss
ibly could return to finish him off, he couldn’t move another inch. The world swirled around him — a hazy blast of cold air, and water pounding his skin, chilling him to the bone.
When he regained consciousness, he was being wheeled into an EMT van. There were several police officers on the scene. “I need to speak to Detective Hudson.”
An EMT placed his hand on his chest and told him to relax.
Chapter 31
Two hours later, Romero sat across from Dickson, his weary forehead resting against his hand. His fingers squeezed the bridge of his nose as he wrestled with a host of mixed emotions. Dickson was still reading the note that had been left behind by the kidnapper. The captain lowered the scrap of paper and removed his glasses.
“What a fuckup,” he said. Romero couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye. “I told her that she was playing with fire, but she reassured me, she knew what she was doing. How the hell did this happen?”
“How were we supposed to know what he was up to, Cap? It took the bomb guys an hour before they realized that it was just a setup. The bombs were nothing more than duds. But he made damn sure they looked real. It had keyholes, a keypad, the device contained kitchen timers, an electronic timer. There were wires running through it that connected to nothing. It had two five-inch pipe bombs that were filled with nothing but flour. The damn thing was making beeping noises and even to the trained eye it looked real.”
He leaned forward and took a sip of his coffee. “It’s not about that. How did he manage to get her?”
“Surveillance videos picked up a man dressed in full security clothing. She wouldn’t have known the difference and in the chaos of the moment, and based on the last communication she made, I’m assuming he fooled her into believing we had the girl on the ground floor. The cameras then pick up outside with him using a taser on her and then transferring her into the back of a UPS van.” He sighed heavily. “We ran the plates, contacted UPS and got a name of a Leonard Tomlinson. We put out an APB and our boys found the van burnt out on the east side of the city.”