The captain just shook his head. “Unfortunately, anyone close enough to the cart to identify the vendor is among the fatalities.
“Last night, the body of a Mexican man, Jorge Rogerio, was found along the tracks at Union Station. We followed a hunch and contacted Jim’s Tamales. Rogerio was the vendor assigned to that cart. He obviously was killed, and the perpetrator commandeered the cart to plant the explosive device.”
Someone in the back of the room spoke. “Captain, do we know what kind of a device it was?”
“I’m going to let our expert talk about that, Captain Martin Deardoff of the Kansas City bomb squad.”
A short, stocky guy took the lectern.
He was a seventeen-year veteran on the force, and other than his bulldog-fierce personality, his most distinguishing characteristic was his left hand, which sported only three fingers. The unfortunate letter bomb incident that cost him his fingers left him with the nickname “Stumpy.”
“The first thing I’d like to do is thank Officer George Wilson. The largest piece of bomb fragment that we could find came out of Ox’s back.” He pointed at Ox and gave him a three-finger salute.
“Glad I could help, sir,” Ox replied.
“My department has been analyzing the fragment and all the other forensic evidence we could collect all night. The good news is that the bomb looks to be the work of amateurs. The design was quite simple but effective. The bad news is that the materials used to construct the device are the same that McVeigh and Nichols used to blow up the federal building in Oklahoma City in 1995.”
I remembered seeing photos of the devastation at the federal building and the senseless loss of life that resulted, and immediately a vision of the carnage I had witnessed at our own blast site filled my mind.
With great difficulty, I focused my attention on Captain Deardorf.
“It appears that the casing for the bomb was one of those metal cylinders that normally contain syrup and compressed gas for soft drink dispensers. The container was filled with a mixture of ammonium nitrate fertilizer and liquid nitro methane. The detonation device was TATP, or triacetone triperoxide, which was ignited by a slow-burning fuse.
“You saw the damage this small cylinder caused. The truck used in McVeigh’s bombing contained one hundred and eight bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer, weighing fifty pounds each, and three fifty-five gallon drums of liquid nitro methane.
“The problem is that everything used to make this bomb could be purchased by anyone at a hundred different outlets.
“Ammonium nitrate fertilizer is available at any feed store. Liquid nitro methane is a fuel used in drag racing, and the components for the detonation device—hydrogen peroxide, acetone, and muriatic acid—could be purchased over the counter by an eight-year-old. It’s all untraceable.”
Captain Short returned to the podium. “Thank you, Captain Deardorf. Unfortunately, the effectiveness of this simple design gives us reason to believe that if the perpetrators strike again, they will use a similar device.
“The problem is that there are thousands of these canisters all over the city. Every restaurant and hot dog stand has them. There are probably several hundred of them at Royals Stadium on a game day.
“The next bomb could be anywhere. I’m afraid that’s not all of the bad news. I’m going to turn the podium over to our forensic psychologist, Dr. Max Leighton.”
I had heard of Dr. Leighton, but I had never met him.
My experience with forensic psychologists was limited to what I had seen on TV shows such as Criminal Minds. I had expected some dapper Harvard type with a know-it-all attitude, but to my surprise, Dr. Leighton could have been somebody’s grandpa.
He was about my size and appeared only slightly younger than myself, but when he spoke I could sense his sincere concern.
“During the night a message was sent to WDAF TV, Fox 4 News through their website. The station notified us immediately.
“The message read:
“If a man lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death. For the sins of their inhabitants, Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed by brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven.”
Let all who see and hear take heed. Repent your sinful ways, lest the Lord smite thee again with fire and brimstone from his avenging angels.
I had heard this passage quoted many times by those protesting the gay movement. I thought about the word abomination, and then I thought about my two gay friends, Mike and Larry, and somehow it just didn’t seem to fit.
Dr. Leighton continued.
“Our first thought was that the bomb was a hate crime from the anti-gay protestors, but this message leads us to believe that we have a bigger problem.”
“What could possibly make it worse?” someone asked.
“Religious zealots. There is no one more dangerous than a man who believes he has been given a divine mission from God and the power and authority to carry it out. Think Japanese kamikaze pilots in World War II. The literal translation of kamikaze is ‘divine wind.’ Think Muslim terrorists and their jihad, or divine war, against the infidels. Only this time, the zealots are not from Japan or Iraq; they are, most likely, American citizens right here in our own backyard.
“We’re thinking that the attack on the Gay Pride Parade wasn’t an isolated incident targeting gays but is actually just the tip of a very large iceberg of perceived sinful activity.”
Captain Short broke in. “So what exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying, look at our city. If I were a religious zealot, I wouldn’t have any trouble finding potential targets, such as casinos, bars, strip clubs, adult bookstores. The next attack could be anywhere.”
The doctor’s words made me stop and think. Having lived in the city all my life, I guess I had become immune to the sinful vices that could be found on nearly every corner. I had driven by all the places he mentioned a thousand times, never stopping to consider what effect they might be having on the lives of the people who were frequenting them.
Apparently someone, somewhere, was giving it a lot more thought than I had.
Captain Short returned to the podium. “The only thing we have to go on for the moment is the canisters used to make the bomb. As I said before, they’re everywhere. We’ve gotten the licensing folks at city hall involved. They’re sending letters to everyone with a food and beverage license, warning them to examine their soft drink canisters for any irregularities and to report anything they find to us immediately.
“For those of you with regular patrol assignments, your job for now will be to stop at every QuikTrip, 7-Eleven, fast food joint, bar, and restaurant. Stop anywhere that might have soft drink canisters, and put them on alert. That’s all for now. Be careful out there.”
Ox was unusually quiet as we made our way to the motor pool.
We climbed into the car, and he turned to me. “I guess you know how close we came to getting our ticket punched, partner.”
“Sure do. It’s hard to get it out of my mind.”
“If I had taken my vest off like I wanted to, that shrapnel would have cut me in half.”
“And if Larry and Mike hadn’t dragged us away from that tamale stand, it wouldn’t have mattered what we had been wearing. They would have been picking pieces of us off the roof of Union Station.”
“Why us? All those innocent people were killed and maimed. Why were we spared?”
“I wish I had an answer for you, partner. Let’s just say it’s because we still have some unfinished business.”
We spent the morning stopping at every location on our route that could possibly have soft drink canisters. After lunch, we were cruising down Grand Avenue, and we passed the Red Garter Club. A year ago I had gone undercover as a john to smoke out a pro
stitution ring operating out of the strip club.
“Hey, Walt. Do you remember if they have soft drinks in the strip joint, or do they only serve booze?”
“Oh yeah, they do have soft drinks. I remember ordering Cokes while I was undercover. Given their sinful activities, we should probably stop and give them a warning.”
We entered the dimly lit club and were just standing at the door letting our eyes adjust to the darkness when I heard, “Hi, Walt. What are you doing here?” A cute little blonde grabbed me and gave me a hug.
“Hi, Blondie. So you’re still here?”
“Yeah, after you guys busted Electra with my help, the management thought my relationship with the police might be a good thing, so they made me manager. We’ve been very good, by the way.”
“That’s not what we’re here for. I’m sure you know about the bombing.”
“Awful! Just awful!”
We told her about the religious fanatics and the canisters, and she thanked us for the warning.
After we were back in the squad car, Ox asked with a smirk, “Does Maggie know you’re on a first-name basis with a former hooker at a strip club?”
“Ox, you just suffered a near-death experience. Don’t push your luck!”
Chapter 6
For the next week, the bombing incident remained front-page news.
WDAF TV had released the message sent from the suspected perpetrators, and the press had jumped all over the story. The press loves to sensationalize the news to sell more papers by making the subjects of their stories household names, Ted Kaczynski being dubbed the “Unabomber” a case in point.
With the release of the Fox 4 News message, the zealots were being called The Avenging Angels, and the moniker stuck.
Fortunately, there were no more bombings, and as is always the case, the story slipped to the second and third page of the paper, giving way to the latest congressional sex scandal and more violence in the Middle East. Our patrol duties were back to normal.
I couldn’t say the same for my domestic life.
Goodwill had carted off my favorite old recliner, Consuela had cleaned and shined every surface in our new apartment, and Maggie had dragged my weary ass to every department and furniture store in the greater Kansas City area.
At least it seemed that way.
I don’t know how other men cope with similar situations, but I have to admit that I have no fashion sense at all. I would have been quite content with my old stuff.
Maggie, on the other hand, had to match the upholstery of any new piece of furniture with drapes, area rugs, and throw pillows.
Each time a decision was to be made, Maggie dutifully asked my opinion. I would nod my head enthusiastically and say, “It’s beautiful!”
Frankly, like Rhett Butler, I really didn’t give a damn.
The only time I really cared was when it was time to replace my old recliner. I must have sat in a dozen before I found one that fit my butt like the old one.
Maggie was right on top of that too. She found the same recliner in a two-seater model, so now we could recline together side-by-side.
Finally, the big day arrived. Everything was spotless, the new furniture and drapes were in place, and it was time to move in.
Maggie had rented her plaza apartment furnished, so there were no large items to be moved. I was surprised when she contracted with Two Men and a Truck for the big event. I figured we could just move her stuff a carload at a time.
Wrong!
I was at the Armour building when the sixteen-foot van pulled up to the curb. I watched as they unloaded box after box after box. Then I noticed a trend—they were almost all garment boxes.
I knew Maggie had lots of clothes. She’s a career woman, after all. She always looks and dresses nice.
I guess like most guys, I just sort of take it for granted that she always looks good. We don’t think about what it takes to make that happen.
After all the boxes were in our new bedroom, the unpacking began.
Maggie had been thrilled with the addition of the big walk-in closet. I just sort of stood back and let her have at it. I did help by transporting the stuff from each box to the closet, where she took charge of the arranging.
When we were down to the last box, there was about a three-foot space on one rod that was not full. Maggie looked at this last opening. “Well, maybe we should save that for your clothes.”
I had kept my mouth shut throughout the ordeal, and I should have left it that way, but dummy me, I said, “How come you need so many clothes?”
Oops!
In the next ten minutes, I learned more about a woman’s wardrobe than I ever wanted to know.
“There’s a section for each season. My summer clothes are here, my fall clothes here, winter here, and spring over there. Then these are my lounging-around-the-house clothes, and here are my rugged-outside clothes, and over here are all my dancing clothes.”
The floor was covered with shoes of every description. Evidently women need shoes to correspond with each of the clothing categories previously mentioned. Imelda Marcos would have been jealous.
The big shelf that was just above the rods on three sides of the closet was full of purses and little bags of every description.
“So what’s in the last box?”
“Oh, that’s my robes and nightgowns and that little black thing with the fur around the edges that I bought for our honeymoon. You like that one, don’t you?”
Women certainly have the knack of diverting attention from the subject at hand.
I surveyed the situation. “I have an idea. You’re going to need that last space for your nightie stuff. How about I just put my stuff in the closet in the second bedroom?”
Maggie thought for a minute. “You’d do that for me?”
“You bet I would—if you’ll wear that little black thing with the fur for me.”
Marriage is about give and take.
Cohabitation was going pretty well. I had adjusted to getting my clothes from the second bedroom closet, but within the first few days, I realized there was another adjustment to be made.
In place of my usual Wheaties, breakfast of champions cereal, Maggie had introduced me to something with fiber that tasted a lot like a cardboard box. Its purpose was to help me be regular.
I soon discovered that Maggie and I always seemed to be regular at the same time, so I always found myself sitting on the throne in the second bathroom.
I had really been looking forward to the new shower in our remodeled bath. I told the contractor that I wanted one with a big head and a lot of pressure.
My sixty-seven-year-old body loves to linger under the pulse of a hot shower. I let it run until the water starts to get cold. I come out pink and wrinkly but feeling mighty fine.
The first day I stepped into my new shower, I could hardly turn around. There were wire racks full of plastic bottles everywhere.
“Maggie! What is all this stuff?”
Maggie had just toweled off from her shower. She pressed her nekkid body against my back and looked over my bare shoulder. “Well, this one is my body wash, and this is my shampoo, and this is my rinse, and this is my conditioner.
My toes curled as she cuddled up to my backside.
“Well … uh … I was just wondering,” I stammered.
Women just don’t play fair.
Now her curiosity was aroused. “By the way, what kind of shampoo do you use?”
“White.”
“White?”
“Yeah, I like white the best. One time Wally only had green. I tried it, but it didn’t smell as good as the white.”
“Oh, good grief.”
“What’s all this other stuff?”
“Well, there’s my Lady S
chick. You don’t want hairy legs, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“And this is my loofah and my pumice and—”
“Okay, I get it.”
I finally learned to shower without dislodging Maggie’s accoutrements, and I thought everything was going fine until one evening.
Dad had seen a Denny’s ad on TV promoting their summer slam, and he had talked Maggie and me into going with him and Bernice. We were both running late from work. Maggie jumped into the shower first, and I was right behind her.
I had experienced a particularly stressful day on the job, and the hot, steaming water beating on my back felt wonderful.
It felt so good I lost track of time but was brought back to reality when the temperature began dropping.
Talk about the temperature dropping!
When I stepped out of the shower, Maggie was standing in front of me stark naked.
Normally, I see this as a good thing, but something about the look in her eyes and the fact that she had clinched fists perched on her hips made me think differently.
Her hair was still wet, and she hadn’t even started the time-consuming makeup application.
Foolishly, I asked, “How come you’re not ready yet?” Wrong question!
Maggie drug me to the vanity and pointed to the mirror. It was covered with a layer of steam so thick that it was pooling into little droplets and running down onto the vanity top.
“Oh.”
Since all my clothes were in the second bedroom closet, and since I passed my fiber on the second bedroom throne, I figured I might as well move my toothbrush and white shampoo to the second bathroom.
Life is filled with compromise.
An old friend once told me that we need to adjust to our adjustments.
Life’s a lot simpler that way.
At least Maggie and I still share the same bed, and that’s what’s important!
Chapter 7
Eighteen-year-old Will Tucker Jr. was walking down Independence Avenue. He had just been to his second drugstore, and his arms were loaded with hydrogen peroxide.
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