by Wally Duff
“I do.”
“You went back into his apartment to grab samples of the C4 so you’ll have proof that he is one of the bad guys.”
“So what?”
“We’re assuming he watched you walk into his apartment.”
“And?”
“And unless the explosion from the refrigerator screwed up his camera feed, he saw you return and grab the C4 sample.”
35
Late Thursday night, Carter walked into our bedroom. I was in bed with Kerry. She was asleep in my arms.
After what had happened with Jamie attempting to blow me up in his apartment, I didn’t want to leave her alone.
“How was your day, honey?” he asked.
How do I answer that one?
“My day was, you know, my day,” I whispered, trying to not awaken Kerry.
He stared at me, apparently not sure why I’d responded like that. I was not going to tell him what had happened with Jamie.
Need some distraction here.
“Want me to warm something up for you?” I asked. “You must be starved.”
“No, thanks,” he whispered back. “Would you like for me to put Kerry to bed?”
“Sure. She might like to have you rock her.”
I knew he needed some “daddy” time with his little girl. We had a rocking chair in her room for that specific purpose.
He smiled as he reached down and picked her up. She stirred in his arms. He began to sway with her.
He stopped in the doorway. “Good-night, Mommy,” he whispered for Kerry.
Twenty minutes later, he came back into our bedroom.
“Our little one is finally asleep,” he said.
“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?”
“I ordered Gino’s pizza in for everyone at the office so they could keep working, and I ate with them. With a reduced staff, it’s ridiculously difficult to cover any breaking story.”
He referred to the last round of job cuts at the Tribune. The newspaper business that we both love is gradually dying. But I want to keep writing great stories to slow down the death of the industry.
“By the way, you should hire someone to assist you around the house,” he continued. “You’ll need free time to help us with the investigation of the bombings.”
I sat up. “Help you? I thought you were against me working on the abortion clinic bombing story.”
“I am, but we really need you on this.”
His flip-flop on this made no sense to me.
Unless he needs access to my mole.
My involvement with the clinic bombing story began five years ago when I was an investigative reporter for the Post in D.C. I received an email from a dissident member of the Psalmists, a staunch anti-abortion group.
The person saw me do a short segment talking head on CNBC where I profiled the clinic bombings. My utter disgust for this form of protest pleased the member, who then contacted me by email and indicated he or she would become a mole for me inside the group. Six weeks later, the mole emailed me the details of the bomber’s plan to blow up the Arlington abortion clinic.
“My help, or my mole’s?”
“Actually, the mole’s,” he confessed. “If that person still exists, maybe this time we can trap the bomber and finish the story.”
“You really don’t want me to actively work on this, do you?”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I considered for one second it might be dangerous.”
“That was a clever answer. You’re carefully avoiding the central issue. Do you, or do you not, want me to work on this story?”
“I need your help, and yes, I would like you to work on this story.”
I kissed him goodnight. “I’ll think about it.”
36
It was early Friday afternoon. I pushed Kerry to Hamlin Park. The lake effect was having its way with Chicago again. The temperature was sixty-two degrees, and with the wind howling, it was at least ten degrees cooler than that.
My cell phone rang when we were one block away.
“Tina, it’s Gayle Nystrom.”
Ah, man.
Gayle is the editor of the Lakeview Times, our free, weekly, neighborhood newspaper. I was supposed to submit my monthly article today for publication on Friday the twenty-fifth of August.
But it isn’t gonna happen.
I’d been just a little too busy to research and write one.
“Hi, Gayle,” I said. “I know I’m supposed to have my article in today, but I’ve been a little busy.”
“I totally understand, and I applaud you for your recent article in the Chicago Tribune. As I told you before, it was terrific. But I gave you the opportunity to write again, and I hope you remember that.”
“I do have an idea for next month, and I’m working on it.”
That was kind of true.
Sort of.
“Wonderful. Let’s keep in touch. I’ll need to know before next month’s deadline in order to save the space.”
I disconnected and kept walking. The Irregulars frequently have playgroup at Hamlin Park. The park has almost eight acres, with four baseball/softball diamonds, lacrosse and soccer fields, a free swimming pool, and a fully equipped playground. There is also a field house with a fitness center, two gyms, an assembly hall with a stage, and meeting rooms.
It’s where I first met Linda and, later on, Cas and Molly. These adult conversations stimulated me to write again and, thanks to Gayle Nystrom, my column in the Lakeview Times was born. I was grateful she provided that opportunity when no one else would hire me. But I considered it a temporary situation until I could resurrect my career with a breaking front-page story.
Yesterday, on the way home from Jamie’s burning apartment building, Cas and I decided we needed to alert Molly and Linda about what Jamie intended to do to me. As I pushed Kerry into the park, my senses were once again assaulted by the feeling that someone was watching me.
Jamie?
Bomber?
Or both?
Once we reached Hamlin Park, we played with our kids on the equipment. As we did, I told Molly and Linda what happened.
“Jamie really tried to blow you up?” Molly asked after I finished the story.
“He did,” I said. “But I recovered a sample of the C4 from his apartment wall. It has to be from the same batch of C4 the ‘industrial spies’ used, so we have him cold.”
“Except for one tiny problem,” Linda said. “It’s called chain of custody. How do the police or the FBI know where you obtained the C4? For all the feds know, you could be one of the perpetrators.”
“Are you telling us we have evidence to prove Jamie is a bad guy but we can’t legally use it?” Cas asked.
“I most certainly am,” Linda said. “Plus, the evidence was acquired during the crime of breaking and entering.”
“But he might be after all of us,” Molly said.
“Since he attempted to blow up Tina, and I could’ve been in the apartment with her, I think that’s a reasonable assumption,” Cas said.
“How come this wasn’t in the news?” Linda asked.
“I looked for it online and in this morning’s Tribune,” Cas said. “I found a small story about an apartment fire. It said it was caused by short-circuits in the wiring of the refrigerators in several units.”
“Which means the fire inspectors won’t find any C4 residue because they won’t do a thorough search through the rubble,” I said. “At least I have some of the C4 from his apartment.”
“And I respectfully remind you that it is evidence you cannot use,” Linda said.
“Guys, all we need to do is catch Jamie and plant Tina’s C4 on him,” Molly said. “When the cops search him and find the C4, they’ll run it in the lab and arrest him for being one of the spy guys.”
“A sound plan, although it breaks several laws,” Linda said. “And speaking of that… Tina, do you know how many laws you’ve broken so far?”
�
��TNTC,” I said.
Linda shrugged her shoulders.
“Too numerous to count, but we might as well break a few more if it’ll put him behind bars and keep all of us safe. Molly, how do we go about planting the C4 on him?”
“Gosh, I don’t have a clue,” she said. “The farmers always did that stuff.”
“Where’s a good farmer when we need one?” Linda joked.
“You can be such a bitch sometimes,” Cas said.
“For many female lawyers, that would be a compliment. And I hate to say it, but I no longer have any time for this. When I leave here, I’m going to see my doctor and then visit the new hospital I selected where I will have my baby.”
“Which one is it?” Molly asked.
“The MidAmerica Hospital,” Linda said.
“It’s no surprise that I usually disagree with you about most subjects, but you are right about this one: that hospital is the fanciest one in the state,” Cas said.
“And how would you know about that?” I asked.
“I worked there before I stopped to have my kids,” she said.
37
Saturday morning, I ran with David. At about the three-mile mark, we turned toward Fellger Park, another green space in our neighborhood.
“I think I might need Hogan’s help with a bomber story I’m working on, but I don’t have any money to pay them,” I said.
“Bomber story?” David asked. “Maybe I can provide some free advice. Tell me more.”
I did.
“My goodness,” he said. “When I read about you online, it didn’t mention how serious your injuries were. I sure can’t tell it from how you look now.”
“I was lucky.”
“Maybe you should have bought a lottery ticket after you got out of the hospital.”
“Funny you say that. My brother told me the same thing.”
We turned right and continued to run.
“Bottom line: I’m terrified the guy who blew me up might be back to finish the job.”
“Job?”
“To kill me. He missed the first time. If he knows I live here, he might want to finish what he started.”
David didn’t respond. We ran another mile.
“I think you’re wrong,” he said.
“About what?”
“I’ve been trained in threat assessments. You said you were blown up over five years ago, right?”
“Yep, on the morning of July third.”
“Where has the bomber been since then?”
“Good question. Initially, I thought he might have died from the gunshot wounds.”
“Gunshot wounds? That wasn’t in the newspaper story that was in the Post immediately after the bombing.”
“The FBI held that information back, and because it’s still an open investigation, they won’t release it until the case is closed.”
I didn’t want to admit to David that I was the one who fired the shots. He might not understand why I would do something like that.
“That’s why I need your help,” I continued. “I need to know if he’s back.”
“But what if he is? Why are you now afraid?”
“Because if he traveled all the way from D.C. to Chicago, I’m afraid he’s here to kill me.”
“I disagree. He’s had five years to, as you say, ‘finish what he started.’ Why hasn’t he done it already?”
“I got married and moved to Chicago. I hoped that if he was alive, he’d lost track of me.”
“That’s pretty naïve. I didn’t have any problems finding every detail about your life. I admit I’m pretty good with a computer, but it wasn’t that hard. It wouldn’t be for the bomber either.”
“Then why hasn’t he tried to kill me?”
“Was he trying to kill you the first time?”
Huh?
“That’s a good question. I don’t know.”
“From the online reports I read, the FBI maintained the bomber might not have detonated the bomb when he did if you hadn’t gone into the building and confronted him.”
“The FBI did tell me to stay out of the clinic, and I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“You’re not a reporter so it’s hard for you to understand, but I was consumed with chasing the story.”
“Why do you think this bomber is in the area?”
“To blow up abortion clinics?”
“He can do that anywhere. Why in the Chicago area?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think it’s because you live here?”
“I do.”
“But I don’t think he’s here to kill you.”
“Why?”
“Maybe he’s trying to entice you to write about why he’s doing these bombings and to raise awareness about abortion.”
“That’s what my husband has always maintained.”
“If my threat assessment is right, the furthest thing from the bomber’s mind is to kill you. He wants you alive now more than ever, especially since you’re writing major stories again.”
“I hope you’re right. But I need help to figure out if it’s even the same bomber.”
38
“Can you hack into someone’s security footage?” I asked.
David elevated his eyebrows. “I, ah… You can’t tell anyone this, okay?”
“No problem,” I said.
“As I told you during lunch on Thursday, I had something to do with security at the Hogan Company, but it was a little more than that. We had several government contracts, and I worked with the NSA to prevent computer hacks from outside sources.”
“Does that mean you can do this for me?”
“I’ll try. But I need access to a computer.”
“We’re close to my home. Let’s go there.”
Carter was upstairs giving Kerry a bath when we walked in.
“Honey, I have to do a little work on my computer,” I yelled up from the foot of the stairs.
“Take your time,” Carter yelled back down. “We just started playing in the tub.”
I would introduce David to Carter when we finished. As we walked down to the office, I told David what I needed from the security footage of the two clinic bombings. He sat down at my computer and put on latex gloves.
What’s up with this?
He noticed me staring at him.
“The gloves, right?” he asked.
“Well, yeah.”
“I have a little phobia about germs. Computer keyboards are filthy.”
I wanted to assure him that mine wasn’t, but before I could, he turned back to the computer and went to work.
Guess we’re done talking about germs.
His gloved fingers flew over the keyboard faster than Linda’s. He no longer seemed to realize I still stood next to him.
With nothing else to do, I went upstairs and joined Carter and Kerry. Fifteen minutes later, I walked back down to the computer room. Carter stayed upstairs to dress Kerry and dry her hair.
David looked up at me. “Okay, I have it cued up to the moment a laundryman walks into the Hinsdale Clinic at 9 a.m. on July third.”
We watched the footage. The rack of clean coats the laundryman pushed inside partially shielded his face from the camera.
“Let me speed it up,” he said. “He’s inside for eighteen minutes before he leaves.”
When the laundryman departed, he pushed a hamper piled full of wrinkled clothes. I could see that he had a sparse black beard and scraggly, shoulder-length black hair.
“It could be him,” I said. “But the elevated position of the security camera makes it difficult to tell.”
“Let’s look at the other one.”
The video sequence from the Deerfield bombing was more helpful. The recording at 4:22 p.m. showed Dr. Russell walking out of the clinic and driving off. So did several employees. The laundryman entered as they exited. He held open the door for two nurses. This time he carried a laundry bag full of something, probably the bom
b materials.