“Too wide for a Snickers bar,” I said. “Brownie?”
“Too dense for either of them,” Denton said. “Can’t see any triggering device, no blasting caps, or booby trap lines.”
“Your call,” Mahoney said.
The commander put on her hooded visor, walked the thirty yards to the garbage and retrieved the fanny pack. She unzipped it, reached in and pulled out the object, which was loosely wrapped in dull-green wax paper.
“Shit,” Denton said through her radio headset. “I need a blast can here, ASAP.”
Another of the bomb squad agents hurried toward Denton with a heavy steel box.
“What’s going on?” Bree asked.
“It’s C-4 type plastic explosive,” Denton radioed back as her partner opened the box’s lid. She set the bomb material inside and screwed the lid shut. “Yugoslavian Semtex by the markings on the wrapper.”
“Why didn’t the dogs smell it?” I asked. “Isn’t there something added to plastic explosives so they can be detected?”
“They’re called taggants,” Denton said, taking off her hood and visor, and coming back over. “I suspect this C-4 is old. Pre-1980, before taggants were required under international law.”
Bree shook her head. “Yesterday, the dogs smelled the bombs. Why make just one bomb out of it, but not four? And why leave the uncharged C-4 at all?”
“My guess is he left it as a warning,” I said. “He used plastic explosives with taggant the first time, but that game’s over. He’s saying we can’t sniff him out now. He’s saying he can bomb us at will.”
Chapter 14
Tense days passed without a phone call from the bomber. Bree was under pressure from Chief Michaels. Mahoney was dealing with the FBI director.
The only break came from the FBI crime lab confirming that the explosive used in the third bomb was pre-1980 Yugoslavian C-4, and that the triggering devices—all timers—were sophisticated. The work of an experienced hand.
I did what I could to help Mahoney between seeing patients, including Kate Williams, who showed up five minutes early for a mid-morning appointment. I took it as a good sign. But if I thought Kate was ready to grab hold of the life preserver, and I certainly hoped she was, I was mistaken.
“Let’s talk about life after you ran away,” I said, sitting down with my chair positioned at a non-confrontational angle.
“Let’s not,” Kate said. “None of that matters. We both know why we’re here.”
“Fair enough,” I said, pausing to consider how bes
t to proceed.
In situations like this, I would ordinarily ask a lot of questions about documents in her files, watching her body language for clues to her deeper story. Indicators of stress and tension—the inability to maintain eye contact, say, or the habitual flexing of a hand—are often sure signals of deeper troubles.
But I’d had difficulty reading Kate’s body language, which shouted so loud of defeat that very little else was getting through. I decided to change things up.
“Okay, no questions about the past today. Let’s talk about the future.”
Kate sighed. “What future?”
“The future comes every second.”
“With every shallow breath.”
I read defiance and despair in her body language, but continued, “If none of this had happened to you, what would your future look like? Your ideal future, I mean?”
She didn’t dismiss the question, but pondered it. She said, “I think I’d still be in, rising through the ranks.”
“You liked the Army.”
“I loved the Army.”