Part 5 (2/2)
Sullen clumps of uniformed and plain-clothes policemen had returned to the ground-zero area to stand around looking helpless during these anticlimactic moments.
A disconsolate Chief of Special Details, Captain Wayne Thomkins, had been standing with hands in pockets for some five minutes, staring steadfastly at the ground between his feet.
FBI Agent Joe Persicone was kneeling a respectful distance from the twisted pile of hot metal which marked the remains of Mack Bolan's last known vehicle, staring at it as though he could unlock its secrets through some process of psychic osmosis.
Detective Ed Strauss, who had been added to the main body of Bolan Watchers upon their departure from the Emperor's. .h.i.t, vaulted over the low brick wall which bounded the private property on the south side of the street and strode up to break into Captain Thomkins' meditations.
Thomkins glowered at the young officer and growled, ”Yeah?”
The detective spread his hands at shoulder level and replied, ”Zero, nothing.”
The Captain sighed and said, ”Can't catch moonbeams in a fruit jar, can you?”
”Sir?”
”Forget it.” Thomkins paced over to the wall and glared at it. ”Should've found him right here,” he said. ”His back broke over this wall.”
Strauss was measuring the distance with his eyes, mentally triangulating the drop from a point in s.p.a.ce where the pole had been, probably re-enacting in his mind's eye that spectacular free-fall into nowhere. His gaze traveled that imaginary path and he shuddered as it rebounded from the brick wall. ”Yes sir,” he quietly agreed. ”That was my first impression. I saw the guy go sailing off that pole backwards and I remember thinking, 'Far out, what a way to go!' I fully expected to-”
”So what's your second impression?” Thomkins asked somberly.
”Sir?”
”Where'd he go?”
Strauss raised his hands in what was becoming a characteristic gesture as he replied, ”h.e.l.l, I can't imagine. I've been thinking about those trees over there, just inside the wall. It's not inconceivable that . . .”
”Glad you said that,” Thomkins growled in a somewhat softened tone. ”Saved me from saying it. What'd he do, whip out his Batman cape and fly over there?”
”A superb athlete could . . . well, maybe. I don't know, Cap'n. I just said it's not inconceivable.”
Persicone stood up with a sigh and joined the debate.
”It's a purely academic question,” he suggested. ”We have to accept the obvious. Bolan fell right into the blast and was annihilated.”
”You know better than that,” Thomkins replied acidly. ”That's a cop-out and you know it. You were right at my elbow. You saw the whole thing as clearly as I did. And you saw the guy falling away in the other direction, away from the blast.”
The FBI man lit a cigarette and blew the smoke inward the gutted truck. ”Eyes can play tricks,” he said. ”Especially at a time like that. All we saw was the guy falling out of the spot. We were all so tensed up we were ready to jump at anything. We projected a path of fall, away from the spot, which was the only light available at the moment. But away where? Away down, that's where; it was the only route the guy had. Then the blast came, and suddenly we had a lot more light than our eyes could handle. Face it, we lost the guy the instant he left that pole. By the time our eyes adjusted to all that light-and our minds, I might add, to the whole unsettling event-well, all I'm saying is that we thought him into that path-of-fall. We don't know what the h.e.l.l we saw.”
”I know what I saw,” Thomkins insisted.
”Look, Wayne, look-we were a half a block away. You've got to consider the darkness, the angle of vision, the sudden blindness from the blast. Let's let logic make the decision. We did not find a broken body, not even any blood. We covered every inch of the surrounding area, we searched the trees, we've looked into every conceivable fall-zone. Now, I don't care how superb the athlete or anything else-no guy is going to get up from a fall like that and simply walk away, or even crawl away. So . . we are left with one inescapable conclusion.”
”I'll buy that conclusion,” Thomkins growled, ”when I can find something factual to pin it to.”
Persicone smiled faintly and said, ”You're a stubborn cop.”
”Thank you,” Thomkins replied.
Strauss said, ”With your permission, Cap'n . . . I'd like to have the firemen a.s.sist me with-I'd like them to lift me in that bucket of theirs:”
”Yeah, go ahead,” the head cop agreed. ”Just don't try any swan dives outta that bucket.”
Strauss grinned and hurried away.
The two men watched his departure for a moment. Then Persicone quietly declared, ”That's a good man.”
”Yeah,” Thomkins agreed. ”He doesn't buy your theory either, Joe.”
”He's got a personal interest in this case now,” the FBI man pointed out. ”Bolan left him with egg all over his face.”
”Not just him,” Thomkins observed sourly.
An embarra.s.sed silence enveloped the pair. Thomkins returned to his eyes-on-toes meditation. Persicone began pacing back and forth between the shattered telephone pole and the brick wall.
Presently a fire captain ambled up, grinning. He snapped a curious glance at the pacing FBI agent, then told Thomkins, ”It's subject to lab verification but I think I can tell you what triggered the explosives. My boys are putting some pieces together. Looks like a remote-control detonator,”
”Radio?”
”Yeah. Solid-state miniature.”
The cop said, ”Okay, that fits our theory. Put some more pieces together, will you, Cap? Find me some toes and fingers, even an eyeball or a t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e. Find me a piece of the guy that pushed the plunger.”
”If he was in that truck,” the fireman replied, ”you can probably forget it. It's a miracle n.o.body else got hurt. It appears that the blast went up more so than out, which accounts for the small-area containment. Your bomb boys agree with us on that. It's possible to plan an explosion that way; maybe the guy did. Anyway, if he went up with it-well, forget the pieces.”
The fire captain threw another glance at Persicone and walked away.
The FBI man stopped his pacing and told the cop in charge of the Bolan detail, ”I'm not telling you your business, Wayne.”
”Okay, don't.”
”Yeah, stubborn, yeah.”
Another silence ensued, during which the two of them interestedly watched a young detective who was being swung high overhead in a fire department emergency rescue rig.
While this was in progress, the two-way radio on Thompkins' belt summoned him, and delivered the information that the search warrant was awaiting him near the Angeletti front gate.
”Okay, hold it right there,” he instructed the caller. ”I'll be over there in a couple of minutes.”
”Waste of time,” Persicone commented, with a faint smile.
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