“Yeah. So much for peaceful cooperation in the Middle East.”
We find Anna Rizzo sitting on a metal stool in one of the evidence-processing rooms. Long white tables stretch out to thefar wall, filled with computer monitors, microscopes, and illuminated magnifying glasses.
She greets us with a yawn, then quickly recovers. “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “I’m still full of piss and vinegar.”
Rizzo is wearing a white lab coat and light blue medical gloves. She goes back to examining a small length of what looks like burned string through a magnifying glass. “Anything new on your end?” she asks.
I give her the top line. “We’re still canvassing witnesses, trying to determine if anybody saw the driver exit the van before the explosion or saw what happened once he went into that alley. Challenge is, he could have gone one block, ducked into a doorway, stripped off his painter outfit, and hopped into a getaway car.”
“Or taken a bus,” adds Mahoney. “Or jumped on the nearest Metro.”
“Well, lucky for me,” says Rizzo, “everything I need is right here and in the warehouse next door. That’s where we’re reassembling the van, best we can.”
“We also met with Chief Lucianne out at Reagan,” says Mahoney. “She showed us a video of the van leaving the parking garage. No good views of the driver’s face, though. And he paid in cash, with gloves on.”
Rizzo nods. “Like I said, fastidious.” As she reaches for a notebook, the right sleeve of her lab coat slides up, exposing a tattoo on her wrist. It looks like a stylized bomb surrounded by jagged lines indicating an explosion.
Rizzo quickly pulls her sleeve down and gives me a sidelong glance.
Caught me looking.
“So why are we here?” asks Mahoney.
Rizzo stands up. “I want you guys to take a look at what I’ve found so far.” She walks to the end of the table and points to a collection of curved pieces of broken and burned plastic. “It looks like our guy was inspired by the ghost of Timothy McVeigh. He used a mixture of fuel oil and fertilizer in plastic barrels. Packs one hell of a punch.”
“Okay,” says Mahoney, “we’ll check feed and grain stores to see if anybody made major purchases of fertilizer in the past weeks.”
“Good luck with that,” says Rizzo. “If he’s as smart as I’m betting, our guy would’ve spread his purchases around several different states so as not to arouse suspicion.”
She pokes her finger at a small pile of screws and bolts. “And take a look at this. As if the explosion weren’t bad enough, the bomber added this stuff as shrapnel, possibly loaded into plastic bags and duct-taped to the inside of the van. That tells us he didn’t just want to destroy buildings and cars—he wanted to kill and maim as many people as he could.”
Rizzo returns to her stool. I hang behind for a few seconds, trying to control my rage as I stare at the handiwork of someone who killed and grievously wounded so many innocents less than twenty-four hours ago.
Whoever you are, I’m coming for you.
With a pair of tweezers, Rizzo holds up the bit of burned string that she’d been examining when we walked in.
“Here’s your fuse, or what’s left of it,” she says. “The surveillance video shows the van stopping, its hazard blinkers coming on, and then the bomber stepping out and walking away. About sixty seconds later, the bomb detonates.”
I lean forward to look at the string. “So the bomber lit the fuse after he parked the van.”
“That’s right,” says Rizzo. “But come see something else I’ve found that’s giving me the willies. Over here.”
Mahoney and I follow her to another wide table. She takes a mounted magnifying glass and moves it over to a small charred object. “Look.”
“You first,” says Mahoney, nudging me forward.
Peering through the glass, I see a tiny bit of green plastic, no bigger than my pinkie nail, with what looks like a few squiggly gold lines inscribed in it. I step back. “Electronics?”
“No question,” says Rizzo. “But nothing that seems to be connected with the van’s engine or electronics system. We’re still sifting through the debris, but my guess is that we’re looking at what’s left of a timer. The bomber didn’t want to rely only on a burning fuse. He wanted a backup.”
Mahoney takes his turn at the magnifying glass. “Maybe it’s part of a cell phone apparatus using a command detonation. The bomber walks away and when he feels safe, he enters a preprogrammed number, andboom.”
Rizzo shakes her head. “Not safe enough. For the bomber, I mean.”
“Because of spurious calls?” I suggest.
Rizzo smiles my way. She has a nice smile.
