I turn around, run back to my car, and start driving—in the opposite direction from the Cross house. Away from Willow and my second family.
When I get a half a block from the site, patrol cars are blockingthe street. I climb out of my car and hang the lanyard with my badge around my neck. I see broken glass and chunks of brick on the pavement. A whitish-gray cloud still hangs in the air.
This is a quiet DC neighborhood with mixed-use zoning, mostly three- and four-story brick apartment buildings and small offices.
But there’s something different here.
I don’t see any bodies in the street. No amputated limbs in the trees. No victims screaming on the curb.
The action is centered on a corner building just ahead. Two fire engines are already on scene, with firefighters hooking up hoses to hydrants. I see a team with axes and Halligan tools rushing into the entrance.
It looks like the whole side of the second floor facing the street has been blown out. Window frames are twisted; flames are licking around the edges. The brick siding is broken and blackened. On the street below, parked cars have huge dents and gashes from blast debris.
But there’s no crater in the street. No burning cars.
The bomber has changed tactics.
This time, the blast came from the inside.
CHAPTER 65
IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG for DCFD to knock out the fire. Water pours down the side of the building and goes out through the door onto the street in a filthy, frothy stream.
“John!”
I turn to see Anna Rizzo running toward me, her go bag in her hand.
“What’ve we got?” she asks, short of breath.
I point to the second story. “It looks like the bastard decided to change tactics. He blew up an office floor.”
Rizzo looks up at the torn hole in the brick, the shattered windows, and the scattered debris below.
Fire chief Pat Campbell heads over, his fire suit dripping wet and covered with soot. He gives me a nod as he walks up. We’ve been at dozens of scenes together over the years. “Hey, John. You got here fast.”
“Yeah. Bombings are kind of my hobby these days.” I pull Rizzoover. “Pat Campbell, DCFD, meet Anna Rizzo, ATF. She and I are working the case together.”
Rizzo nods. “How many casualties, Chief?”
“Two dead upstairs with positive IDs from the office supervisor: Jean Baptiste, the overnight maintenance guy, who was getting ready to go home after his night shift, and Abigail Grant, a student at GW. She was an intern in the office. Her second day. Got in early. That’s all off the record until they notify the families.”
I look up at the blackened building. “Whose office was it?”
“Interfaith Coalition for War Refugees,” says Campbell. “It’s an umbrella organization for small charities assisting refugees from war zones.” He looks up at the building too. “I guess these days, no good deed goes unpunished, right?”
“What in holy hell was the purpose of this one?” asks Rizzo.
I shake my head. “Doesn’t make sense. The first two bombings were terror for the sake of terror. Public spaces. Mass casualties. Big statements. But this seems more—”
“Intimate?” says Rizzo.
“Yeah,” says Campbell. “If you can call a fatal semi-contained explosion intimate.” He turns to walk back into the thick of the scene. “Good luck with this one.”
Behind a police barricade, a woman is pointing at the building and screaming. She tries to crawl over the barrier, but two burly cops hold her back. “Damn you all!” she wails in a French accent as she drops to her knees on the wet pavement. “Is my man in there? Is he? Jean! Are you there?”
I think back to the trophy wall in the motel room.
Is Aiden Phillips starting a new wall someplace else?
