The next day the bomb maker watched the television news while he ate his lunch, and he could see that the story had begun to grow and flower since last night. Matt Jeffrey was interviewing a retired prosecutor named Etsky on Channel Twelve. Jeffrey said, “Why are the police investigating Richard Stahl for the murder of Gloria Hedlund?”
“I hadn’t heard it referred to that way. In a murder of a high-profile public figure, the police have many leads, and many possibilities. They plunge into the investigation and try to eliminate as many people as they can right away. The last I heard, Mr. Stahl was a person of interest, not a suspect.”
“Aren’t those just two stages in one process?”
“Sort of,” said Etsky. “Generally, there are many persons of interest, but only one becomes a suspect. Even then, a suspect is innocent until proven guilty. We’re far from a trial, and the police haven’t released any information they’ve found pertaining to him.”
“We do know some things. He’s a man who hadn’t been on the police force for eight years, but who was appointed to take over the Bomb Squad after the mass murder of half the squad. The chief jumped over the heads of fourteen serving Bomb Squad members to make him their boss. Stahl immediately proceeded to defuse at least four very large and complicated bombs, almost single-handedly.”
Etsky said, “Yes, I can see what you’re wondering about. It’s not unheard of that a public official might come in and save the day in an emergency, and then turn out to be the one who caused it. There have been fire officials who set fires, either to expand their reputations or to create a need for their services. And, of course, there have been police officers who committed crimes and pretended to solve them.”
“I’m just thinking, who would know better how to defuse a sophisticated bomb than the man who built it? Just wondering if you’ve heard anything from the police about that.”
“No.”
“And there is the fact that on the very day Richard Stahl was forced to resign by Gloria Hedlund’s reporting, Gloria was killed with a bomb.”
“That could be a coincidence,” Etsky said. “These bombs have been planted all over the city for about two months—long before she reported on Stahl.”
“But loss of a reputation is enough to make a man want revenge. It does provide a motive, doesn’t it?”
“Some people would say that. But a motive is a subjective thing. For some people, thinking someone is staring at them is a motive for murder. For others it takes much, much more.”
“But not everybody has the makings of a bomb on hand. It’s a very small percentage of the population. Because of all of the bombs that have been defused, wouldn’t the squad have access to lots of explosives kept for evidence?”
“Now we’re straying far beyond my field of expertise. I’ve never prosecuted a bombing case, but I’m not sure they keep explosives for evidence after they’ve identified them. They do keep some explosives of their own for detonating suspicious devices.”
“I’m just pointing out that he had the motive. He had the means. And the explosion occurred after one a.m. Mr. Stahl had finished his final day of duty on the police force six hours earlier. Six hours. That’s the opportunity.”
The television screen filled with a shot of the interior of the studio, and the new anchorwoman said, “Thanks to Matt Jeffrey and former prosecutor Etsky for that interview. We’ll be back in a moment with more news.”
The bomb maker switched channels to see what the other local stations were covering at noon. Channel Ten was running interminable coverage of the death of its reporter, Gloria Hedlund. It kept showing the shot taken by the surveillance cameras on the studio roof. He could see the flash and the nearby cars bounce once from the detonation, and then the Ferrari spinning into the air and falling in flames. He was pleased to see that the anchors didn’t show the tow truck, which had left forty minutes earlier. They didn’t seem to have made the connection.
After that they showed a report giving a biography of Gloria Hedlund, with pictures from early beauty contests across the South and a much younger Gloria looking like a blond goddess in front of groups of shorter, darker, and nearly identical contestants. Then there was a succession of shots from television stations in Charlotte and other cities, all the way up to shots from Los Angeles, taken twenty-five years later.
The bomb maker set the schedule control to make sure the local news was recorded beginning at five o’clock, and then turned off the TV. He had work to do this afternoon.
He had learned that in addition to killing the woman reporter, his bomb had succeeded in neutralizing the best bomb expert, the commander of the only opposing force that mattered to him, and making him a suspect. It was time to press his advantage. He had been working on some devices, and now it was time to finish them and put them into the field.
The surprising developments surrounding Dick Stahl had changed everything. The bomb maker had killed Gloria Hedlund only because he wanted to keep up the atmosphere of panic, and for that he needed to kill someone known to the public. He had chosen her only because there was something about her he hadn’t liked. But now Stahl was out for good.
Stahl had been the man he feared most. Stahl had ruined his car bomb at the gas station, rendered his elevator bomb a waste of effort, and correctly read the bomb he’d planted in the school cafeteria. Stahl had nearly rebuilt the Bomb Squad to full strength faster than the bomb maker could destroy them.
The bomb maker examined his work, selected the devices he felt were ready, and went to his car. He opened the trunk and placed the metal toolbox inside it. The box had a lining of bubble wrap, then a layer of Styrofoam bits, and then a four-inch layer of foam rubber. There was a second four-inch layer with four oblong holes cut into it so he could set a device in each one without it moving or bumping another. On top of that was a plain metal tray, which held a few light tools, rolls of wire, tape, and boxes of screws. They made the box look harmless, but they were all things he might need. The springs and shock absorbers of the car kept the ride sufficiently smooth to give him some confidence.
Driving around with a load of explosives in his trunk introduced a few unavoidable risks. He could be hit by a drunken driver in another car. He could drive into a sinkhole so deep it would jar even his padded box enough to set off a charge. He could have a taillight burn out and get pulled over by a cop who then got suspicious.
The Los Angeles police had automatic license plate readers mounted on patrol cars. The main purpose was to spot cars that had been reported stolen or had outstanding warrants. But there was a computerized record of every plate scanned. He was sure that by now, the homicide detectives would be looking at the numbers scanned near the times and places of his bombings. If two or three of them matched his car’s plate, they might take him in.
Tonight he was driving the sedan because he hadn’t used it in any of the bombings. He parked on a side street near the subway station in North Hollywood. He sat for a few minutes while he put on his black makeup, then he put on his knit cap and clear glasses. His clothes were baggy so they would hide the devices he was going to hold close to his chest beneath them. He went to his trunk, took out the pair of bombs, hugged them under his coat, and walked to the escalator. He rode it down to the first floor of the subway station, bought a tap card by putting cash into the machine, and went to the next escalator. He rode it down to the platform level and waited. He saw the train on the southbound track arrive, let off a few passengers, then rattle away. He set his watch’s timer, walked to the space behind the elevator shaft at the end of the platform, lowered himself down to the tracks below, and began to trot.