Silent Night

TWENTY TWO

Twenty minutes later, just as the clock ticked to 1:30pm, the team had reconvened back at the Counter Terrorism Bureau. Over in Manhattan, clean up from the store by the Seaport was in full swing and the entire NYPD, ESU and Chemical Response Teams were on red alert. The CRT had locked down the area where the bomb had detonated, and the bodies had been wheeled out and transported to the lab, their families in the process of being notified. Macy’s had also been shut down for the rest of the day which had severely pissed off its senior executives, some of them calling in and demanding to speak with Lieutenant General Franklin. However, using all his PR skills and trying to calm them down, Franklin pointed out that their building staff had dealt with a potential major incident expertly and with great efficiency. That was good publicity and some compensation for their temporary drop in profit. The Mayor had gone on the air a few moments ago saying that the tragic accident at the Seaport and the situation in Macy’s were unrelated and that both events happening so close together was just a terrible coincidence. He assured the city that everything was under control, and offered his sincerest condolences to the families of those killed at the Pier.

Upstairs in Briefing Room 5, Rach was searching for the person or people who’d taken the man into the restroom at Bryant Park and killed him. She’d asked a co-worker to run through the CCTV footage from the lobby at the Flood Microbiology building. The analyst had found the man Archer had killed earlier at the house. He’d entered the building and swiped himself in at just after 7pm, exactly as Dr Kruger had said. He’d left ten minutes later with a box under his arm which must have contained the missing vials. The body found at the French café at Bryant Park was on its way to the lab where prints would be taken and hopefully an ID pulled, but that was only part of the puzzle. The number one priority was finding who broke his neck in that restroom and stole the vial from his undetonated bomb.

Downstairs, to the left of the detectives’ desks and working areas, was the corridor lined with interrogation cells. Gunnar had been taken into a cell ten minutes ago, his cuffs removed and his white tank-top given to him to put on. He'd been told to sit and wait. The intimidating size of the man and the inking covering his body contrasted oddly with his unrelenting cordiality. Nothing seemed to upset or faze him. Unlike most suspects dragged into the building, he was showing no signs of aggression or resistance, maintaining his air of patience and tolerance.

Watching from a one-way glass window to the side of the interrogation room, his arms folded and with Jorgensen and Marquez beside him, Archer studied the man with curiosity. He’d never come across someone whose appearance was such a contradiction to their manner. Gunnar spoke like a post-grad yet looked like the head of a prison gang.

In fact the only time he hadn’t been one hundred per cent compliant since they picked him up was a few seconds ago. Shepherd had gone in to grill him about the dead neo-Nazis but he had flatly refused to talk.

He said he would only talk to the blond guy who’d put the cuffs on him.

That meant Archer was taking the lead whether he liked it or not.

Shepherd stepped outside to the surveillance room, closing the door and joining his three detectives. He passed Archer the folder.

‘Guess you’re in the hot seat,’

‘He’s giving me the creeps.’

‘Me too. But thank God he’s humouring us. I think he could have broken through the handcuffs if he’d sneezed.’

As Shepherd spoke, Josh entered from the door that led out into the main corridor, joining the detail.

‘The girl from his apartment is called Kim Baines,’ he told them. ‘She’s a nobody. Only a couple of minors on her file for indecent exposure and possession of cocaine. She’s getting cleaned up and drug-tested.’

Shepherd nodded. He turned back to Archer and jabbed a finger at Gunnar, who was sitting patiently the other side of the glass.

‘Get him talking, any way you can. The guys we took out at the house are part of his crew. I want names and details.’

Archer nodded. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, twisted the handle and walked into the interrogation room.

This is going to be interesting, he thought.



Inside the cell, Gunnar was sitting in the chair facing the door. He smiled warmly when the blond detective entered the room.

‘Just the man I wanted to see.’

Archer ignored him, closing the door and taking a seat across the table. He placed the folder on the desktop between them and opened it. There were three photographs inside. He took them out and slid them towards Gunnar, lining them up in a neat row.

The photographs were all fresh from the two crime-scenes, taken directly from above. They showed each of the three bombers' faces.

The giant neo-Nazi looked down at them as Archer watched him closely.

He saw a quick flicker of recognition.

‘You know who they are.’

‘Yes, I do. Seen them look a lot better though.’

‘I need their names.’

Gunnar leaned back and smiled.

‘Hold on, handsome. There’s no rush.’

‘Yes, there is. We need this information now. The longer you don’t comply, the longer you’ll be here.’

‘You have something to charge me with?’

‘Your girlfriend’s getting drug-tested right now. Something tells me the results aren’t going to be good. We could pop a needle in you too. See what shows up.’

Gunnar smiled.

‘She’s not my girlfriend. Just a girl from my crew. But drug test me if you like. Anything you find will be legally bought and paid for.’

Archer looked at the swollen, muscular frame of the man. His arms and shoulders looked like they were about to burst.

Somehow I doubt it, he thought.

In the silence, Gunnar gazed at him, examining his face. It made him feel uncomfortable as hell but he used all his experience to hide it.

‘Damn, you look good,’ Gunnar said. ‘You should consider joining our society. We’d love to have you.’

Archer glanced at the ink on the man’s neck, shoulders and arms. A litany of tattooed hate.

‘Sorry. Not my thing.’

‘You can’t fight nature, my friend. You look better than any poster-boy I’ve ever seen.’ He leaned forward. ‘And it would be worth your time. The women in our organisation would go crazy for you.’

‘Tell me who these men are.’

‘I understand. You’re a detective, after all. But think about it. Whenever this investigation is over, look me up.’

‘Names.’

Gunnar smiled. He paused for a moment then pointed at the photo on his far left. The face under his meaty forefinger was the youngest of the group, the one Marquez had taken down in the corridor at the house.

‘The kid's called Donnie Stahl. The one beside him is Nathan Hansen,’ he said, pointing at the guy found in the restroom with the broken neck. ‘And the fat guy is Paul Bleeker. ’

Archer glanced at the one way mirror to his left and nodded. Outside, Shepherd and the team would already be going to work with the names.

‘Did you know them well?’

‘No. They were kids. Not my circle. But I’ve seen them around, at rallies and at concerts.’

He frowned.

‘But there’s one missing.’

‘What?’

‘I never saw this group as a three. They were always a four.’

‘Who’s the fourth guy?’

‘He’s called Ray. Ray Creek. Think he lives over in Sunnyside.’

He tapped Bleeker’s photo, the man Archer had killed.

‘Anyway, this guy was the leader.’

Archer pulled back the photo and examined it. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘Late-twenties. Dropped out of high school, no skills. He was always going to be at the bottom of the heap. Lazy and talentless. But I’ve seen him around. He tried to intimidate people and throw his weight around. Typical high school bully.’

‘But that didn’t work with you,’ Archer said, looking at Gunnar’s bulk.

The neo-Nazi leader grinned and shook his head.

‘Very perceptive. Not just a pretty face after all.’

There was a pause. Gunnar looked at him curiously and leaned back, the chair creaking from the weight.

‘What’s all this about? What did they do?’

Archer didn’t reply.

‘I caught the news,’ Gunnar said. ‘The reports from Macy’s and the Seaport. Did they have something to do with that?’

‘You’re going to play innocent?’

Gunnar grinned. ‘When you get a warrant you can tear my place upside down Detective. You can check my phone and see who I’ve been interacting with. I’ve got absolutely no idea what they’ve been up to and there’s no way you can pin anything on me that says otherwise.’

He paused.

‘But I’m guessing it had something to do with those bombs around Midtown. Right?’

Archer maintained eye contact with the man. He decided to reveal part of his hand.

‘Correct. They planted them.’

‘But they didn’t contain explosives?’

‘No. A lethal virus instead.’

‘A virus?’

‘Bleeker stole five vials of it from a lab on the Upper West Side last night. Do you have any idea how he’d know about something like that?’

‘You’re the police. You figure it out.’

‘Motive?’

‘If I had to guess, I’d say racial.’

No shit, Archer thought.

‘But these bombs were left in Midtown and Lower Manhattan,’ he said.

‘So?’

‘If this was racially motivated, surely they’d go after Washington Heights or the Bronx? Spanish Harlem? Areas dominated by black or Hispanic communities?’

‘There're plenty of non-Aryans in Midtown. And people like myself can’t just stroll up into those neighbourhoods you mentioned Detective.’

‘But they would kill hundreds of others. White men, like you. Surely that goes completely against your ideology?’

‘Hey, I agree. It’s not something I would ever do. I spend my life adhering to those beliefs.’ He looked at Archer. ‘Look, they must have had their reasons. Don’t assume that those reasons were intelligent. Bleeker was as thick as pig shit. God only knows how this virus you’re talking about fell into his lap. And given his stupidity, it’s almost a guarantee that he would use it in the wrong way.’

Archer clocked Gunnar’s facial expression and body language. His geniality was fading. The conversation was just about done.

Archer rose, taking back the photographs and sliding them into the folder. ‘We’re going to check out these names you’ve given us.’

‘OK.’

‘Get comfortable. This could take a while.’

‘See you soon,’ Gunnar said with a grin. ‘And please think about my offer. You’d be surprised who some of our members are.’



At that moment, eight miles to the west, three men were sitting in a line on stools in a bar in Hoboken. The place was called Texas/Arizona, a stone’s throw from the PATH train that led under the Hudson River and into the east side of Manhattan. The trio had been wandering around the neighbourhood looking for a place with warm heating and cold beer and had stumbled upon the bar, pleasantly surprised by the name. The joint was starting to get busy, lots of fans in football gear coming in for the NFL games that were already kicking off around the country, but the three men weren’t interested. They were dressed all in black with shaved heads and were sitting with a beer in front of each of them. They completely ignored the people gathering around them. They were hardly blending in and were taking up three of the best seats in the house but no one was prepared to confront them about it.

In front of the men, one of the bartenders ended a phone call then grabbed a remote and flicked the television above the bar from an ESPN pre-game show to the news channel. Drinking from their beers, the trio watched in silence. There were several headlines rolling on the screen. It seemed like some crazy stuff had gone down in Manhattan that morning just the other side of the Hudson. There'd been some kind of bomb threat at Macy’s and a chemical accident by the South Street Seaport that had killed almost sixty people.

As the three skinheads watched the television, the one in the middle whistled.

‘Holy shit.’

The man to his right nodded in agreement. The guy on the left drained his beer and rose from his stool. The man beside him turned.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Smoke.’

The man walked to the door, heading out of the front of the bar. He pulled a pack of Marlboro from the pocket of his jacket and slid one into his mouth, sparking the end. Tucking the lighter and pack back in his pocket, he took a draw and examined the area around him, blowing out the smoke. Traffic was coming around the corner from the right, but across the street he saw two cops had pulled someone over. One of them was by the woman’s window, talking to her quietly, his partner returning from their squad car with her licence and registration.

The skinhead drew on the cigarette and watched them.

‘Hey. Pigs.’

They didn’t hear him.

‘Hey, piggy, piggies.’

They heard him this time. The officers turned simultaneously and saw him across the road by the bar.

He grinned, standing face on, willing them to take the bait.

The two cops looked at him for a moment. Then they passed the woman’s details back to her and started walking towards him. A red light had hit, so the street was clear. They moved across the road with the absolute confidence and authority that their badge and gun provided. Stepping onto the sidewalk, the two cops walked up to him, standing close.

‘You say something?’ one of them said.

The skinhead grinned, but didn’t reply. His two friends had sensed something was happening and were watching the exchange from their seats inside the bar.

‘I’m sure you just said something.’

The skinhead didn’t reply. He took a long draw on the cigarette instead.

‘It sounded like you just called us pigs.’

Turning to the man on his right, the skinhead suddenly blew the smoke in the cop’s face.

The police officer blinked, momentarily blinded.

Then the skinhead dropped the cigarette, swivelled and sucker-punched the other cop in the face.