“You had to see the guy’s house, Mike,” said Arturo. “Hoarders, except organized. Stacks upon stacks of labeled plastic containers of comic books, chess magazines, newspapers—mostly Daily News dating back to the fifties.”
“Exactly,” said Doyle. “Real strange shit.”
I remembered what Kaczynski had said about the bomber being a hoarder. And that he might play chess. Had we actually caught these guys?
I looked at the two men on the interview-room monitor on the lieutenant’s desk. The resemblance was there. They easily could have shaved their goatees because of the manhunt.
“It’s them. Has to be, right?” said Arturo.
“Nothing has to be, Lopez,” I said. “But so far, not bad.”
CHAPTER 73
I SPOKE TO Yevdokimov first.
“What the fuck is this? Russia?” were the first words out of the Russian’s mouth as I opened the door.
He was not a handsome man, but his casual clothes were expensive—a fastidious sandwashed silk T-shirt; tailored jeans.
“Why’d you do it?” I said.
“Blow up the subway?” he said, staring at me with bulging eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. I was bored. No, wait. I thought I’d start the Fourth of July off early this year, that’s it. Plus of course my mother didn’t really love me.”
His chair creaked as he attempted to shift his weight with his hands cuffed behind him.
“How many times do I have to say it?!” he cried as he began rocking back and forth. “It wasn’t me. I have a lot of enemies, okay? That happens when you’re a genius. Most people are stupid, and when they come into contact with a towering intellect, they become fearful and jealous. I was at work when that bomb went off. I have twenty witnesses who will testify to it.”
“Where were you last night around six fifteen?”
He stared at me as he rocked.
“I was at Orchard Beach in the Bronx. I walk my dog there. Why?”
“Bullshit. You were at the corner of Thirty-First and Dyer Avenue in Manhattan, Dmitri. Your genius must be slipping a bit, because you didn’t think about that second camera on the corner past the box.”
He laughed as he rocked, shaking his head.
“The box? What box? The jack-in-the-box? You’re unbelievably wrong,” he said as he started squeaking around again in his cheap hard plastic chair like the world’s largest hyperactive four-year-old.
“That’s the spirit, Dmitri,” I said. “Rock that boat, but remember, just don’t tip the boat over. Get real comfy, because we’re going to be here for a long, long time.”
He whimpered.
“This is unreal,” he said. “Let me guess. You guys are out of ideas, and since you have no clue who’s doing this and never will, the plan now is to find a scapegoat.”
“Your car was there, Dmitri,” I said. “A gray Civic. Your car, your plates. You were there.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he said sadly as he finally stopped squiggling around. He shook his head and looked down at the floor.
“Someone is framing me.”
“Oh, a frame job,” I said. “I haven’t heard of one of those since television came in black-and-white. Tell me more.”
He lifted his head.
“Do you play chess?” he said.
“No. I put murderers on death row.”
“Ah, very funny,” he said with a pained grin. “New York City is one of the most competitive chess arenas in the world, especially for big-money underground games. I haven’t lost a game in six years—six years—and I play every day. They set them up, and I knock them down. Some people are gracious winners. I’m not one of those people.
“I crow. Sometimes I laugh. It’s emasculating to get owned. At least I suppose so, because I wouldn’t know. And now I guess one of those very bright people I beat has had enough. This is their moment to make their mark or whatever. Why not get me back, right? School the master. Revenge! Now, please take off these cuffs. I want my lawyer. Let me out of here. I have to feed my dog.”
CHAPTER 74
I THOUGHT ABOUT what Dmitri had said as I came out of the interview room into the bull pen. Some of it actually made sense. Anyone who blew up 26 Fed with robots and all the rest of it could easily have framed this guy. A thought that was pissing me off. Were we being played again? Was this loser actually being framed?
I turned to see Emily Parker coming up the precinct-house stairs.
“I just heard, Mike. You have these guys in custody? Do you think it’s them?”
“Maybe, Emily,” I said as Brooklyn and Doyle came out from questioning Anatoly Gavrilov.
“He’s not talking, Mike,” Brooklyn said. “At least not in English, except when he demands a lawyer.”
“What about your guy, Mike?” Doyle said.
“Same,” I said.
“What now?” Doyle said.
“There’s no way we’re letting them go anywhere until we can confirm their whereabouts in the last few weeks. And months and years,” I said. “We need a full background on these guys. Immigration records, educational background, political affiliations, finances, any recent upheavals in their life that might have set them off.”
That’s when my cell phone rang.