The Cemetery Man and Other Darkside Tales
- Автор: Пронзини Билл
- Год: 2014
- Язык: английский
- Год: Perfect Crime Books
- ISBN: 978-1-935797-70-8
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Cemetery Man and Other Darkside Tales». Краткое содержание книги:
“Nils, I just heard about Judge Turnbull. Two in two days — what the hell’s going on?”
“No idea yet, Pat.” Ostergaard sounded tense and harried. “There has to be a connection; nobody buys coincidence. But aside from the fact that both men were in the legal profession, the link isn’t there yet.”
“No notes or calls from the bomber?”
“Not a word.”
“Same kind of device in both cases?”
“No. Both were set as boobytraps, but the one that killed Cotter was a simple type — black powder and metal frag packed into a lawn sprinkler and initiated by a tripwire hidden in the grass. The one that killed Norris... nasty. I hope I never hear of a nastier one.”
“Nasty how?”
“As near as the bomb techs could tell, the device was a small box of some kind left on the front seat of the judge’s car. Inside his garage; bomber gained access through a side window. When Norris opened the box to look inside, it blew fifty or sixty thin, sharpened steel rods straight up into his face.”
“Jesus,” Dixon said.
“Yeah. It’s obvious we’re dealing with the worst kind of psycho here — intelligent enough to construct a more or less sophisticated explosive device, crazy enough to believe he’s got a good reason for ripping a man’s head apart with sharpened steel rods.”
“Who’s in charge of the investigation? Dave Maccerone?”
“Dave, and Charley Seltzer of the bomb squad. Ed Bozeman’s working with them from our end. A-priority, down the line.”
“If Ed’s working with the PD, that cuts you thin. Maybe I’d better come in.”
“No, no,” Ostergaard said “We’re okay. For now, anyway. You’ve earned your vacation, Pat. I’ll yell if I need you. Where’re you calling from?”
“Grocery in Two Corners, a village about ten miles from Mountain Lake. But there’s a closer phone. Neighbors of ours, the Ungers, have one.”
“Give me the number. I’ll call if—” Ostergaard broke off, and Dixon could hear the mutter of voices in the background. Then, “Pat, hold on a minute, will you? Dave Maccerone just came in.”
“Right.”
Ostergaard put him on hold. The phone box was in a slant of direct sunlight, and Dixon was sweating; he wiped his face with his handkerchief, dried his hands. Thinking: why the two different types of bombs? The simple explanation was that the perp had hated Judge Turnbull even more than Doug Cotter, but that still didn’t explain the use of sharpened steel rods. Some significance in those rods? He couldn’t imagine what it might be, if so —
Click on the line, and Ostergaard said, “Pat?”
“Still here.”
“The lieutenant wants to talk to you.” There was a different inflection in the DA’s voice, a new tension that made Dixon grip the receiver more tightly. “Just a second... here he is.”
“Yo, Pat,” Maccerone’s heavy voice said. “Good thing you called in; timing’s right all around, for a change. Listen, I think we’ve got a handle on the bombings.”
“You know who’s responsible?”
“Pretty sure we’ve ID’d him. You know how each of these serial bombers has his own signature — the way he puts his device together, the kinds of connections he makes, the types of powder, cord, solder, circuitry he uses. Each signature’s different, and it seldom varies. Well, the lab techs finished going over the postblast evidence from this morning, and the signature’s not only the same as on the Cotter case but as on one other about six years ago. Computer match probability is ninety-five percent.”
“Whose signature?”
“Man named Leonard Sago. Name ring any bells?”
“Sago, Sago... vaguely familiar. Should I know him?”
“Financial consultant here in the city,” Maccerone said. “Ex-Marine with explosives training. Went over the edge when he found out his wife was having an affair. Put a boobytrap bomb in the trunk of the boyfriend’s car, hooked to the inside trunk release; that one didn’t go off because of a bad solder joint. A second bomb under the back porch of the guy’s house did go off — cut him up some with flying glass and debris. Sago claimed he didn’t intend bodily harm, the bombs were just messages to leave his wife alone. Insufficient evidence to nail him on attempted homicide, but enough to convict on two other felony counts: explosion of a destructive device and setting boobytraps. Five years on each count. Coming back to you now?”
Dixon had gone rigid. “Yes.”
“Well, Sago served a total of five years and was paroled two months ago. I just talked to his PO. Sago seemed okay at first, rehabilitated, but then he started to show signs of continued hostility toward his ex-wife and the people who put him in prison. He disappeared last week. The PO violated him right away, but he still hasn’t turned up.”
Dixon said thinly, “Doug Cotter was the assistant prosecutor on the case. Norris Turnbull was on the bench.”
“Afraid so, Pat.”
“And I was the chief prosecutor. Sago struck me as arrogant and unrepentant, and still dangerous, and I went after him hard. Now he’s after me, right? Cotter, Turnbull, and now me.”
“Looks that way,” Maccerone said. But it’s not as bad as it could be, believe me. If he did set a trap for you, it’s probably at your house here. I’ve already sent the bomb squad out; they’ll spot it if it’s there.”
“Suppose it isn’t. Suppose he found out I was going on vacation. He could have — I didn’t make any secret of the fact. He could’ve found out about my summer place, too—”
“Take it easy, counselor. You’re not in any immediate danger; if Sago was that smart, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now. You’re in a place called Two Corners, Nils says. Okay. Go back to your cabin, collect your family, drive to the nearest motel. If the bomb squad strikes out at your house here, I’ll call the Sacramento PD and have them send up a crew to sweep the cabin—”
The padlocks! Sweet Jesus, the missing padlocks!
Dixon threw the phone down and ran for the station wagon.
tick... tick... tick... tick... tick... tick... tick...
Kathryn’s surprise was really going to be something.
As tired as he was from all the driving, he was ready and eager to start assembling it. The carton he’d gotten from the supermarket Dumpster, a little larger than the one he’d used for the judge’s package, was on the floor next to the table, along with the bag of bubble wrap for packing. And on the table, all neatly arranged, were the tools and other materials he would need. Pliers, screwdrivers, cold chisel. Soldering gun and spool of wire solder. Aluminum canister. Microswitch. Six-volt battery. Fresh tin of smokeless black powder, the last of the three he’d bought at the gun shop in Pacifica (said he was a duck hunter and loaded his own shotgun shells). C-4 plastic explosive, the kind they used in Nam, would have been better; more pucker power and a hotter blast, just right for sending Kathryn on her way to hell. But you needed connections to get C-4, and his military ties were a thing of the past. Along with just about everything else that had mattered in his life.
The other item on the table was one of two pieces de resistence — a glass jar, full to the brim. The second was spoiling on a shelf on the rear porch, where he didn’t have to smell it. He’d put that one in the package after he got to Lawler Bluffs, Indiana, just before he was ready to spring the surprise.