Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4), Brian Shea [free reads .txt] 📗

23

Kelly and the assembled team remained in the command center about a block from where The Monkey Wrench bar and restaurant, owned and operated by Maeve Flynn, once stood. Fire had come in after a team of EOD technicians had secured the scene and rendered it safe. The fire department was finishing dousing the last bits of the blaze. Kelly feared much of the invaluable evidence would be washed away by the powerful hoses used to contain the fire that broke out after the fourth bomb had detonated at exactly 9:36 p.m. Gray had been right—their bomber was meticulous, matching the time threatened in the note left at the third bomb site.

Halstead placed his cell phone in his pocket and approached. "Arson investigator says it's been rendered safe. We're going to hold the scene, and we're going in on a recovery operation now marking evidence."

Four bodies had been extricated from the carnage. Among the dead was Maeve Flynn. They'd missed getting to the bar owner by ten minutes. Patrol had compiled a list of sixty-one possible matches for the woman Collins had identified. An old report from a robbery dating back twelve years was how they located the decedent. They’d been unable to get through on the phone, and two marked units were on their way to the bar to make contact when it exploded.

Twenty-three other civilians suffered varying degrees of injury. The establishment’s layout had created a natural barrier to the blast as most of the patrons dined in the other main room set apart from the bar area. Many received only minor cuts and burns. When the restaurant became engulfed in flames, they had managed to escape out the rear of the building.

With four dead, the bomber’s tally had grown to seventeen, not to discount those injured by the blasts. Senior Crime Scene Technician Raymond Charles led the group, like he had on all the scenes. The senior man for the FBI's crime scene team had conceded to Charles's experience, leaving the oversight in the hands of Boston PD. Charles, as the BPD forensic guru, was now the de facto leader, which made sense, since he had literally written the textbook on crime scene processing.

With the technicians at his beck and call, Charles pointed out evidence marker placement as he guided Dawes, who was taking the photo documentation. A slow procession of investigators, including Kelly and Barnes, followed close behind. Kelly was still fuming about missing the opportunity to stop the attack. Now, 9:36 would be a twice-daily reminder of his failure. Another burden to add to his sack, and one he'd shoulder until the grave.

Kelly surveyed the devastation, amazed it hadn't claimed more lives.

Maeve Flynn's death confirmed Collins’s warning. The blast zone that consumed the woman's body in fire and debris left a bloody stamp of approval in Kelly's mind that the imprisoned Irishman had been telling the truth. Kelly cursed to himself.

Mills hustled past and joined the group directly behind Charles, hovering close and taking in the scene bit by bit. Watching the two together was interesting as each processed the scene in their own unique ways. Mills moved like a K-9 on a track, her head swiveling from side to side as if she were sniffing the scent cone of a suspect. Charles, in the handler’s role, looked ahead and set the pace, guiding her into the wreckage.

Charles stopped when he came to the bathroom, or, more accurately, where the bathroom used to be, and directed Dawes to photograph in a multitude of directions.

The furthermost stall wall was heavily damaged, singed darker than the rest of the area.

"That's where it was?" Kelly asked.

"Yes." Mills snapped several photos of her own using her cell phone.

"How come this thing didn't take out the whole restaurant? Looks like it only blew up the bar." The hallway bathroom split the bar from the main dining room area, and the blast had channeled outward toward the bar.

"I think our bomber knew something."

"What's that?"

"Come here." Lexi took Kelly down the hall, stopping before a door. "I'm going to guess it's in here."

"What?" The charred sign above the splintered door read Manager.

Mills squatted and peeked through a busted hole. "Just what I thought. Large wall safe. It abuts the back of the stall where the bomb was placed."

Kelly joined her in a half-squat and looked inside. The oversized safe had been forced into the center of the room. Aside from a concave indent in the back, it was relatively undamaged. "The reinforced steel acted like a backstop of sorts, right?"

"Yes. While it probably saved several lives of the diners in the other room, it also told me something about our bomber."

"And what's that?"

"It tells us our bomber is very good. Very good indeed. I believe he positioned the bomb against that wall safe with the knowledge it would create enough resistance to force the blast energy out toward the bar. He used the safe behind the wall to create a shape charge."

"A shape charge?" Barnes came up alongside Kelly.

"Anytime you can put enough material around a bomb, you can force the blast outward so that all of that kinetic energy is forced in one direction."

"Huh," Barnes said. "So this guy used the structure or what he knew of this place to enhance his bomb-killing ability?"

"Looks like he nailed his target."

"How did he know she was going to be here at the bar?" Kelly asked, as much to himself as to the group.

"She wasn't supposed to be working tonight. And rarely, if ever, did she work the bar." Barnes flipped through her notepad. "One of the waitresses said that the bartender didn't show. Flynn's apparently the only one available to cover right now. They cut back recently, fired someone who was skimming. That left her with only one bartender in the interim, and when he didn't show, she filled in for him."

"Anybody talk to the bartender, the one who was supposed to be here?"

"No. But we've got a name. Chaz." Barnes