Angel Food and Devil Dogs (9 page)

"I saw him."

"What?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"I saw Bart pick up the bottle... Well, I saw him reach for it. I couldn't really see the bottle."

"And there was a bang? "

"Yes, well... there was a flash and then a bang," I said slowly.

"Good, then that fits. I think that when Bart picked up one of the bottles, the movement somehow triggered or detonated a small explosion."

"Before the fire started?" I asked typing the information into my laptop.

"See, all over the internet, you can easily buy baby M-80s. It's not legal to buy the old fashioned M-80s any more, but you can buy fireworks that have just under fifty grains of blast powder, anywhere. The old M-80s were really dangerous, they were equal to a quarter stick of dynamite, but fifty grains still gives a real kick," he explained. "The bottle exploded and the flaming accelerant in the bottle splashed across the room. There was a tiny pocket of natural gas in an old pipe in the wall. It wasn't connected to anything any more, but it exploded too, from the heat from the fire. The pipe was secondary though. It was the bottle that caused the damage. That's what I think anyway."

"How could the bottle go off just because someone touched it?"

"It's not too hard. There are detonators for sale on the Internet. Even a homemade device wouldn't be too complicated for someone to fashion. It just has to make a good spark. Static electricity or a battery in a sham bottle base. The spark would ignite an immediate fuse made of something like flash paper, which would touch off a couple of M-80s. The bottom of the bottle would explode and the liquid and fumes that were in the bottle... it would have to be flammable, like gasoline or lighter fluid, even paint thinner... would be ignited. If it was compressed in the bottle, liquid would be propelled all over the room. That room itself was a fire hazard, way too many flammables, those old ceiling tiles certainly weren't up to the current code, and the carpet was so incendiary, it might as well have been kerosene..."

"This bottle bomb... would it be hard to make it?"

"Unfortunately no. Look," he swiveled his computer screen toward me, "I found this at a site called: blowitupquick.com."

I shivered involuntarily. It was a mechanical drawing of a plastic soda pop bottle with a detonator and directions on how to make it. "This is really creepy. Could anybody do this?"

"It would be very dangerous. Fumes can easily ignite... some of the fire inspectors combed the room for hours looking for detonator parts. All they found was a little watch battery. I think a tin foil pressure switch with a flat battery could have made the spark that set off the M-80s." He paused thinking, then went on, "I didn't answer your question... Yeah, anybody could make this. So I guess the next question is: Who would do it?"

"Let's just think about who
could
. This is the time frame... Max Bouchet told Connie to unlock the door to the room when the tenure committee began to show up..."

"Yeah, they're a lot of confidential files in that room. The doors have to be locked all the time," Daniel explained.

I nodded, then took the list Miranda Juarez had given me out of my shoulder bag. The paper smelled like the fire. "When I came into the room: Bart Edgar, Dr. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann, Dr. Leo Getty, Dr. Skylar Carvelle, Professor Jimmy Harmon and Dr. Amanda Knightbridge were already there. Then Miranda Juarez, Max Bouchet, and I came in together. After that Connie Robinson came in with the drinks on a tray and put them on the back table. She left, then came back in with a tray of cookies. Everyone in the room got their respective drinks except me, Bouchet and Miranda. Connie brought me a water from the reception area. You and Dr. Georgia Smith came in after that, but neither of you got your drinks."

I paused, he nodded. I continued, "After everyone was done getting drinks, there were five bottles left on the back table."

Cohen interrupted, "Were they all plastic bottles?"

I formed a clear picture in my mind of the back table. "Yes. There was, a water, a Diet Coke, a Cafalatte, some kind of organic juice, and an iced tea."

Cohen said, "The Diet Coke was for me, I always have that, but since I'd come in late I didn't get it."

"Could someone have set up the bottle bomb and then left it in the refrigerator so that Connie would put it on the tray without knowing it was explosive?" I asked.

He glanced at the sky through the glass ceiling. Then he turned to the bomb diagram and ran his fingers through his curly hair a few times.

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Too volatile. That is if we're presuming it went off with Bart just picking it up. Connie couldn't have taken it from the fridge, put it on the tray, carried it in on the tray, picked it up again, and then set it on the table without setting it off. No way."

"What if Connie knew it would blow up, could she have carried it in carefully?"

I'd surprised him with that one. Connie didn't seem like the type. On the other hand she'd been amazingly decisive and capable during the fire. He finally said, "Yeah, I guess, she could have been careful to hold the bottom on and keep the contact in place, if she's known..." He suddenly looked shocked at what he was saying. "Oh... no... look, I'm not saying I think she did it! We have no idea what really happened..."

"But if the bomb was in a bottle, then the
bomber
would have had to carry the armed bottle carefully to the back table, put it on the table and then take away the corresponding bottle Connie had brought in, along with their own drink."

"Seems tricky to do," said Cohen imagining the scene. "I wasn't there when people were carrying their drinks back to the table, did you see anyone acting strangely?"

I thought, then shook my head, "Under this theory, we're talking about; Connie Robinson, Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann, Skylar Carvelle, Jimmy Harmon, Amanda Knightbridge, and Leo Getty."

"Oh God, I can't believe any of them would try... wait, there's one more," suggested Cohen.

"Who?"

"Bart."

"Would he blow himself up on purpose?" I asked incredulously.

"Well, maybe, or he could have been trying to take the device away and it went off... or..." Cohen put his chin in his hand and though for a moment, "or, he could have intentionally been trying to injure himself..."

"Why?" Then I saw his point. "You mean to be in a position to get disability rather than getting fired? That would be so risky! It would be stupid to attempt it."

"Bart shielded himself with the chair, but yes, it would have been stupid. However, if you ask most people, they'll tell you that Bart's not exactly the best tuned truck in the bay, he's clumsy too."

"But then that would be saying an idiot did this job and whoever did this at least was careful and paid attention to details and wasn't clumsy," I said.

"I don't think that describes Bart," Cohen said dryly.

I nodded, "OK, cross out Bart. Too bumbling. But heck, the whole room went up in flames. It injured someone in the doorway! If the
bomber
was in the room, he or she could have been killed. Seems stupidly risky."

Daniel Cohen was in his element now. He explained, "Amateurs rarely gauge the amount of explosives they need correctly. They almost always over dose. I'd guess this psycho, whoever he or she was, had planned to just kill the person picking up the bottle. As a matter of fact, if you read this schematic and the directions here on the screen," he indicated the diagram, "it says this device is for targeting one person you want to get rid of without collateral damage. It's a ridiculous claim. This was a fire bomb after all, with fire anything can happen... and it did."

"This has been very helpful, Professor Cohen," I closed my notebook.

"Wait... about Carl, I'm going to be frank, I'm a PFLAG dad. Know what that means?" he looked at me closely.

I nodded and smiled, "Yeah, my parents are too."

"Thought so. Look, I would have said, from what I knew of Carl... that it's hard to believe he'd write that note. He didn't seem like the kind of a guy who hated himself, even with those erratic emails recently. Maybe he was on drugs or something that made him not himself. It all just doesn't make sense."

It was a little after 3:30 PM when I finished with Daniel Cohen. I'd given him my card in case he had more ideas.

Twenty-five minutes to get over to Fenton Hall to meet Dr. Rowlina Roth - Holtzmann. I had a feeling, based on her general lock-step attitude, that she wouldn't tolerate lateness. First though, I wanted to ask Connie Robinson the receptionist, some quick questions.

I took a short cut to the Administration Building by bisecting the half circle drive. It was getting colder. The sky had turned gray and heavy. A yellowish cast of waning afternoon light made the campus seem surreal. No question about it, Frosty the Snowman was on his way.

As I got near the door to Miranda's temporary office I heard two voices, both tense and angry, coming from inside. One was Miranda's.

"You must leave. I do not want you to come here again," said Miranda. The fear in her tone surprised me.

"You think you can tell me what to do?" sneered a man's voice, "I tell
you
what to do. Understand!"

Miranda shrieked. I sprang into the room. A middle-aged man was twisting Miranda's wrist, her face showed pain, but when she saw me, an even more painful look infused her features.

The man was ugly with rage. When he saw me he dropped Miranda's arm, and wheeled on me. "What're you looking at, bitch?"

Miranda's mortification was evident. Her dark even skin tone blanched. She'd been uncomfortable with this man in her office, but a witness made her utterly humiliated.

The man was an inch or two taller than I. His skin was wind-burned red from long hours outdoors. His greasy light brown hair was uncombed, and he looked way beyond the point where
needed a shave
would adequately describe the condition of his face.

I stepped in close to him. He stank of stale whiskey, bad breath, and unwashed clothes. "Time to go," I said in a low no-nonsense voice.

"Oh yeah?" he taunted, a master of repartee.

"Yeah," I said catching his wrist and twisting it behind his back. I spun him around and pushed him off balance toward the door. He did a stumble run trying to right himself, but fell, catching his shoulder painfully on the frame. He hit the floor in the hall, whacking his knee again against the far wall.

Someone down the hall poked his head out of an office to see what was going on. Two maintenance workers, a man and a woman both in coveralls, advanced from the elevator.

All these spectators made this cowardly bully think more rationally. It wasn't just him against one small woman any more. He elbowed his way through the crowd, heading for the exit. We could hear his uneven footsteps echoing down the stairs.

I moved back into Bart's office, closing the door behind me. Miranda was sitting behind her desk. She didn't look up.

"Who was that?" I asked softly.

Miranda slowly raised her head, a portrait of deep chagrin. "My ex-husband. He... he comes around here sometimes. I have told him not to. He needs money. He has not been able to find a job, it is not his fault..."

My mouth fell open. I couldn't believe this capable woman was sticking up for that asshole. Her self-esteem and assurance were gone, replaced by a part of her she normally hid.

"What's his name?" He wasn't Latino, so I figured Juarez might be Miranda's birth name rather than her married name.

"Cedrick Sheldon Druckenmacher. He prefers to be called Shel," she said it as though his preference was the priority.

"He comes around... frequently?"

Miranda just shook her head. She didn't want to talk about this at all. She wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. She was straightening papers on her desk in an efficient way, doing her best to repress the last few minutes.

"Miranda, there are places that support women who are treated harshly by..." But Miranda shook her head again, and I realized that right then at least, there was no point in pushing Miranda about Druckenmacher. She was too desperate to act as though it hadn't happened, too practiced at denial. So I said, "I'd like to speak to Connie Robinson about a few things that happened yesterday. Do you know where she is?"

"Connie went over to the President's house to take him some papers. Then I think she was going to go home. Is there something I may help you with?" said Miranda crisply, desperately relieved that the subject had changed.

I'd wanted to ask Connie about the beverages but since she wasn't there... "I need to take another look upstairs and I'll need the key to the storage room, too." Miranda handed over the keys.

It was even colder up there than before, and the high stink of decay was stronger. The power was still off, no electricity, no lights. Luckily not the entire bank of windows was covered by tarps, but the rapidly setting sun was creating deep shadows. Fortunately the storage room had a window, so I could see without a flashlight. It was relatively clean and neat in there. The fire and its aftermath hadn't touched it.

I opened the refrigerator. The inside of it was warmer than the air in the room. No little refrigerator light came on. It was full of drink containers of every type. Every kind of soda, from cream to quinine. There were open twelve packs of diet and regular Cokes. There were juice boxes in all flavors, two unopened three-packs of Cafalatte, and a six-pack of Stewart's Root Beer in bottles! I could have asked for one of those, who knew? There were bottles of water, both local and
designer spring
. Opened six-pack cartons of Lipton Iced Tea and Life Line Organic Juice were on a lower shelf. There was milk and half and half. There was even Grape Nehi. Were there actually people who drank that stuff?

No wonder Connie needed a list. On the counter top was the tray. I imagined her staring at the list then reaching into the fridge to get each bottle she needed.

It was so quiet in there. No electricity, no white noise. No buzz of fluorescent ceiling fixtures, no constant refrigerator hum. Two copy machines sat noiselessly in one corner. The hands on the electric wall clock by the window were frozen at 3:09.