Mind Games (18 page)

“I didn’t. I swear. I run a gun shop and I just thought…”

“You thought what, Hansen? You thought you would just make a little extra money on the side – with illegal weapons. Is that it?”

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I think I do. Black market weapons yield a lot of money if you know what you’re doing. So you’re telling me you killed Stefani to stop the bombings? Is that right?”

“I didn’t murder him.”

“Derek, you can deny a lot of things, but your fingerprints were all over the murder weapon.”

“It wasn’t murder, it was self-defense.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“Stefani tried to kill me that night.”

“And you thought ‘kill or be killed’?”

Hansen shrugged. Then he said something Vince had never heard a suspect say in that room before
:
“You should be thanking me.”

Vince couldn’t help himself from snickering. “Thank you? For what? For putting the lives of innocent civilians in jeopardy
?
For killing Fred Stefani?”

“For stopping the bombings.”

Vince leaned back and started a slow, dry clap, mockingly applauding Hansen’s confession. “Thank you, sir. Mr. Derek Hansen, thank you for your bravery. I’m so glad you had the courage to save the lives of so many of your black market clients.”

A gruff bitterness swept across Hansen’s face. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Do what Hansen?”

“Don’t you dare laugh at me.”

“Oh, you’re going to have to get used to a lot worse than that where you’re headed.”

Hansen shook his head and looked down while the slightest smile crept across the corner of his mouth. “You think this is over, don’t you?”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“You think just because Stefani’s dead and I’m in here that the bombings will stop?”

Vince stood and stared down at Hansen. “It’s over, Derek.”

“I wish it was. I really do.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out. Eventually.”

“Is there someone else, Derek? Someone else who knew about the bombings?”

Hansen took a deep breath, exhaling not in relief but out of anxiety. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Listen to me, Derek. You don’t have anything to lose. If you help us stop these bombings, we may be able to negotiate certain terms of your sentence.”

“I’m listening.”

“I can’t guarantee anything, but yes. If you have the opportunity to keep other people safe at this point, I’m asking you to take it. You may not get this chance again. Who else was involved?”

Derek nervously shifted his weight in the chair. Even with glassy eyes, Derek’s answer was perfectly clear. “His name i
s
Wilso
n
. He helped plan the bombings.”

“Okay, what was his role? Be specific.”

“I can’t tell you anything else. That’s it.”

“Derek, I can tell you’re a decent guy. You wouldn’t have stopped Stefani if you didn’t care about the people on the outside of the business. The clients. Their families. I think it’s safe to say that you even like those people. That’s why you stopped Stefani isn’t it?”

Hansen nodded. The resistance from before faded from his body language. Now, he appeared to be legitimately frightened as if he were a schoolboy about to soil himself. Hansen’s lingering high only made his lips looser. And the words slipped out like sheep meandering from a gate. “Wilson…tracked the clients.”

“How, Derek? Is that how he got the addresses to send the bombs?”

“Yes. Exactly. Wilson attached tracking devices to the products – the weapons – so he could keep tabs on the locations of the clients. It was Wilson’s idea to use the mail bombs for the clients who didn’t pay in full. Stefani just went along with it.”

“And where was Wilson the night you killed Stefani?”

“He was there with us. Actually, he saw the whole thing. Stefani fired at me and missed. I fired back and got him in the gut.”

“And Wilson just…watched?”

“At first, I thought he was going to try to kill me,” Hansen said. A bead of sweat formed just above his brow. “But he just went back to work like nothing happened. I think he figured with two of us instead of three, his cut of the money was better anyhow.”

“So, he was there that night? In Stefani’s house?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What does Wilson look like?”

“You wouldn’t forget him if you saw him. He’s a really scary old guy. He’s got crazy white hair – kind of wild looking.”

“What else?”

“Wilson’s a big guy. He probably benches four-thirty-five.”

“Sounds buff for an old guy.”

As Hansen went on to describe Wilson’s appearance, Vince realized Derek was describing the man Cameron and Amy had seen in Stefani’s underground maze – typing at the computer before vanishing from the glass room.

“So Wilson’s still out there?” Vince asked urgently.

“Yeah, and he’s not going to be easy to track down. If you think I put up a fight, you have no idea. Wilson could kill me for telling you this much. He’s very organized.”

“Like a stamp-collector?”

“No, organized like dangerous. I’m serious,” Derek said. “Keep your head on a swivel. Wilson knows how to find people. And he’s persistent. Go ahead. Lock me up. Wilson won’t find me in jail. And if he does, I’ll be ready for him.”

Captain Jones didn’t watch sports.

He didn’t go to the movies or even take his family on vacation. Jones had not left San Francisco in the last ten years. He believed traveling might blind him, even for a few days or weeks, of the happenings within the city limits. For him, work was never over. Jones spent his free time on the lookout for local crime. This is how he filled the Rolodex on his desk with the phone numbers of ballistics specialists and chemical analysts. For a man with a short attention span, Jones also had a surprising knack for building bridges of trust with city officials.

Still, the Captain’s heightened awareness of the city’s dark deeds could not prepare him for the event that unfolded at his favorite Italian Restaurant
,
Hector’s Meatball
s
.

He took his family there every Tuesday night, and they each had their favorite menu item: the Captain’s pre-teen daughter ordered a personal garlic chicken pizza, Mrs. Jones ordered a stuffed pasta dish, and the Captain always indulged in a deep dish of spicy meatballs in fettuccine pasta. After the meal, the Captain stepped outside for a quick smoke while his wife and daughter played games on their smartphones.

As Jones puffed on his cigarette, he looked down the street, over the hill, and into the city, surveying the blinking lights with a gaze of respect. Taking in the night air, the Captain watched the smoke from his cigarette swirl across the skyline. In that moment, he appreciated the calm. It was a peace that he never quite felt while sitting in his office at the Fourth Precinct.

Just the city and his cigarette.

Suddenly, a violent explosion erupted from within the Italian restaurant, shattering the windows, and sending a rumbling shockwave out to the tilted street. The momentary flash of light from the blast set off a few car alarms near the restaurant as the shards of glass from the windows bounced on the sidewalk. A portion of th
e
H
i
n
Hector’s Meatball
s
flickered and went out.

Jones jolted forward, dropped his cigarette, and shielded himself from the flying glass. With shallow breath, he ran into the restaurant. Jones hardly recognized the place. Broken plates, spilled food, and other diners were scattered along the checkered linoleum. A few tablecloths were still on fire, and smoke filled the room. The Jones’s family table was flipped over and Mrs. Jones and the Captain’s daughter lay on the floor. The Captain coughed and reached for his cell phone.

Within minutes, EMTs rushed in, checking vital signs. It was too late for one of the waiters. He was lying facedown under the soda fountain machine. The blast had sent him flying, and he’d hit his head on a light fixture just near the Jones’s table. A pool of blood weaved through the cracks in the floor and absorbed into a crumpled napkin.

The Captain’s wife experienced serious burns on her arms and his daughter suffered from a broken clavicle.

Captain Jones spent the rest of the evening in the emergency room waiting for the terms of recovery for his family.

Across the city, Vince walke
d
to his car in the dark parking lot of the Fourth Precinct. On the way home he, tried to forget about the case and jam out to some of his current favorites on the radio, but the carefree moment was short-lived.

As he neared the street of his apartment complex, Vince saw smoke billowing over the trees, filtering through the branches and leaves, rising upward. He heard a distant spray filling the neighborhood, and the sound grew louder. Soon, as he rounded the corner, he watched in horror as firemen sprayed massive streams of water into his charred apartment window. The thick, black smoke curled in a menacing cloud that dissolved into the sky.

As he watched the jets of water hiss, dousing the waves of smoke, Vince felt the weight of Derek Hansen’s warning pull him to the earth, pressing the soles of his feet hard against the pavement. Vince saw the large building grow, turn towards him, and lean, ready to topple from its foundation. At least, that’s how he felt about losing his collection of vintage records, among the other valuables in his decimated apartment.

The fire was isolated to his apartment, but Vince felt as though the building were about to crush him like a beetle, squishing him into an unrecognizable mass of flesh. He only missed the explosion by a matter of minutes.

Staring up in both shock and awe, Vince dryly uttered two syllables under his breat
h
.

“Wilson.”

Over the next few nights
,
a series of thunderstorms plagued the forest around the hidden cottage. The large amounts of rain caused a few small openings in the cottage roof to leak, and some members from Unit Two set out pots and pans to catch the drips. Even though it had only been a few days, Cameron already felt the symptoms of cabin fever. During their off hours, Max had masterfully beat Cameron at dozens of checkers games. So, Cameron decided to find another way to occupy his time.

On his third day at the cottage, Cameron waited for the other members of Unit Two to get in line for the shower, leaving him time to explore the sleeping quarters for Unit One. The members of Unit One were almost finished with their shift digging in the tunnels, but Cameron knew they wouldn’t start their ascent in the freight elevator until after breakfast.

As he looked at the bunks in the dim room, Cameron noticed how similar and plain the beds were, expressing no real sense of individuality. Some members from the night shift folded their sheets before going into the tunnels for the evening, but most of them left the sheets pulled over from when they got up. Cameron looked under the beds, but only found dust bunnies and small piles of loose dirt. But then, in a blink, he saw something under the far bunk in the corner of the room near the boarded-up window. He knelt down and reached under the bed, hoping his hand wouldn’t grab a dead mouse.

To his relief, the object was a dusty disposable camera. It had eleven pictures remaining.

The number reminded him of Sarah’s age. Although he suspected Sarah was thoroughly enjoying herself with her Aunt, Cameron knew it was only a matter of time before the fun wore off and she’d want her parents back. Even though she loved to ride horses, Cameron knew Sarah would soon loose interest in the stables and long to sleep in her own bed in the city. He was comforted that Aunt Beth agreed to take care of Sarah since she would help her cope with the absence of her parents.

Turning the disposable camera in his hands, Cameron felt somewhat closer to his regular life. If Max’s words were true, if the vehicles in the underground garage really were supposed to be makeshift jail cells, Cameron figured his talents for CSI work would never really be tapped the same way again.

Locked inside this hideaway in the middle of the forest, Cameron wondered if he’d ever take another picture again with his powerful CSI equipment. As he held the disposable camera, a calm washed over him. It wasn’t his high-quality DSLR, but it was something.

While Unit One slept, Cameron took the cheap camera into the hallway and held it up to his eye. He framed the creaky staircase in a symmetrical composition.

Then he took a breath and took a photo.

Rewinding the camera, he noticed only ten pictures remained. He hid the camera back under the bunk bed, knowing if he kept it, Dallas would surely find it and take it away from him.

Although inexpensive, the disposable camera was a valuable reminder of his true identity.