Bill Pronzini - Boobytrap

In my past dealings with Dixon he’d always been animated, full of energy — borderline Type A. Today he was as subdued as the rest of the bar’s patrons, tired-looking and rumpled: tie yanked loose and askew, one of his shirt buttons undone. He said, “Sorry I’m late,” and lowered his raw-boned body into the chair across from me. “Christ, I need a drink.”

“Name it. I’ll buy.”

“Irish whiskey. Bushmill’s, straight up.”

“Double?”

“Yeah. Make it a double.”

I went and got it for him and another beer for myself. When I came back he was talking to a white-haired party at the next table, saying, “No, there’s nothing yet. No specific connection between the two.”

“Has to be a connection, don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily. None of us knows what to think right now.”

I gave him his drink and he tossed off half of it, pulled a face, set the glass down, and mauled his head with a big-knuckled hand. Nervous habit. His brown hair was short and coarse, and the mauling didn’t disturb it much. If I’d had the same habit, as straight and fine as my scalp covering is, I’d have looked like an Italian version of Don King by this time of day.

He said, “Some goddamn world we live in.”

“The best of all possibles.”

“Norris Turnbull was a friend of mine, one of the most decent… ah, damn whoever did that to him. Damn the bugger’s rotten soul.”

He didn’t expect an answer and I didn’t give him one.

Pretty soon he said, “Sharpened steel rods, for God’s sake. Can you believe that? Razor-sharp steel rods.”

“Part of the bomb, you mean?”

“Loaded into a small cardboard box and 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 of those rods straight up into his face.”

“Jesus.”

“Bastard must’ve really hated him,” Dixon said.

Or judges and lawyers in general, I thought, but I didn’t say it. “Same kind of device that killed Douglas Cotter?” I asked.

“Bomb techs aren’t sure yet. Both were set as boobytraps, but the one that killed poor Doug was simpler — black powder and metal fragments packed into a lawn sprinkler and initiated by a trip wire hidden in the grass.”

“Any idea who or why?”

“None yet. No warnings, no notes or calls claiming responsibility.” He shook his head, took another hit of Bushmill’s. “Silent type of psycho’s the worst kind — I guess you know that. Intelligent, cunning, vicious, and hyped up with some kind of agenda we can’t even begin to guess at yet. Unless he starts sending letters like the Unabomber, it could take weeks to get a line on him. And if he’s got a string of others on his list…”

“What about a signature on the two bombs?”

“Too early to tell yet. That’s the hope, that he’s got a track record and a definite signature.”

“Signature” in the case of serial bombers means the way the individual puts his device together — the kinds of connections he makes, the types of powder, cord, solder, and circuitry he uses. Each bomber’s signature is unique in some identifiable way, and it seldom varies. Once the lab techs finished going over the post-blast evidence from this morning, a process that could take days, they’d feed all the pertinent details into a computer and hope for a high-probability match. Identify the bomber, and tracing and then neutralizing him would be a much easier task.

I asked, “Who’s in charge of the investigation?”

“Dave Maccerone. You know him?”

“Slightly. A good man.”

“The best. Charley Seltzer, the bomb squad commander, and Ed Bozeman from our office are working with him.”

I knew Bozeman, too; he was the D.A.‘s top investigator. “That cuts your staff pretty thin, doesn’t it? Enough to affect your vacation plans?”

“Not as things stand now. I talked to the boss about it. My caseload’s caught up, or it will be after the court date next week, and none of the other ADAs is on leave or due out. Ybarra says I’ve earned at least a couple of weeks of R&R and I’d better go ahead and take them. I didn’t argue with him.”

“So you’re still planning to leave for Deep Mountain Lake next Tuesday or Wednesday?”

“Unless something else happens in the meantime, God forbid. Tell you the truth, I’m twice as glad now that Marian and Chuck will be riding with you on Saturday. I’ll feel better with them out of the city.”

“I can understand that.”

“So it’s all set,” Dixon said. He seemed to be relaxing a little, a combination of the Bushmill’s and his vacation plans. Men and women who work in jobs like his, even more than those in my profession, had to learn to compartmentalize their lives, separate the personal and the professional; if they didn’t, the daily grind plus pressure situations like the one with these bombings eventually pushed them over the edge into alcoholism, breakdowns, and other stress-induced ills. “You’ll pick them up at my house at nine. I can’t tell you how much they’re both looking forward to it, and how grateful I am.”

“Glad to do it, Pat. Besides, I’m the one who should be grateful.”

He waved that away. “One thing: Tom Zaleski asked me to tell you to give his property a good check-over as soon as you get there, let him know if there are any problems.”

“You mean vandalism, that kind of thing?”

“Not much of that at Deep Mountain Lake, particularly with Nils Ostergaard on watch. You’ll meet Nils — retired Plumas County sheriff’s deputy, lives up at the lake with his wife half the year, spends the long winter months in Quincy. He keeps a sharp eye on things. No, mainly what Tom means is problems with fallen trees, the plumbing or electricity — like that.”

“Sure, I’ll take care of it.”

“Here’re his phone numbers, home and office.” Dixon handed me a piece of paper along with a set of keys on a chain. “And the keys to his cabin. We traded spares years ago.”

“Is there a phone at his place?”

“Yes. He’ll have it activated for you.”

“Should I look up Nils Ostergaard?”

“You won’t need to. He’ll know as soon as you and Marian and Chuck arrive, and he’ll be around before you’re even settled in. You’ll like him. Nosy as hell, crusty, but he’s got a big heart.”

“Fisherman?”

“One of the most avid you’ll come across. You, too, I take it?”

“But not so avid as I used to be.”

“Lake, river, streams?”

“River or streams. I’m not much of a lake man.”

“Me, either. Just don’t ask Nils about the best spots. He knows ‘em all and guards the choice ones as jealously as he would a gold hoard.”

“That go for you, too?”

He showed me a lopsided grin. “More or less. Talk to Mack Judson, owns Judson’s Resort. Which isn’t much of one — resort, I mean. Convenience store, cafe-and-bar, eight cabins. Caters to fishermen, hikers, summer residents.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell him I said to steer you right. He’ll put you in a spot where you’ll catch your limit.”

“All I can ask.”

“So I guess that’s about it,” Dixon said. “Next time we get together, it’ll be up at the lake. We’ll have dinner, maybe do some fishing if you’re still shy a rainbow or two.”

“Sounds good.”

He was quiet for a time, staring into his empty glass. The death of Judge Norris Turnbull preying on his mind again, I thought. “Hell,” he said finally, “let’s have another round before we leave. I’ll buy this one.”

I said, “Sure,” because he seemed to need the companionship.