Oliver Stark: 88 Killer

‘You speak to any witnesses?’

‘Nobody who can hear me. They’re all deaf.’

Harper went back to the street. He looked again at the mass of bodies outside the museum, and then across the street. Debris, smashed car glass. Walls full of shot. Dazed and wounded people sitting where they could, receiving treatment. The ground scattered with nails. A sickeningly barbaric device aimed at maiming the maximum number of people.

But there were too many dead and wounded. That’s what he saw again. Normally at this time, the street would’ve maybe had a dozen or so people on the sidewalks, but this looked like someone had let off a bomb in a crowd.

Harper edged forward, mentally totting up the numbers. He put his hand on the shoulder of a cop trying to clear a path for the paramedics.

‘You get anything from any witnesses?’

‘I don’t know. There was a guy on the second floor of the building opposite the museum who said he was watching the street. Saw a crowd streaming out of the museum — and then the blast shot his window out. He’s in one of the ambulances. Maybe he’s gone already.’

‘They were coming out of the museum before the bomb went off?’

‘That’s what the man said.’

Harper thought for a moment and looked up at the museum. There was a window out on the second floor. Not unusual given the scene, but it was the only one out. Maybe there had been a smaller blast first. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe someone had set off an alarm.

Harper pulled Denise across to the entrance and in through the shattered glass doors. Two security officers were helping set up a temporary hospital area in the foyer.

‘We got to find out what happened,’ Harper told Denise. ‘Talk to people.’

‘This is where Aaron Goldenberg works. I need to find him. He might be hurt.’

‘Okay, try to locate him,’ said Harper. He went up to a security guard. ‘Detective Harper. I need some information fast.’

‘Okay, sir, I’ll tell you what I can, but you gotta speak up.’ The guard tapped his ears by way of an explanation.

‘Okay. Listen, did something happen prior to the blast, anything you see from in here?’

‘Yeah, something, but I don’t know what it was. The fire alarm went off and people began to walk towards the exits, then this crowd started down the stairs from the upper floors, in a panic, caused everyone to stampede. We couldn’t stop them. They got out of the doors and then, BAM! The device went off.’

‘The alarm went off first? You sure? Sometimes it can get confusing.’

‘It went off first. That’s why the blast hit so many. Like they were running right into it.’

‘Can you show me where the alarm was set off?’

‘We didn’t get a chance to look. The control is in the back office. I’ll take you.’

The security guard took Harper inside the main office and through a back corridor to the security unit. It was empty. The security officer stood in front of a bank of lights. ‘It’s flashing in Area 8B, I got to look it up, give me a second.’ Harper gazed at the TV screens as the guard looked up the code. Two screens were blank, but the two screens on the outside of the building were still working.

‘8B is up on the second floor in the exhibition room.’

‘And these two cameras that are out?’

‘Shit, I didn’t see. Okay. Maybe something happened. They’re both from the exhibition room. Shit. That’s bad news. You don’t think someone’s set off something to…’

‘To what?’

‘To create a diversion and steal the artefacts?’

‘If that’s what’s going on, it’s the most fucked-up theft I ever heard of.’ Harper was already out the door, his Glock 19 firmly in his hand as he leaped up the stairs to the second floor. The security guard followed.

The second floor was quiet. Harper stopped. The big wooden doors at the end of the corridor were closed. He waited until the security guard caught up.

‘They should be open, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, let’s take this nice and slow. We don’t know what’s going on.’

‘Nice and slow.’

Harper made his way down the marble corridor, his reflection perfect in the freshly polished floor. At the door, he stopped and sank to his knees. He put his eye to the large old-fashioned keyhole and stared for a moment. It was enough. He turned and pulled out his radio.

‘Sergeant Colhoon, it’s Detective Harper,’ he whispered. ‘I’m in the museum up on the second floor.’

‘So what have you got for me, Detective?’

‘This is worse than we thought. The first blast happened up here. We’ve got several casualties on the second floor. And you’re going to need to call a SWAT team. Maybe two. The bomber is in the building. And he’s got hostages.’

Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn

March 15, 11.32 a.m.

The truck had been packed with explosives. Nothing ornate or fancy. Ammonium nitrate sitting loose in a flat box. Three bangers stuck in there and a can of fuel. All according to the instructions he’d been given. Carney had also thrown in a few bags of old nails he had no more use for.

The truck bomb had worked better than he’d expected. The fuse must’ve been just right. He’d had exactly the right amount of time to walk up to the second floor, set off a small incendiary device, start screaming, ‘Fire!’ all over the place, and then watch as the chaos ensued. All of them running as if to freedom, only to feel the heat of a bomb blast and a barrage of red-hot nails flaying their skin.

In the chaos, he shot out the two cameras on the second floor and then he shut the door to the exhibition room behind him. Those who hadn’t managed to escape stood there in front of him. Mindless sheep, unable to think or realize what was happening. He blocked the doorway. The crowd stopped.

‘What are you doing, man?’

‘There’s a fire in the stairwell. Smoke’s real bad. It’ll kill you.’

‘What do we do?’

‘There’s another stairway. Follow me.’

There were about twelve of them. Men, women, children. They turned from the exit and followed Carney down a corridor and into another exhibition room. When they were all in the room, Carney shut the door and pulled out Josef.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Making a point that needs making. Now all of you, sit the fuck down.’

The twelve hostages started to scream and panic. Carney shouted but the panic had set in. He pulled a man out of the crowd of wailing, crying people and pushed his Luger hard into the man’s cheek.

‘Shut the fuck up.’

Carney shot one round into the floor, then returned the gun to the man’s face.

‘What’s your name, Jew?’

‘Jeb Rosenbaum,’ the man said. Slowly, the group fell silent.

‘I’ll kill the children first, if you scream again.’

Jeb held his head in his hands. He was crying. Carney turned to him. ‘What are you crying for, Jeb? You’re the lucky one.’

He took Jeb by the elbow and pushed him against the opposite wall.

‘Why are you doing this? What do you want?’

‘I want people to know.’

‘What?’

‘Kneel.’

‘Please don’t kill me. I’ve got three children.’

‘It’s the breeders that are the worst. Fucking kneel!’ shouted Carney.

Jeb knelt and Carney took out a knife from his boot leg. He stood in front of him and stared.

‘You know what a scapegoat is, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean…’

‘Yes, you do. It’s the innocent goat sent away bearing the sins of its people.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘You will. Don’t you worry about that.’ Carney produced a roll of barbed wire from his backpack. He threw it down. ‘I’m going to wire you up, Jeb.’