David Baldacci - Zero Day

“The mailman’s. A caregiver who works at the nursing home. Got her latent on the fridge. She was here to help Mr. Halverson before he went in the nursing home. And two EMTs who were called here when the old lady had her stroke.”

“No others?”

“There were two. On the living room wall and one on the kitchen counter. I’m running the prints through our database.”

Puller said, “Let me have copies and I’ll get them run through the federal databases too.”

“Thanks.”

Puller said, “How did the killers know when the mine blasts would take place? Is that public knowledge?”

“Yes,” said Cole. “There’s a bunch of regulations about surface mining blasting. You have to get proper permits and have a blasting plan in place. You have to post blasting schedules in the local papers well in advance. People close to the blast get personal notification. You have to use a certified blaster. There are limits on noise, so they have to monitor the decibels of the blast. They also have to measure ground vibration. And they often separate the blast charges by eight milliseconds.”

“Why?” asked Monroe, who looked fascinated by the discussion. He caught Puller gazing at him. “Went to WVU but I’m not from around here.”

Cole said, “The eight milliseconds allow enough separation to keep the air blast noise and ground vibration under control.”

Puller gazed at her. “You obviously know a lot about all this. How come?”

She shrugged. “West Virginia gal. Whole state’s one big mine. At least that’s what it feels like sometimes.”

“And didn’t your dad work for Trent Exploration?” asked Monroe.

Cole shot a quick glance at Puller, who was staring at her even more intently. “He did,” she said quietly. “Not anymore.”

“Why not?” asked Puller.

“He’s dead.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He paused for a few moments. “What explosives do they use to do the blasting?”

“Usually ANFO, combination of ammonium nitrate-fertilizer, really-and diesel fuel. They scrape the topsoil and subsoil layers and then drill holes in the rock to lay their charges. The goal is to fracture the rock layers. Then they bring in heavy equipment to expose the coal seam.”

“Why do they blow it up instead of digging tunnels?”

“Decades ago they did tunnel. But getting to the coal that’s left won’t allow tunneling. Softness of the rock. Or so they claim. It’s funny, though.”

“What?” asked Puller.

“Typically blasting has to take place between sunrise and sunset, Monday through Saturday. Trent must’ve gotten a special permit to blast at night and on a Sunday.”

“So the blasting schedule is public knowledge,” said Puller. “Doesn’t help narrow down the list of possible suspects. But tell me about Trent Exploration.”

“Trent is by far the biggest employer in the county.”

“Well-liked outfit?” asked Puller.

Cole pursed her lips. “Nobody loves coal companies, Puller. And the way Trent does it has resulted in entire valleys being filled up with debris. It causes flooding and a host of other environmental issues, not to mention that blowing the tops off mountains leaves the countryside pretty damn ugly. But it’s a hell of a lot cheaper for the company to do it that way. They’re enormously profitable.”

“But it still provides jobs,” added Monroe. “My cousin works at Trent as a geological engineer. Makes a decent living.”

Cole continued. “Roger Trent is sole owner of the company. He’s had his share of code violations and accidents where people have died. And it doesn’t help that he lives in a big mansion behind big gates and gets his water piped in nice and clean because his operations have screwed up the water tables.”

“And folks around here just let that happen?”

“He has junkyard-dog lawyers on retainer, and even though the state’s trying to clean up the judicial sector, he’s still bought up half the judges in the state. But he keeps people employed, pays fair, and gives to charities, and so he’s tolerated. But a few more mining accidents and a few more cancer diagnoses because of all the pollution, and he might get ridden out of here on a rail.”

Puller looked over at the bodies. “How long had the Reynoldses been staying here?”

Cole said, “About five weeks according to folks we talked to.”

“And the colonel was coming and going from D.C.,” added Puller. He looked out the window. “You’ve canvassed the neighbors?”

Cole said, “Seven other homes and we’ve talked to everyone. Got zip.”

“That’s a little hard to believe,” said Puller. “Killers right next door and nobody sees or hears anything? And then a cop gets killed and someone drives off in his cruiser and again, nothing?”

“All I can tell you is what they said.”

“Then I think it might be time to check with everyone again.”

Puller walked down the front steps and kept going until he was in the middle of the yard of fried grass. Cole had followed him outside. Lan Monroe had stayed inside to finish bagging evidence.

Puller looked right, left, and then forward again. The day had passed rapidly. The sun had long ago begun its descent, but it was still uncomfortably hot. There was no wind. The humidity pressed in from all sides like solid walls of water.

“Puller, you want to split up the houses?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

What he was seeing had to be deciphered and put into its proper perspective. There were eight homes on the street, four on each side, including the one where the murders had occurred. At six of the houses there were people out front. A few men, several women, and some little kids. They were all ostensibly doing everyday activities-washing a car, cutting the grass, getting the mail, playing ball, or just chatting. What they were really doing was satisfying their morbid curiosity by surreptitiously staring at the house where violent death had occurred.

Puller’s immediate task was to separate the obvious and normal from its antithesis. He focused on the house directly across the street. Two cars and a big Harley highway bike were in the driveway. But no one was outside. No gawkers at all.

He pointed. “Did you talk to the people in that house?”

Cole looked at where he was indicating. She called over her shoulder to one of the uniforms standing guard at the crime scene. “Lou, you talked to those folks, right?”

Lou came forward. He was the chubby cop. His leather belt squeaked as he walked.

Puller knew that to be a rookie mistake. Oil the belt. Squeaks got you killed.

Lou pulled out his notebook and leafed through it. “Spoke to a man who identified himself as Eric Treadwell. He lives in that house with a lady named Molly Bitner. He said she’d gone to work early that morning and didn’t mention hearing or seeing anything suspicious. But he said he’d check with her when she got home. And Treadwell said he hadn’t seen or heard anything either.”

“But he might’ve seen something last night when Larry got killed,” said Cole. “I want every one of these folks questioned again. Someone drove off in Larry’s cruiser. Somebody in one of those houses might’ve seen or heard something.”

“Okay, Sarge.”

Puller said, “Did this Treadwell guy show you any ID?”

Lou, who had been about to walk off to execute Cole’s order, turned to him.

“ID?”

“Yeah, to prove he actually lived there.”

“No, he didn’t show any ID.”

“Did you ask for it?”

“No, I didn’t.” The tone was now defensive.

“How did it go down? Did you approach him?” asked Puller.

“He was standing at the front door when I came up,” said Lou. “That’s probably why I didn’t ask for ID. Because he was in his house.”