Linda Fairstein - Bad blood

I looked overhead at the giant bolts-supersize like everything else in this dark dungeon-that seemed to hold the bedrock in place above me.

“They were built with valves back then, Alex. Think of big floodgates inside the tunnels that were supposed to be opened and closed whenever they needed fixing.”

The mud was covering my boots up to the ankles. It felt as though I were walking in quicksand. “So-?”

“Gets to the point, a hundred years later, where the valves can’t take the pressure of billions of gallons of water. Nobody’s even sure that if they could be turned off at this point, they could ever be turned on again. And nobody wants to try to find out,” Teddy said. “Hell, the aqueduct that services the old tunnels upstate leaks so bad it’s made a sinkhole that could swallow up half the town.”

Check and check again. Manhattan without a drop of water, and the entire island sinking back down below the Hudson and East rivers.

“So Duke Quillian wasn’t scheduled to man the evening shift last night?” Mike asked.

“Nah. He wasn’t set to work again until next week. I don’t know what he was doing down here. But you’ll see the list of names. We gave it to your buddies this morning. Those two kids from Tobago were in working the blowpipes. They were the only ones signed out to be in this stretch of the tunnel.”

“What’s a blowpipe?” I asked. “What were they doing?”

“We did some blasting yesterday morning. When that’s done and it’s mucked out, then the next crew comes in with blowpipes. They wash the dirt out of the holes by blasting water and air into them. That’s what those cousins were doing when the explosion happened. No clue what Duke was up to, though.”

We seemed to be walking for the better part of a mile, slogging through mud while water dripped everywhere. Huge ventilation pipes snaked along the curved walls of the vault, and below them, row upon row of black cable-the source of electricity that powered the dig-hung from hooks that had been drilled into the bedrock.

I stopped when another coughing fit seized me.

“You all right?” Mike asked, again expressing his concern but obviously anxious to press forward.

“She’ll live. It’s just the dust, Mike,” Teddy said. “You need to be down here longer than this to get a real lung disease, like the rest of us have.”

I knew he meant well, but his humor wasn’t comforting.

“That odor,” I said, stifling a gag at the sweet, pungent scent. “Is that gas?”

“Dynamite. Gelatin dynamite, it’s called,” Teddy answered. “Water-resistant. We use tons of it down here.”

“Thank Alfred Nobel,” Mike said. “Nitroglycerin and diatomaceous earth. Now all you have to do, Coop, is figure out why the dynamite made an unscheduled appearance last night.”

We were getting closer to the scene. Shovels and rakes and sifting screens, the tools of the bomb-squad investigators, were stacked against the wall.

“There’s KD,” Mike said, calling out as he recognized another of the task force cops, Jimmy Halloran, a guy whose baby face had earned him the nickname Kid Detective.

Mike and Teddy finished greeting the team that had been brought in for the site briefing, and I added my wet handshake when I caught up.

The large men were dwarfed by the enormous piece of machinery that loomed behind them in the tunnel. This was the fantastic mole that was eating its way through the ancient bedrock under New York at the rate of one hundred feet a day.

KD was bringing Mike up to speed. “Nope. No blast was scheduled last evening. So far as anybody knew, you had the two cousins up on this end with blowpipes, cleaning up the day’s mess. We got the names of the eight other men who worked the shift, but they all say they didn’t hear anything before the explosion.”

“Somebody been talking to them?”

“Yeah, they’ve been in interviews with guys from the squad the whole day.”

“What would you expect them to have heard before it went off?” I asked.

“You gotta excuse her,” Mike said. “Digging ditches wasn’t a required course at Wellesley.”

“There are blasts in the tunnel almost every day,” Teddy said, reaching in his plastic bag for another cigarette. “The guys prep the walls by jacklegging a drill ten feet in and making a grid. It ain’t exactly a haphazard occurrence.”

“And the site is cleared of all workmen, right?” KD asked.

“You bet. You gotta be three miles down the tracks if you don’t want to wind up airborne to Brooklyn. There’s a three-minute warning that’s sent out, and a follow-up with a minute to go. Nobody in his right mind doesn’t get the hell out of range.”

The empty railroad train that had passed us on the way down to this spot had coal cars like those on a Lionel train set. They were open on top, and when ready to dump their load, they tipped over on one side and poured out the coal.

KD Halloran stepped sideways and tapped Hal Sherman on the back. The NYPD’s best crime-scene investigator was kneeling in the mud, meticulously photographing the splintered remains of the wooden ties that had caught fire in the blast.

He looked up at Halloran-spotted us-and blew me a kiss. “What next?”

KD told him the workmen were ready to load the already processed debris into the cars to be removed from the dig.

One sandhog walked to the far side of the tracks and picked up a long black hose. He turned a spigot and water-more water-poured forth from the nozzle. The muck cars rolled on their sides to receive the first loads.

As two other men began to shovel piles of rubble, the hog with the hose started to spray it all down.

KD asked, “What the hell are you doing?”

Teddy interrupted him, “They gotta keep the crap wet or we’ll choke to death. It’s routine.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got to sift through this again when we get it upstairs,” the detective said.

Teddy raised one of his arms to stop the guys. “I thought you were finished.”

KD looked to Mike for help. “We’ve gone through it twice the best we can in this light. We got a couple of tarps spread out behind the crane up in the yard. This all has to be examined more carefully.”

“What have you found so far?”

“Pieces of flesh,” KD said. “Can’t even smell it in here over the dynamite.”

“Salt and pepper?” Mike asked, referring to the mixed races of the victims.

“Yeah. Got some teeth, some strips of clothing. I’m telling you, shoot me the next time I complain about working a scene in some roach-filled ten-by-twelve room in a flophouse. This explosive stuff is a nightmare.” KD pointed down the tunnel behind me. “The bomb squad makes the focal point of the blast about twenty feet back, but the fragments go a helluva long way from that.”

“You locate any device? Got any ideas?”

KD bent over and with his gloved hand lifted a stick of dynamite from a cardboard box between the two sets of tracks. It was about eight inches long and one and a half inches in diameter, wrapped in a waxed paper that seemed to be oil-stained from the nitroglycerin inside.

“We’ve got some detonating cord in the mess,” he said. “It was probably laced through the sticks of dynamite. All on its way to the lab.”

Mike looked around at the remaining piles of debris. “So what do you want these guys to do?”

“Shovel it onto the car and take it to the conveyor belt,” KD said, his annoyance obvious in his tone. “I just don’t want them hosing it down yet, destroying any evidence.”

Mike nodded to Teddy, and the men resumed their work.

KD stood next to the second muck car, running the beam of his flashlight back and forth along its length as the rubble was thrown onto it. Something glinted from the ashes and he called out for the guys to stop.