“How many you got missing?”
“Plenty. A lot of people are buried under a hundred thousand tons of rubble. Not many managed to get out of the Four Winds alive. It went up at nine A.M. Most everyone home at that time were mothers with small children under school age, old folk, retirees — slow movers.”
Captain Metzler was obviously affected by the things he'd seen down at what was left of the Four Winds. His chin quivered and he had to take a moment. “Could have been worse,” he continued. “If it had been hit early in the morning, we'd have had double the casualties.”
I nodded.
“At last count, we had a hundred and sixty-five unaccounted for. But we were missing over two hundred and fifty yesterday, so we are finding people. You been down there?”
I shook my head. I hadn't. I've seen enough destroyed buildings with people trapped inside to know what they looked like. “What about the Transamerica building?”
“Superficial damage, and surprisingly few casualties. They had antiblast traffic barriers in place on the street, as well as bombproof glass on the lower floors installed recently as part of a general security upgrade.”
“Who're you looking at? Any clues?” I asked. There were rumors and guesses. Media commentators suggested the usual suspects who get fingered every time a bomb goes off in the Western world.
“Some seriously fucked-up nutcases. I'll let you know when we narrow it down further.”
Something about this didn't feel right. Terrorist bombings were usually meticulously planned and executed so as to cause maximum damage to life and/or property. Sure, the Transamerica had taken a hit, but it was more of a jab than a knockout punch. A few doors down the road at the Four Winds, however, it was a different story. The place was completely destroyed, and intentionally, according to forensics and bomb squad people. If I didn't know better, I'd have said the bombing on the Transamerica was no more than a diversionary tactic and that the real target was the apartment building. Only, why would a terrorist organization light the blue touch paper under an apartment building? I glanced at Metzler. He was watching me think, or maybe he was listening to the cogs whirring. Whatever, I had the feeling he was holding out on me. “You want to tell me what you really think happened here?” I asked.
Metzler's arms were so tightly wrapped around himself that he looked like he was wearing a straitjacket. He unfolded his arms, picked up a pencil, and drummed it on the edge of the table beside his leg. “OK, we have got a theory,” he said. “Actually, we're hoping it's more like a coincidence.” He continued drumming on the desk, but didn't speak. Whatever this coincidence was, it appeared to be causing him some anxiety. I gave him a little push. “Didn't someone out there,” I said, gesturing at the door, “say it was important to share?”
He gave me a half smile. “First I want to know why the DoD is sniffing around — and who is this person you're interested in? Or perhaps I should say was—because if he or she was in the Four Winds, there won't be much left to have any interest in.”
“A guy doing some work for us lived in that building. I was just following up,” I said.
“What kind of guy? A bad guy?”
“Jury's still out on that point.”
“Right about now I'm just lovin' this spirit of cooperation.”
“Sorry. National security issues.” I'd given him nothing, which was basically all I was authorized to offer.
The captain picked up another pencil from the desk and tapped out a beat with it. “I'd appreciate it if you'd keep a lid on what I'm about to tell you, at least until this afternoon when we're releasing it as a possible motive — unless something else comes up.”
“Cross my heart,” I said.
“OK…” Metzler fiddled with the pencil some more as if he hadn't convinced himself of the wisdom of letting me in on the latest. “We lost a team of good cops in the Four Winds. Eight men and women. We had a wise guy under observation there, in one of the Four Winds' serviced apartments. A big fish — the biggest. We'd turned him. He was supposed to be meeting a bunch of other wise guys for breakfast half an hour after the gas leak exploded.”
One of the phones on the desk began to ring. Metzler ignored it.
“You think his breakfast associates found out about it?”
Metzler nodded. “There's that chance. The timing was impeccable.”
“You're saying the real target was not the Transamerica?”
“Yeah. It looks to us like the bomb in front of the Transamerica building was — is — a diversion. The perpetrators wanted us to think it was a terrorist job.”
I felt hollow inside. So, nearly a thousand men, women, and children killed a couple of days before Christmas to keep a godfather from spilling the beans? “And keeping the wise guy bottled up in the safe house was your operation?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
That was tough. Along with everything else, Metzler had to be swimming in an ocean of guilt. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the photocopies of various documents, as well as a photo, and spread them on the desk. “This is the guy we're missing.”
Metzler took a look. “Is that a bowl on his head?” he asked.
It wasn't a great photo of Professor Sean Boyle, but then I didn't think the guy was particularly photogenic. “No,” I said.
“Has he got any relatives?”
“Only Uncle Sam,” I said. “That's why I'm here.”
By now, both phones on Metzler's desk were ringing. So was his cell. Someone was also knocking on the door. I'd taken up too much of the captain's time.
TEN
Before I'd left, Metzler had promised to do what he could, circulating the documents among the emergency services crews without giving a specific reason for the fuss, but he warned that things were still a mess. There were plenty of victims of the bombing suffering severe shock with no clue who they were, and plenty of corpses burned beyond recog nition. It could take weeks to sort through the identity issues. He said it was likely that some people might never be found or accounted for. He also advised me to keep an eye on the Web site where the names of the newly positively identified were being posted every minute. More than that, he warned, he couldn't do.
I made my way through the confusion of the command center and headed for the exit. Outside, I took shelter under an awning. It was raining heavily, the weather aligning with the city's mood. Low gray clouds scudded across a backdrop of a deeper gray and dumped buckets of the Pacific Ocean on the frantic rescue attempts still going on down in Clay and Montgomery streets. Sirens, seemingly hundreds of them, wailed and screamed through the dark city canyons. Somewhere close by, there were helicopters in the sky, hovering, braving the nil visibility.
I ran to my vehicle, an old beige Ford Crown Vic, with my jacket bunched up over my head. The car had been left for me to pick up at the airport. The thing sagged to the left when I sat in it. Inside, it reeked of sweat, cigarettes, and stale sex.
The financial district had been evacuated and sealed off by the National Guard. The streets not in use by the emergency crews were eerily deserted. I drove to the checkpoint and stopped beside a huddle of Humvees and a cluster of armed guardsmen wearing black ponchos slick with rain. I hit the switch and the window came down.
“Sir?” said a kid with a high voice and an M16 who barely filled out his uniform. “Can I help you?”
“I'm heading to Palo Alto. What's the best route through the city?”
“It's all gone to crap beyond here, I'm afraid, sir.” He put his head in the window and pointed down the street. I smelled beer and ham sandwiches. “You're on Grant. Continue straight ahead till you get to Market. Then turn right and go all the way till you get to Van Ness. You'll know you're going the right way when you see signs for Highway 101.”