Perhaps hiding in the closet affected Dart, so much of his youth having been spent hiding in places like this. Perhaps it was that even all these years later by imitating his actions as a child, he was suddenly a part of those emotions. A surge of frustration, anxiety, and anger swept through him, stealing control of the rhythm of his heart. He realized that he was not standing inside this darkened closet by choice but because someone else had directed him here. Brandon. Schultz. It didn’t matter who. He had done this not by choice, but necessity. Adrenaline filled him with panic. He felt claustrophobic, as if this tiny space were shrinking in on him. He heard footsteps coming up-and he could actually smell his mother’s cheap perfume, could hear the woosh of her dress. He knew where he was, a cop standing in a darkened closet, that it was their suspect coming up the stairs, not his mother. But nonetheless, he smelled her. No mistaking that perfume. He yanked the goggles down over his eyes and wondered if the beating of his heart could be heard through the closet door.
SCHULTZ: Suspect is at top of stairs. Donaldson, Philgim, provide backup.
Schultz was seeing to it that Dart and Brandon-an HPD cop and a techie; the lowest of the low in his opinion, no doubt-had some ERT support, something Dart could do without. He mustn’t lose this suspect or find himself in a firefight.
He heard breathing on the other side of the closet door, and it was everything he could do not to imagine his mother. I’m a grown man! he told himself. And yet the past remained. He held his breath-he could hide better than the best of them. He reached down and fingered his weapon. If that door came open, there was going to be hell to pay.
He could picture the two ERT men ascending the stairs delicately, not emitting a sound despite the old planks. Trained to be weightless. Trained killers. He wondered what their nightmares were. What demons possessed them?
The sound of the suspect’s heavy breathing passed by the door, grew faint, and then disappeared.
ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Suspect is inside the bathroom.
Dart heard a sweep of fingers on the outside face of the door, like a faint scratching, and realized that the ERT men were signaling him, warning him they were in the room. They didn’t want Dart firing on them.
SCHULTZ: I don’t want Brandon at risk. Apprehend suspect. Repeat: Apprehend.
ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Apprehend. Copy.
Dart gently eased the closet door open. Philgim’s goggles swung to face him. The agent nodded, pointed toward the bathroom and then to the weapon in his hand. Dart slipped his sidearm out. Philgim pointed to Donaldson, who was also facing Dart. Donaldson held a phosphorous grenade up for Dart to see and indicated for Dart to remove his goggles-the bright light would be blinding. Dart nodded, lowered his head, pulled the goggles up onto his head, and covered his eyes.
ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Brandon. Phos. grenade.
Dart heard the click of a tongue. Brandon, being in the same room as the suspect, could not speak, not even in a whisper, and yet had communicated his acknowledgment.
These people aren’t human, Dart told himself.
He heard a loud pop, and even with his eyes shielded, a flash of blinding white light flooded him. There was a series of harsh shouts and commands as the ERT agents announced themselves. “Police! Stay where you are! No movement! Hold it!” They moved in careful orchestration, one protecting the other.
Dart, screening himself with the doorjamb, saw the suspect kneeling on the floor, both hands over his eyes. The grenade had blinded him. The effect would last several minutes. There was a smell of bitter smoke and a gray haze floating on the ceiling.
The porcelain lid that belonged on the top of the toilet tank was off, and a wet brick and a plastic bag containing small glass vials sat on the closed seat. The brick, ostensibly inside the toilet to conserve water, turned out to be a hollow plastic imitation-a hiding place designed and sold as such. In their quick assessment of the bathroom Yate and Gritch had missed this.
Philgim yanked the man’s arms behind his back, announcing, “You are under arrest on suspicion of tampering with crime scene evidence.” This was the way the search warrant read. Dart was amazed at the team’s efficiency, and the way that they stuck to procedure. The handcuffs snapped into place.
“Fuck off!” said the husky voice of the suspect, his head still bent toward the ground.
Dart knew that voice. It belonged to Roman Kowalski.
CHAPTER 25
John Haite looked exhausted, rubbing his eyes to get the sleep out. He, Dart, and Kowalski sat in the second of the two CAPers interrogation rooms, Dart still dressed in black. On the room’s only table was the plastic bag containing the glass vials that Dart had seen on the toilet. Brandon’s fiber-optic video had recorded all of Kowalski’s movements once inside the bathroom. Ironically, by their efficiency, the ERT team had invalidated this evidence by showing that Kowalski had collected it, and Kowalski’s name was not listed on the warrant. It was a bugaboo that had both Haite and Dart in a lather.
“I want to hear that again,” Haite said angrily. Dart had to let Haite conduct the first round of questioning. Rank had its privileges.
Kowalski said, “A phone call. A tip. A snitch. I got the call. I responded. I was told if the key was outside, the place would be empty, but I wasn’t about to go inside calling hellos. What the fuck? Guy told me there was some shit hidden inside a fake brick in the toilet. I headed straight there. He was talking like I wouldn’t have much time-”
“All without a warrant,” Haite interrupted.
“I understand the problem here,” Kowalski answered.
“And we’re supposed to buy this?” Haite questioned.
“What the fuck do I care, Sergeant? That’s the way it is.”
“Watch it!” Haite warned.
“The key to the back door?” Dart asked.
“Hanging on the nail, right where the snitch told me I’d find it.”
“Jesus, what a pile of shit,” Haite said. “And what about this?” he said, pointing to the bag on the table.
“He told me where to find that too,” Kowalski said reluctantly. “I know it sounds bad-”
“It sounds god-awful,” Haite corrected. “Impossible is more like it.”
“It’s the way it went down,” the man said sheepishly.
“Bullshit,” Haite counted. “It’s fucking bullshit, Kowalski, and we all three know it. You had better shit or get off the pot, pal, because otherwise a load of trouble is coming your way.”
Dart, trying to calm things down, asked, “What did the snitch say about this stuff?” He pointed to the table.
“He said there was shit pertaining to the suicides that I’d be interested in. He said there was some kind of cover-up, some kind of cleanup man involved. He said there was evidence there that could bust the thing wide open, and that if I was interested I had better get my butt over to Hamilton Court. Shit, it sounded good to me,” he complained. To Haite he whined, “It sounded good, Sergeant. What the fuck do I know?”
“You know about warrants, for Chrissakes! Procedure. Jesus, you’re a fuck-up.” He hesitated, his voice rising as he went. “And that is if we believe any of this crap, because I, for one, don’t believe a goddamn bit of it, Detective. Not one goddamn bit. You’re a fucking embarrassment to this division, a fuck-up of a cop, and you’ll be waving traffic or doing time when I’m through with you! Now tell us what the fuck you’re up to, who the hell this Wallace Sparco is, and how the hell you fit in, or I’m sending your ass to booking and you’re getting a number, pal.”
Kowalski paled. In all his years of service, Dart had never seen the man lose his color. Despite that, he placed his spread hands onto the table and said calmly, “I got a call from a snitch.”