“They still use those,” Scanlon said. “But this is a different kind of weapon.” Scanlon brought out his smartphone. “I looked it up on the Internet for you,” he said, and handed the phone to Karl. “Here.”
I looked over Karl’s shoulder, even though I’d seen pictures of a Claymore before.
The photo on Scanlon’s screen showed a curved rectangle of green plastic, on its side, with “FRONT TOWARD ENEMY” stamped on it in big letters. It had a small metal attachment on top that looked like a rifle sight, and from the underside protruded two pairs of scissor legs that would stand the thing upright. The shiny piece of metal that lay on the road in front of us looked an awful lot like one of those legs.
Karl scrolled down to see the details. “Seven hundred steel balls embedded in plastic explosive,” he read aloud. “Kill zone is fifty meters wide, extending back more than a hundred meters.”
He handed the phone back to Scanlon. “Pretty impressive. Thanks, Lieutenant.”
I said to Scanlon, “McGuire said that the vics were vampires – that’s why we were sent over here.”
“They are,” Scanlon said. “I checked for fangs, and they’ve both got ’em.”
“Then this impressive weapon here” – I nodded toward the asphalt in front of us – “should have been worth shit, since we all know that explosive devices don’t kill vampires.”
“You’re right – they don’t,” Scanlon said. “Unless they’ve been specially modified.” He took something small and round from his coat pocket and tossed it to me underhand. “With these.”
As I tried to get a close look in the uncertain light at what I was holding, Scanlon said to Karl, “I could have given that to you, but it would have been kind of like pulling a nasty practical joke – and I have no use for people who do shit like that.”
I was holding a metal sphere about the size of a pea, and when I heard what Scanlon said to Karl, I was pretty sure I knew what it was. “Silver?”
“Seems to be,” Scanlon said. “Technically, that little item should be in an evidence bag. But there’s so many of them back there – embedded in the building, the road, the vics, and God knows where-all – that I figured it wouldn’t hurt to hang on to one.”
“A vampire-killing Claymore mine,” I said. “What will they think of next?”
“You got any ID on the vics yet, Lieutenant?” Karl asked.
“Philadelphia addresses on both of their driver’s licenses,” Scanlon said. “Those could be bogus, of course – we’ll check with DMV in the morning. And their prints will go out on the wire, too. Their fingertips were about the only parts that didn’t have holes in them. Well, one guy did lose a finger in the blast, but his other nine are intact – more than enough for an ID if he’s ever been fingerprinted.”
“I’m guessing both of them will have prints on file,” I said. “They’ve been busted a few times, most likely.”
Scanlon took the little silver ball back from me. “Delatasso Family, you figure?”
“Makes sense, all things considered,” I said.
“Yeah, it does. And while I was waiting for you guys to show, I radioed one of my detectives back at the station house and told him to check NCIC. I was wondering whether there’s been any reported thefts of Claymore mines lately. You don’t exactly pick those things up at Vlad-Mart.”
“And the fact that you’re telling us about it,” I said, “means your search rang the cherries somewhere.”
“Uh-huh,” Scanlon said. “A National Guard armory in Newton, Massachusetts reported a case of Claymores missing two months ago. But since they only do their weapons inventory once a year, there’s no way to nail down precisely when the theft occurred.”
“Newton,” Karl said. “Is that anywhere near Boston?”
“Hold on.”
Scanlon consulted his phone again. It seemed that damn thing would do everything but walk the dog for you. There was probably an app for that, too – but Scanlon wouldn’t have bought it, because his apartment building doesn’t allow dogs.
“Looks like Newton’s about ten miles west of Boston,” Scanlon said after a minute or two. “Was that just idle curiosity, or do you know something?”
“We know something,” I told him. “Whether it’s relevant you’ll have to decide for yourself.”
Karl told Scanlon what his confidential informant had said about Boston hit man John Wesley Harding, and I added that the Calabrese consigliere, Loquasto, had all but confirmed it for me earlier in the evening.
“Hit man from Boston, Claymore mines stolen from near Boston, modified Claymores used to take out a couple of Delatasso soldiers in Scranton,” Scanlon said. “Could be a coincidence, I suppose.”
“You see that a lot in our business?” I asked him.
“Not so much, no,” he said. “If this guy Harding has got any kind of a rep back home, Boston PD’s Organized Crime Unit should have something on him – maybe even a picture or two. I’ll talk to a guy I know on the force there, see what he can turn up.”
“Anything you get, we’d appreciate a copy,” I said.
“Oh, good,” he said, “because I always feel like crap at the end of my shift unless I’ve done at least one favor for the Occult Crimes Unit.”
Sarcastic bastard.
After everything that had happened – official and unofficial – so far tonight, I was hoping that the rest of our shift would be quiet. It was quiet, alright. For a couple of people, it was quiet as the grave.
As luck would have it – whether good luck or bad you can decide for yourself – our route back to the station house took us down Penn Avenue, right past the apartment building that Roger Gillespe had called home. I might have forgotten about that fact, if it wasn’t for those flashing red lights coming from around the corner on Spruce Street to serve as a reminder.
As we approached the corner, I said to Karl, “Slow down. I want to see where all the action is coming from.”
Karl looked sideways at me but did as I asked. “You thinking it’s what’s-his-name, Gillespe?”
“No – I’m hoping that it isn’t.”
Yet another one of my hopes hit the ground with a thud as we reached the corner and I saw the squad cars parked in front of Gillespe’s building, along with the ambulance. Each vehicle had its red lights going, and I bet Roger Gillespe’s neighbors just loved that – especially the ones who had to get up the next morning.
“Find some place to pull over, will you?” I said to Karl. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
“You’re not the only one,” he said.
Karl found a parking space, and we walked the half-block or so back to what was clearly a crime scene. Our badges got us past the uniform who was stationed at the yellow tape to keep the morbidly curious away, and they got us in the front door of Gillespe’s building, as the two uniforms standing there stood aside to let us pass.
“Which apartment?” I asked one, a tall guy with a big nose named Zawatski, who’s a third-generation cop. I’d been seeing him at crime scenes for years.
“It’s number nine, Sarge,” he said. “Upstairs.”
“Have they got an ID on the vic?”
“Not that I know of, but the name on the lease is ….” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and checked it. “Gillespe, Roger J.”
I didn’t exactly fall down with shock. That’s the problem with my bad feelings – they’re almost always right. I asked Zawatski, “Who’s ROS?” I wanted the name so that I’d know what kind of lies to get ready, if any.
Zawatski stowed his notebook away. “Homicide dick named Eisinger.”
Behind me, I heard Karl mutter, “Great. Just fucking great.”
“Thanks,” I said to Zawatski.
The other uniform opened the door for us, and Karl and I went past him and started up the stairs. Nate Eisinger was the kind of cop who would probably refer to black people as “niggers,” except Scranton’s African-American population is so small, he doesn’t get much chance. But there’s no shortage of supes in this town, and Eisinger doesn’t exactly have warm and fuzzy feelings about them, either.