The bomb maker examined his work, selected the devices he felt were ready, and went to his car. He opened the trunk and placed the metal toolbox inside it. The box had a lining of bubble wrap, then a layer of Styrofoam bits, and then a four-inch layer of foam rubber. There was a second four-inch layer with four oblong holes cut into it so he could set a device in each one without it moving or bumping another. On top of that was a plain metal tray, which held a few light tools, rolls of wire, tape, and boxes of screws. They made the box look harmless, but they were all things he might need. The springs and shock absorbers of the car kept the ride sufficiently smooth to give him some confidence.
Driving around with a load of explosives in his trunk introduced a few unavoidable risks. He could be hit by a drunken driver in another car. He could drive into a sinkhole so deep it would jar even his padded box enough to set off a charge. He could have a taillight burn out and get pulled over by a cop who then got suspicious.
The Los Angeles police had automatic license plate readers mounted on patrol cars. The main purpose was to spot cars that had been reported stolen or had outstanding warrants. But there was a computerized record of every plate scanned. He was sure that by now, the homicide detectives would be looking at the numbers scanned near the times and places of his bombings. If two or three of them matched his car’s plate, they might take him in.
Tonight he was driving the sedan because he hadn’t used it in any of the bombings. He parked on a side street near the subway station in North Hollywood. He sat for a few minutes while he put on his black makeup, then he put on his knit cap and clear glasses. His clothes were baggy so they would hide the devices he was going to hold close to his chest beneath them. He went to his trunk, took out the pair of bombs, hugged them under his coat, and walked to the escalator. He rode it down to the first floor of the subway station, bought a tap card by putting cash into the machine, and went to the next escalator. He rode it down to the platform level and waited. He saw the train on the southbound track arrive, let off a few passengers, then rattle away. He set his watch’s timer, walked to the space behind the elevator shaft at the end of the platform, lowered himself down to the tracks below, and began to trot.
The third rail was easy to avoid. It was on the farther, inner side of the train bed. He knew he had ten minutes before the next train would come. He ran steadily for a hundred yards and then climbed up onto the walkway in the dimly lighted tube and ran more easily and faster.
When he reached a spot where a switch track was installed to shift a train onto another branch of the tunnel, he placed the first bomb. It had a detonator that would be set off by shock, a main charge of Semtex, and a timer that would set off a smaller backup charge if twenty minutes went by, so at least the tracks would be torn up.
He climbed back up to the maintenance walkway and resumed his run. When he was about a quarter mile farther down the track, he set the second bomb down on the walkway, where it would be seen.
Now that he had no burden, he ran harder. He reached the Universal City station, pulled himself up onto the platform, rode the escalator to the floor above, and then went up the second escalator to the street. He walked back almost to the first station and then to his car. He drove off.
The bomb maker knew exactly where his second spot would be, and he drove right to it. The second spot had a number of features he liked. It was public, but it wasn’t infested with a thousand witnesses and a hundred security cameras. Even in the dark he could see that in the daytime it would be pleasant and verdant, and it had bare dirt.
Griffith Park’s buildings, he was sure, would all have security cameras. But the bomb maker intended to stay far from buildings. Unless he was very unlucky, there would be no police cars with license readers or anything else.
Fern Dell was a wooded garden within the park. He entered Western Canyon Road at Los Feliz, then drove until he reached the picnic area. He parked as far as he could from the road and searched for the exact place.
He went to the trunk of his car and took out the posthole digger he had brought. He worked quickly and dug nine holes, each about the size of a large tomato can. He brought one to the spot to be sure it matched. When he had the nine holes, he went back to the car to begin moving components. He slipped them into the eight holes and connected the holes with insulated wire, then connected each of the holes to the main device.
When he was finished, he buried the wires, covered the holes with their plastic tops, carefully smoothed dirt evenly over all of them, and took his tools and wire back to his car. He drove all the way home while it was still dark, trying to beat the traffic that would begin to clog the freeways at dawn. It was a two-hour drive even late at night.
He made it home, exhausted, at about 6:15 a.m. He parked the car in the empty bay at the side of his garage and went to bed. As he lay there he wished he could see his work when it was set off, but he knew that was out of the question. If the device didn’t kill everyone close enough to see it, then it didn’t work.
37
“It bothers me. I’ll admit it,” Stahl said. “I don’t want people to think I would rig a newswoman’s car to blow up. But I don’t know what to do about it except wait. Either we’ll catch the real bomber, or the normal workings of Homicide Special will make it clear to everybody we couldn’t have done it.”
“They already have enough evidence to prove that now,” said Diane. “I don’t think everybody’s convinced. But I guess that’s the least important worry we have.”
Stahl drove with Diane to the office of his security company on Sepulveda Boulevard. They parked in the outdoor lot and walked around to the front of the office building. She looked at the red brick, the strange glassed-in set of exterior steps, and up ahead at the row of office doors along the balcony above. “Wow,” she said. “That is one ugly building.”
“It’s cheap. And the office is upstairs beyond the balcony where you can’t see it from outside.”
“If you ever call and say you’re staying late at the office, I’ll know you’re lying. Nobody could stand to.”
“It’s not as bad inside.”
“I’m sure. How could it be?”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to get into the security business. I haven’t spent time on it in months, and I could use the help.”
“I’ll consider it, if the money is right. But only until the police take me back.”
They took the elevator beside the top of the concrete steps, got out at the third floor, walked past the long row of offices, and then stopped at a door that faced away from the balcony.
She looked at the door. It read: NO-FAIL SECURITY in corroded brass letters. “How do you ever get customers?”
“It’s sort of a word-of-mouth business. If people need my kind of help, they ask around.”
He opened the door and they entered the waiting room. Diane saw that the receptionist, a pretty black woman about thirty years old, was behind a wall of bulletproof glass. Stahl waved his hand at her, and she reached for a button. There was a buzz and Diane heard the sound of a bolt retracting in the steel door.
They went through the interior door, where another woman about forty-five with long blond hair sat at a desk in a large office. She looked up and saw him. “Dick,” she said.
“Hi, Valerie. This is Diane.” He turned to Diane. “Valerie runs the business.”
“The money part, not the part that matters,” Valerie said. “I’m a certified public accountant. Pleased to meet you.”