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“Linds, can you talk about the science teacher? Off the record—or on.”
It’s a long-standing joke that Cindy has to be warned and muzzled when we’re talking shop. She’s a crime reporter who has broken murder cases using grit, tenacity, and insight. Of course we all love those qualities in her, but still. Reporters report, right? If we don’t say “off the record,” it’s our own fault if something said at the table appears on the Chronicle’s front page.
“Off the record, Cindy,” I said over the din. “If Conklin didn’t tell you, Grant compiled a book-length manuscript on Bomb Making 101, and one of the bombs he describes is a compression bomb. That’s probably what was used in Sci-Tron.”
Three asked as one, “What’s a compression bomb?”
I said, “As I understand it, you fill a metal container with gas and a chemical that makes oxygen. You attach a detonator and maybe a timer, and when the gas ignites, the explosion changes the atmospheric pressure of, say, Sci-Tron, and that’s what blows up the structure. It’s called a hard-force explosion. The second blast may have been C-4, also triggered by a timer on a detonator. The pieces of that second bomb may never be found, but a fire extinguisher with the ends blown off has been dredged out of the bay. No prints on it, of course.”
“It’s better than nothing,” Yuki said. “Grant describes a similar bomb in his manuscript and he made a few drawings. Plus, we have the remains of the exploded bomb. Too bad he didn’t take a selfie of himself planting it in Sci-Tron.”
Cindy asked, “So he just brought it in and left it there? How?”
“Don’t know,” I told her. “Maybe he came to the museum disguised in a service uniform, like he was there to replace the old fire extinguisher. Maybe he came in as a science teacher. There’s an idea. He could have used his real ID to get in and inserted the canister into an exhibit. At the same time he slapped up a glob of C-4—anywhere. It’s a plausible theory.”
I went on, telling my girls that Grant’s laptop had finally given in to our CSI, but what they found wasn’t illegal or even incriminating.
“Yes, he did research on bombs, also nanotechnology, astronomy, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the Entertainment section of the Chronicle.
“Forensics also went through his phone, read his texts, chased down his frequently called phone numbers. We’ve got names, school administrators, take-out pizza, utility companies. There were absolutely no calls to Syria or Pakistan or Brussels, or they were untraceable. No calls to known criminals, either,” I said. “Needless to say, we also have no hits on his fingerprints or DNA in criminal databases.”
“The guy is a closed book,” said Cindy.
“A ghost,” said Claire. “Or a wraith.”
“A very dangerous person,” said Yuki.
I asked, “So why did he leave that manuscript in his lab? Just an oversight?”
“Maybe it was his joke on law enforcement,” said Claire. “A fake lead to make this even more exciting for him.”
I nodded.
“That feels right, Claire. He’s definitely screwing with us.”
I know I looked defeated, and right then I felt that way. I said, “Cindy, you can’t quote me on any of this, but I’ll get you a one-on-one phoner with Jacobi.”
“Excellent. Thanks, Linds.”
“I owe you,” I said.
Cindy asked Yuki, “You have enough to make a case against Grant?”
Yuki said, “Right now all we have is circumstantial evidence, but if Joe remembers what Grant said, that could be a clincher. Either way, I’m going to have to convince twelve men and women that that mild-mannered science teacher built a bomb capable of leveling a seventy-fivethousand-square-foot building, and that he set that bomb, ignited it, witnessed it, and left not a trace.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 28
YUKI FELT THE tension spanning courtroom 2A from corner to corner as Connor Grant’s trial was about to begin.
The jury had been seated and Judge Philip R. Hoffman had taken the bench, where, flanked by Old Glory and the California state flag, he had instructed the jury. The eight men and four women and their alternates in the jury box looked expectant and dead serious.
This was a trial of a lifetime and they knew it.
Hoffman was in his midfifties, had thick hair and glasses, was well known in San Francisco for presiding over highprofile cases—notably, the trial of a teenage girl who had returned from college on spring break and gunned down her family of six.
Yuki had history with Phil Hoffman. She had gone up against him in two trials when he was a criminal defense attorney. She’d lost to him the first time, beat him the next, and in both cases thought Hoffman was a gentleman. And she admired his taut, no-frills style. As a judge, he was fair, and he didn’t stand for what he called funny business.
