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“I told you,” said the ordinary-looking man in blue. “This is my work. I did it and I did it perfectly.”
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Grant?”
“Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”
Was Connor Grant, citizen-genius-artist, insane? I didn’t know what to believe.
Joe had his gun in hand and kept it pointed at Grant as I told him to put his hands on his head. He obeyed me while staring at the destruction, still wearing a beatific glow. I patted him down, found nothing but keys, coins, and a wallet. His ID confirmed his name, and now I had an address and his credit cards.
I cuffed the smiling psycho, arrested him for the destruction of public property, which would hold him, and read him his rights.
Squad cars were screaming up to the curb, and I marched Grant over to one of them. I knew the uniformed cop who scrambled out of the passenger seat.
I told young Officer Einhorn and his partner, “Mr. Grant claims that he blew up Sci-Tron. I’m calling Lieutenant Brady now, asking him to meet you at booking. Do not let this man out of your sight until you transfer custody to Brady. I mean, do not take your
eyes off him for a second. Any questions, Marty?”
After the squad car had pulled out, I speed-dialed Brady and briefed him on Connor Grant, saying that he had taken credit for blowing up Sci-Tron.
“I don’t know what to make of him, Lieu. He says he did it. I’ll be coming back to the Hall as soon as I can.”
Joe had been taking photos of incoming law enforcement and activity around the pier. He put his phone away and said, “Wait here, Linds. I’m going to assess the scene real quick before the fire department tramples it. Be back in five.”
With that, Joe ran toward the wreck of Sci-Tron. I didn’t like it. The structure was still smoking and was unstable. Joe was alone.
I shouted after him, but it was so loud on the street I honestly don’t think he heard me.
CHAPTER 3
JOE CROSSED THE threshold of what only a few minutes before had been a futuristic science museum.
Now it felt as though he were entering a rain forest.
The sprinkler system poured water down and the air smelled of rotten eggs. That meant natural gas, maybe propane, and he picked up other odors: burning plastic, hair, flesh.
Clouds and fog blocked out the waning light.
Looking up, Joe saw only the twisted tracery of trusses and tubular superstructure. Water collected on the floor, which was littered with overturned exhibits and displays torn from the walls. And there were the lumpy shapes of the victims.
Aiming blindly, Joe took photos of the debris.
The blast had blown out the glass but left the interior standing, so the explosive device had probably not been a manufactured bomb. It seemed likely that the device had been improvised, a compression bomb, a gas-filled container wired with an explosive charge. The attendant flash fire had consumed available combustible materials until the heat had set off the sprinklers.
What remained of Sci-Tron was a hazardous obstacle course of smashed glass and sheared-off metal tubing, overturned exhibits and exposed wiring. Joe carefully picked out a path through the pile of rubble by the light of his phone and the low-burning fires.
He called out, “Hellooo. Can anyone hear me?”
There was an answering moan ahead to his right. Joe called out, “I’m coming,” and headed toward the sound, when something snaked around his ankle. Reflexively he kicked his leg free, then made out the pale hand, the arm, the upper torso, of a woman lying facedown on the floor, half buried under a display case.
She said, “I can’t … move.”
Joe stooped to see her.
“I’m going to help you out of this. What’s your name?”
“Sophie Fields.”
“I’m Joe. Sophie, are you in pain?”
