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"Room's clear," one of the ESU officers called. Then another, from a different room.
Finally a voice: "Team Leader A to CP, we've cleared the scene, K."
Sellitto laughed out loud. He'd done it. Confronted whatever the fuck it was that'd been torturing him.
But don't get too cocky, he told himself, pocketing Sachs's Glock. You came along on this sleigh ride for a reason, remember? You got work
to do. So secure the fucking evidence.
As he looked over the place, though, he realized something was nagging.
What?
Looking over the kitchen, the hallway, the desk. What was odd? Something was wrong.
Then it occurred to him:
Transistor radio?
Did they even make those anymore? Well, if they did, you hardly ever saw 'em, with all the fancier players available for cheap: boom boxes, CD players, MP3s.
Shit. It's a booby trap, an explosive device! And it's sitting right next to a big jar of clear liquid, with a glass stopper in the top, which Sellitto knew from science class was what you used to store acid in.
"Christ!"
How long did he have before it detonated? A minute, two?
Sellitto lunged forward and grabbed the radio, stepped to the bathroom, setting it in the sink.
One of the tactical officers asked, "What's--?"
"We've got an IED! Clear the apartment!" the detective shouted, ripping off his gas mask.
"Get the fuck out!" the officer cried.
Sellitto ignored him. When people make improvised explosive devices they never worry about obscuring fingerprints or other clues because once the devices blow up, most evidence is destroyed. They knew Boyd's identity, of course, but there could be some trace or other prints on the device that might lead to the person hiring him or his accomplice.
"Call the Bomb Squad," somebody transmitted.
"Shut up. I'm busy."
There was an on/off switch on the radio but he didn't trust that to deactivate the explosive charge. Cringing, the detective worked the black plastic back off the radio.
How long, how long?
What's a reasonable time for Boyd to get into his apartment and disarm the trap?
As he popped the back off and bent down, Sellitto found himself staring at a half stick of dynamite--not a plastic explosive but plenty powerful enough to blow off his hand and blind him. There was no display. It's only in the movies that bombs have easy-to-read digital timers that count down to zero. Real bombs are detonated by tiny microprocessor timing chips without displays. Sellitto held the dynamite itself in place with a fingernail--to keep from obliterating any prints. He started to work the blasting cap out of the explosive.
Wondering how sophisticated the unsub had been (serious bomb makers use secondary detonators to take out people like Sellitto who were fucking around with their handiwork), he pulled the blasting cap out of the dynamite.
No secondary detonators, or any--
The explosion, a huge ringing bang, echoed through the bathroom, reverberating off the tile.
"What was that?" Bo Haumann called. "Somebody shooting? We have gunshots? All units report."
"Explosion in the bathroom of the subject's unit," somebody called. "Medics to the scene, EMS to the scene!"
