Drago #6: And the City Burned. Art Spinella
Vic and ran to the Ranger. Empty. We approached the open doorway to the building and simultaneously pulled handguns. Better safe than sorry. Besides, we were carrying official, okey dokey Bandon PD badges.
The interior of the building was vast, dirty and smelled of creosote. The three-story high ceiling stained from years of water leaks and bat nests. Across the expanse, a portion was subdivided with a man-door entry. A lone window in the door, greasy from years of weather and work and what a Jewish friend called “smutz.”
Old equipment, long unused, was scattered in various corners and against walls. If flat tires were gold, the place would be worth a fortune. Forklifts with the name “Case” barely visible under the grime and rust, an old three-axle gasoline tanker truck, the hulk of a mid-70s Chevy Chevette.
Sal and I split up and followed the wall to the partitioned area, each taking up position on either side of the door. I looked at Sal and nodded.
Grasping the knob, slowly twisting it, I lifted the Taurus and slammed through the opening.
Another dirt-floor room, obviously not used in years. And on the floor, hog-tied, two teenagers back to back, bound together with rope, feet wrapped with plastic straps, arms cinched behind them, duct tape across their mouths.
Eyes wide and brimming with fear, they saw the guns and two very big guys enter the room. The girl began to whimper. The lanky boy growled what probably were obscenities, unintelligible through the tape.
I scanned the space. No one else around. Holstering the Magnum, I raised my hands.
“It’s okay. We’re with the Bandon Police.”
You could see the fear evaporate from both kids. She began to sob, wracking gasps shaking her body. The boy closed his eyes in relief and let out a long breath through his nose.
Sal began untying them, removing the duct tape.
“God are we glad you came.” The boy’s words came in a rush. “We’ve been here for hours. We thought they were gonna kill us.”
As Sal undid their restraints, I crouched beside the two.
“Are you Tim Dornan and Dorothy Flak?”
They nodded.
“Are you okay? Anything broken or badly bruised?”
Both shook their head.
“Good. Now settle down. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover here. First, is there anyone besides you two here?”
“No,” Dornan said. “They left some time ago.”
“They. Who are they?”
“Two guys. One really mean. The other one okay.”
Unwrapped, the two teenagers stood. Dornan grabbed my hand and began pumping it. I noticed that Dorothy had wrapped her arms around Sal and was squeezing as hard as she could.
I get a grimy handshake from a pimply adolescent boy who smells like a gym locker. Sal gets a high-pressure boob press from a cute 18-year-old girl.
What’s wrong with this picture?
Ordering the couple to stay put, Sal and I cleared the rest of the building to double check the absence of any potential threats.
In a large side room, however, we found a workbench and a series of circles in the dirt floor next to the door. The ground was mottled in footprints.
“Looks like this is the place they made the bombs,” I said.
Neither of us went much past the door threshold, hoping the patterns in the dirt would give us a clue about the bomb makers.
The circles were bunched together with a second set in a far corner. Between the table and the locations of the circles, a series of footprints that looked like at least three people.
Sal went first. “It would appear they stored the propane tanks over there,” pointing to the distant corner, “carried them to the workbench where they attached the dynamite and timers and put the end result over here near the door.”
On the bench, bits of insulation, the tidbits of casing that gets left behind when wire is stripped.
“Agreed.”
Walking around the walls so I wouldn’t disturb the footprints, I looked at the circles in the corner and began counting.
“Looks like 52, Sallie. That’s a dozen more than reported stolen.”
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, speed dialed Forte. He answered on the second ring.
“Chief, we got a problem.”
“What now?”
“We found the kids and the place where they built the bombs. But there are indications of 52, not 40 propane tanks.”
“Well, dammit, Nick. You just have to tickle my grumpy bone, don’t you. We’ve only been able to find another three bombs. And the State Police say the one they took has no prints. Wiped clean. They’re looking at the timers, but say those are clean, too.”
“What about the two guys at the Continuum Center?”
“No IDs. Prints have been sent to wherever we could think of from Interpol to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Someone must have something on these guys.”
“And the guns?”
“The .22 had its serial number ground off, but the Troopers say they can probably get something off of it anyway. Magic wand stuff. The other guy’s .38 had a clear and unaltered number. We’re running it now.” I could hear him gulp what I assumed was coffee. “How are the kids?”
“Okay. Scared. Thought they were going to be killed. I’ll get a description of the guys who grabbed them and let you know.”
Forte disconnected.
Tim Dornan sat on a corner of the workbench with Dorothy standing close. Color had returned to their faces. Tim draped an arm around Dorothy’s shoulder.
Both had settled down.
“How’d you wind up here?”
Tim blinked rapidly. “I was supposed to stop here and get another hundred bucks for telling the cops about the propane tank in the woods. A kinda second installment.”
“And instead they hog tied you guys and then what?”
“They rummaged around in that room back there for a few minutes and left.”
“How many?”
“Two when we got here. Then one guy left and the other guy did something back there for a half hour or so then he left.”
“What was he doing?”
Tim shrugged. “No idea.”
Dorothy pushed her Clairol-tinted blond hair back from her face, leveling her green eyes at me. “It sounded like he was tinkering with tools of some sort. You know that metal on metal sound when someone’s working on a hinge or a bolt or something.”
“When he left, what was he driving? Did you see any kind of a vehicle when you got here?”
Both shook their heads in unison.
Tim answered, “Nothing. I pulled up to the front and there weren’t any other cars. My first thought was they were going to stiff me the hundred. Not show up, you know?”
Dorothy added, “They probably were parked out back. When the first guy left, he went through the rear doorway.”
“And the second guy?”
“Same,” Tim answered.
Sal had been watching their faces, looking for any clue they were either holding back information or lying. Finding nothing, “Did you hear or see any kind of a vehicle or vehicles they could have driven away in?”
Again,