I told her that four of the five bombs had been found in trash cans, one buried beside a path between the Korean War and Martin Luther King Memorials.
“He’s nervous,” she said. “That’s why he’s using the trash cans. They’re easy. Disguise it as something else, dump it, and walk on. How much power in the bombs?”
“You’d have to ask the guys at Quantico. They’re analyzing what’s left.”
“But we’re not talking significant damage here,” she said. “There’s no ball bearings or screws wrapped around the C-4 to cause maximum mayhem.”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
She stared off. “That’s when they’re out for big blood. How’s he warning you?”
We hadn’t revealed that the bomber had been calling Bree directly, so I said, “Warning us?”
Kate cocked her head. “Every time a bomb’s gone off, police and FBI have been on the scene, actively looking for a bomb. You had to have been warned.”
“I can’t talk specifics.”
“Any Allahu Akbar, jihad stuff?”
“Not that I know of.”
“That was another thing I was always tuned in to. I learned enough Arabic to look for jihadi phrases spray painted near IEDs.”
“Really?”
“Oh, all the time,” she said.
“There’s been nothing along those lines.”
Kate chewed on that. “He giving you any motivation?”
“Changing people’s mind-set. Making them understand.”
“You quoting him?”
“Yes.”
She fell quiet for almost a minute and finally said, “He’s no Middle Eastern terrorist, that’s for sure.”
I agreed with her, but asked, “How do you know?”
“Jihadists are in your face about why they’re trying to blow you up,” she said. “They’ll take credit for it in the name of Allah or their chosen fanatic group. And the damage inflicted doesn’t make sense to me. Rather than put five bombs out, why not use all that C-4 and make a real statement? Wrap it in bolts, washers, and nuts, and get it somewhere crowded, like the Boston Marathon bombers?”
That made sense, actually. “So what’s the mind-set change he’s after? What’s he trying to make us understand?”
Kate bit at her lip. “I don’t know. But I have the feeling if you answer those questions, Dr. Cross, you’ll find your bomber.”
Chapter 18
Heavy rain fell when Mickey left the VA hospital long after dark. As soon as he felt the drops lash his face, he let go of the emotion he’d been fighting to keep deep in his throat. He choked off two sobs but finally let tears flow. Who could tell he was crying in the rain anyway?
Certainly no one Mickey encountered between the hospital and the D8 bus stop. They were all bent over, hurrying for cover. He was alone on the bench when the Hospital Center bus pulled up.
Mickey got on and was dismayed to find his favorite seat by the rear entrance taken, by a big Latino guy he recognized. Like almost everyone riding the Hospital Center Line from the north end, he’d been chewed up by war and was always pissed off.
Mickey nodded to the man as he passed and took an empty spot two rows behind, intending to take his territory back as soon as the man left.
But the bus was warm, and Mickey was as tired and dismayed as he’d ever been. What am I doing this for? Doesn’t he understand? How can’t he understand?