Boobytrap

2

Patrick Dixon was half an hour late for our Thursday afternoon meeting in The Jury Room. Which is not a courthouse chamber but a bar and grill on Van Ness Avenue near City Hall — one of several hangouts for members of the San Francisco legal profession. The place had been crowded when I arrived at a quarter to four; by the time Dixon walked in at four-thirty, there wasn’t a barstool, table, or booth to be had.

Usually the atmosphere in places like The Jury Room is one of none-too-restrained conviviality. Lawyers may be serious, even solemn, in their offices and in court, but plunk them down among their own kind in a social gathering spot that dispenses alcohol and they shed their dignity as fast as any other group of imbibers. But that was not the case this afternoon. A pall of gravity and unease seemed to hang in the bar, as tangible as black crepe at an old-fashioned funeral. Talk was muted and no one laughed or even smiled much. It was like a gathering of mourners at a wake, and in a way that was just what it was. One of their fraternity had died this morning, violently and horribly. Judge Norris Turnbull, a well-respected jurist who had been on the bench for more than thirty years. Blown up by a bomb in the garage of his home in Sea Cliff.

Turnbull’s murder was bad enough, but what really had the lawyers spooked was the fact that he was not the first in their profession to be a bombing victim this week. Three days ago, a criminal attorney named Douglas Cotter had been ripped apart by an explosive device packed into a sprinkler on his front lawn. Two incidents so close together couldn’t be coincidence, they were all saying. It had to be the work of the same individual, and that indicated a serial bomber — a madman with some sort of grudge against the legal system. Bad enough if he was after individuals related to a specific case, but what if it was random? What if the bomber hated all attorneys, all judges? Then anybody could be next. Any one of them could be next.

I listened to their quiet voices, felt the thin undercurrent of fear, and by the time Dixon showed I was feeling a little uneasy myself. The threat of random, mindless violence does that to you if you’ve been exposed to it often enough. Does it to me, anyway. No threat to me personally in this case, but there had been other cases, other threats that had been intensely personal. Nothing messes with your head more effectively than the fear, however slight, that you might be the target of an unseen and unknown enemy.

In my past dealings with Dixon he’d always been animated, full of energy — borderline Type A. Today he was as subdued as the rest of the bar’s patrons, tired-looking and rumpled: tie yanked loose and askew, one of his shirt buttons undone. He said, “Sorry I’m late,” and lowered his raw-boned body into the chair across from me. “Christ, I need a drink.”

“Name it. I’ll buy.”

“Irish whiskey. Bushmill’s, straight up.”

“Double?”

“Yeah. Make it a double.”

I went and got it for him and another beer for myself. When I came back he was talking to a white-haired party at the next table, saying, “No, there’s nothing yet. No specific connection between the two.”

“Has to be a connection, don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily. None of us knows what to think right now.”

I gave him his drink and he tossed off half of it, pulled a face, set the glass down, and mauled his head with a big-knuckled hand. Nervous habit. His brown hair was short and coarse, and the mauling didn’t disturb it much. If I’d had the same habit, as straight and fine as my scalp covering is, I’d have looked like an Italian version of Don King by this time of day.

He said, “Some goddamn world we live in.”

“The best of all possibles.”

“Norris Turnbull was a friend of mine, one of the most decent… ah, damn whoever did that to him. Damn the bugger’s rotten soul.”

He didn’t expect an answer and I didn’t give him one.

Pretty soon he said, “Sharpened steel rods, for God’s sake. Can you believe that? Razor-sharp steel rods.”

“Part of the bomb, you mean?”

“Loaded into a small cardboard box and left on the front seat of the judge’s car. Inside his garage; bomber gained access through a side window. When Norris opened the box to look inside, it blew fifty or sixty of those rods straight up into his face.”

“Jesus.”

“Bastard must’ve really hated him,” Dixon said.

Or judges and lawyers in general, I thought, but I didn’t say it. “Same kind of device that killed Douglas Cotter?” I asked.

“Bomb techs aren’t sure yet. Both were set as boobytraps, but the one that killed poor Doug was simpler — black powder and metal fragments packed into a lawn sprinkler and initiated by a trip wire hidden in the grass.”

“Any idea who or why?”

“None yet. No warnings, no notes or calls claiming responsibility.” He shook his head, took another hit of Bushmill’s. “Silent type of psycho’s the worst kind — I guess you know that. Intelligent, cunning, vicious, and hyped up with some kind of agenda we can’t even begin to guess at yet. Unless he starts sending letters like the Unabomber, it could take weeks to get a line on him. And if he’s got a string of others on his list…”

“What about a signature on the two bombs?”

“Too early to tell yet. That’s the hope, that he’s got a track record and a definite signature.”

“Signature” in the case of serial bombers means the way the individual puts his device together — the kinds of connections he makes, the types of powder, cord, solder, and circuitry he uses. Each bomber’s signature is unique in some identifiable way, and it seldom varies. Once the lab techs finished going over the post-blast evidence from this morning, a process that could take days, they’d feed all the pertinent details into a computer and hope for a high-probability match. Identify the bomber, and tracing and then neutralizing him would be a much easier task.

I asked, “Who’s in charge of the investigation?”

“Dave Maccerone. You know him?”

“Slightly. A good man.”

“The best. Charley Seltzer, the bomb squad commander, and Ed Bozeman from our office are working with him.”

I knew Bozeman, too; he was the D.A.‘s top investigator. “That cuts your staff pretty thin, doesn’t it? Enough to affect your vacation plans?”

“Not as things stand now. I talked to the boss about it. My caseload’s caught up, or it will be after the court date next week, and none of the other ADAs is on leave or due out. Ybarra says I’ve earned at least a couple of weeks of R&R and I’d better go ahead and take them. I didn’t argue with him.”

“So you’re still planning to leave for Deep Mountain Lake next Tuesday or Wednesday?”

“Unless something else happens in the meantime, God forbid. Tell you the truth, I’m twice as glad now that Marian and Chuck will be riding with you on Saturday. I’ll feel better with them out of the city.”

“I can understand that.”

“So it’s all set,” Dixon said. He seemed to be relaxing a little, a combination of the Bushmill’s and his vacation plans. Men and women who work in jobs like his, even more than those in my profession, had to learn to compartmentalize their lives, separate the personal and the professional; if they didn’t, the daily grind plus pressure situations like the one with these bombings eventually pushed them over the edge into alcoholism, breakdowns, and other stress-induced ills. “You’ll pick them up at my house at nine. I can’t tell you how much they’re both looking forward to it, and how grateful I am.”

“Glad to do it, Pat. Besides, I’m the one who should be grateful.”

He waved that away. “One thing: Tom Zaleski asked me to tell you to give his property a good check-over as soon as you get there, let him know if there are any problems.”

“You mean vandalism, that kind of thing?”

“Not much of that at Deep Mountain Lake, particularly with Nils Ostergaard on watch. You’ll meet Nils — retired Plumas County sheriff’s deputy, lives up at the lake with his wife half the year, spends the long winter months in Quincy. He keeps a sharp eye on things. No, mainly what Tom means is problems with fallen trees, the plumbing or electricity — like that.”

“Sure, I’ll take care of it.”

“Here’re his phone numbers, home and office.” Dixon handed me a piece of paper along with a set of keys on a chain. “And the keys to his cabin. We traded spares years ago.”

“Is there a phone at his place?”

“Yes. He’ll have it activated for you.”

“Should I look up Nils Ostergaard?”

“You won’t need to. He’ll know as soon as you and Marian and Chuck arrive, and he’ll be around before you’re even settled in. You’ll like him. Nosy as hell, crusty, but he’s got a big heart.”

“Fisherman?”

“One of the most avid you’ll come across. You, too, I take it?”

“But not so avid as I used to be.”

“Lake, river, streams?”

“River or streams. I’m not much of a lake man.”

“Me, either. Just don’t ask Nils about the best spots. He knows ‘em all and guards the choice ones as jealously as he would a gold hoard.”

“That go for you, too?”

He showed me a lopsided grin. “More or less. Talk to Mack Judson, owns Judson’s Resort. Which isn’t much of one — resort, I mean. Convenience store, cafe-and-bar, eight cabins. Caters to fishermen, hikers, summer residents.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell him I said to steer you right. He’ll put you in a spot where you’ll catch your limit.”

“All I can ask.”

“So I guess that’s about it,” Dixon said. “Next time we get together, it’ll be up at the lake. We’ll have dinner, maybe do some fishing if you’re still shy a rainbow or two.”

“Sounds good.”

He was quiet for a time, staring into his empty glass. The death of Judge Norris Turnbull preying on his mind again, I thought. “Hell,” he said finally, “let’s have another round before we leave. I’ll buy this one.”

I said, “Sure,” because he seemed to need the companionship.

But I didn’t let him pay; buying a second double Bushmill’s was the least I could do for him.

My fishing gear was stored on the rear porch of my flat on Pacific Heights. I drove over there from Civic Center and spent some time going through it, deciding what and how much I was going to take along. I hadn’t had my stuff out in a while; poking through the fly case, hefting the rods, checking the reels was like renewing acquaintances with old friends. Some of the equipment was almost as old as I am, and a hell of a lot more durable.

I settled on a couple of lightweight rods, one a fly rod and the other a spinning rod with a Daiwa reel, and an assortment of wet and dry flies, most of the lures being coachmans and hoppers and rooster tails. All of the gear was my own. I did not even consider mixing in any of the items I’d liberated from Eberhardt’s garage two months ago, even though his Dennis Bailey parabolic rod was better than either of mine and he’d had some fancy, beautifully tied flies that at one time I’d coveted.

Odd thing: I hadn’t been able to leave his equipment for strangers to pick over, yet I couldn’t bring myself to use any of it — on this trip and probably not ever. It was the only piece of him that I’d kept from his leavings. Both a memento and a memento mori — reminders of the life and the death of the man who had once been my closest friend and partner, who’d been a stranger I hadn’t really known at all. His suicide was two months behind me now; there had been closure and enough time for the emotional seal to set and harden. But the reasons he had died and the way he had died would always be with me, lodged like shrapnel and providing twinges now and then. In a way it was good, necessary that I would never forget: all that he was and all that he wasn’t were a lesson to me. That was why I’d kept his fishing gear, the one tangible piece of him. It was why I’d never get rid of it. And it was why I’d never use even a single item.

In the bedroom I packed the rest of what I’d need: a couple of wool shirts, two pairs of cord pants, a pair of high-topped work shoes with thick composition soles — the rocks in mountain streams are slippery and treacherous even in the summer months — and a pair of waders just in case. A light jacket and two changes of casual clothes, underwear, socks, loafers, and I was done. The thought that I wouldn’t have to wear a suit or a starched shirt or a necktie for the next week or so actually made me smile.

Simple pleasures. Those and a sense of humor are about all the armor any of us has against the demons of daylight and darkness.

I drove Kerry to SFO on Friday morning, in plenty of time to catch her noon flight to Houston. It wasn’t necessary, she said, the agency would’ve paid for a taxi, but I insisted. I also insisted on parking the car and coming inside the United terminal with her and hanging around while she checked her bags.

“Can’t bear to let me out of your sight, huh?” she said. “Are you really going to miss me that much?”

“More.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know.”

“Platitudes,” I said. “Who needs ‘em?”

“We’ll only be apart eight or nine days.”

“And eight or nine long, lonely nights.”

She gave a mock sigh. “Almost sixty years old and horny as a teenager.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.” I pulled her close and kissed her, not chastely.

“Whew!” she said. “No more of that or we’ll be arrested for public indecency.”

“Call me after you get to your hotel, right?”

“First thing.” She studied my face before she said, “You will have a good time in the Sierras, won’t you?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, it really doesn’t bother you, having to go off alone?”

“I won’t exactly be alone. Besides, if it doesn’t work out I can always leave early. Pick up Shameless at the cat boarder’s and the two of us’ll pine away for you at home.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“I worry about you,” she said.

“Well, don’t. I’m a big boy. And a quiet fishing trip is just what I need — you said so yourself.”

“If you approach it in the right frame of mind.”

“My frame of mind is just fine. I’ll be so relaxed when I get back you’ll think I’ve been replaced by a pod creature. Until we get into the sack, that is.”

She didn’t smile; she wasn’t feeling humorous. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too. Go on, get on your plane before I jump your bones again.”

She kissed me as hard as I’d kissed her and hurried away to gate security. A little worried about me, all right. But she didn’t need to be. I hadn’t been kidding when I’d said I was looking forward to the trip. I would miss her like crazy, but even so — and this was something I’d never admit to her — I expected to have a better time at Deep Mountain Lake than I would’ve had struggling among the camera-slung tourists at Cabo San Lucas.