Chain of Evidence

CHAPTER 24

It had been a busy few hours.

Dart loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “I need an ERT for an evidence collection raid on a house in the south end,” Dart explained to Sergeant John Haite. The skin around the man’s eyes was an ink blue, reminding Dart of a raccoon mask. CAPers was run by two sergeants, John Haite or Dave Almedi, each with his own group of detectives and his own desk in a glassed room off the division’s floor. The two were rarely in at the same time because their units rotated in and out of twelve-hour tours. Dart took a metal chair across from Haite’s cluttered desk. The fluorescent lights made their skin glow an ugly yellow-green.

“A what?” Haite asked rhetorically.

The idea of using an Emergency Response Team to do a raid for the sole purpose of collecting evidence was an idea all Dart’s. It would require writs and warrants and probable cause. Dart explained, “I can place an unknown person inside Harold Payne’s study on the night he … committed suicide. Bragg will support me in that whoever this was may have attempted to conceal his or her presence by vacuuming the rug.”

Haite appeared skeptical.

Dart handed over Bragg’s report, completed only an hour earlier, that showed an identical chemical composition between the rock salt recovered at Payne’s and the salt Dart had collected at 11 Hamilton Court. “This links this suspect to both Payne’s and the house at Eleven Hamilton Court. I contacted the owner, who put me in touch with a property management firm-”

“Peter Sharpe,” Haite said. All the slum property was handled by Sharpe. He was hated by the police.

“Yeah. The place is rented to one Wallace Sparco, white male, fifty-two.” Dart passed Haite the photocopy of Sparco’s driver’s license. He went in for the kill by handing him next the computerized rendering Lewellan Page had witnessed at Gerald Lawrence’s. Although imperfect, the similarity was undeniable. “Wallace Sparco has been busy making suicides,” Dart said.

“Shit,” came Haite’s reply, comparing the two photographs. He looked over at Dart with basset hound eyes of irritation. He didn’t want things more complicated. “They are not suicides?”

“That’s what I need to prove or disprove.”

“These are not your investigations. Where the hell is Kowalski on this?”

“It’s an end run, Sergeant,” Dart went ahead reluctantly. “I don’t feel good about it, but that’s the way it is.”

“An end run on Kowalski?”

“Each one of these suicides is his,” Dart pointed out.

“Oh, shit.” Haite tilted back in his chair. “Oh, shit.”

“I know,” said Dart. “I don’t like it either.”

“Fuck this,” Haite said, exasperated. “I don’t need this kind of trouble.”

Dart waited him out. He knew better than to push Haite.

“Someone tapped both Payne and Lawrence and set them up to look like suicides?” Haite muttered. “Why?”

“To keep us from catching on. To keep going. To clean house: They’re both sex offenders, Sergeant. Pornography. Wife beating. Stapleton too.”

“Stapleton is who?”

“The jumper at the Granada Inn. August.”

“Oh, shit.” He scratched his head. “Oh, fuck.”

“I know,” Dart repeated.

“And what the hell are you asking for?”

“An evidence raid with an Emergency Response Team in case it gets ugly. That’s a lousy area, Pope Park.”

“I know.”

“A way to get in and out without Sparco any the wiser.”

“Fuck that,” Haite said. “We just get the paper right and we kick it and search it. So what?”

“Sparco is one careful son of a bitch, Sergeant. We have less than zero to go on. If we don’t find some kind of evidence connecting him to these crime scenes, we don’t want to tip our hand that we’ve been there.”

“It’s illegal. Have you considered that? No matter what, we have to post the place that it was searched.”

“Those search notices have a habit of blowing off the door, Sergeant.”

“Oh, fuck. What’s happened to you, Dartelli? Blow off the door? You’re suggesting we purposely avoid posting notice? That is illegal, Detective!” He had raised his voice to shouting. Dart knew that by now the other guys would be looking this way, but with his back to the floor he couldn’t see.

“We post it, and if it blows off, it blows off.”

“This is not like you,” the sergeant condemned. He added, “This sounds much more like Kowalski or Drummond than you. What’s gotten into you?”

“Three murders made to look like suicides,” Dart answered. “We’ve got a jury of one running wild, Sergeant. If we don’t do something, the numbers are going to increase.”

Haite and Zeller had come up through the ranks at the same time. There was mutual respect between the men, but a healthy competition as well. If anyone felt as strongly about Zeller as Dart, it was this man sitting across from him. Were Dart to share the possibility of Zeller’s involvement with Haite, the detective risked being reassigned. Without ironclad proof, John Haite was not about to bring down Walter Zeller. So Dart avoided mentioning his former sergeant or the Ice Man investigation. But Haite had just reviewed the case a few days earlier.

“What about the Ice Man?” he asked. “He took a dive just like Stapleton.”

Dart met eyes strongly with his sergeant. “Yes, he did.” He offered nothing more. Telephones rang out on the floor. Haite and Dart maintained an unblinking eye contact.

“You’re saying the Ice Man was a sex offender? Do we know this? Can we prove this?”

Dart replied, “I didn’t say anything about the Ice Man, Sergeant. Do you have a specific question that you want to ask?”

Haite, still maintaining eye contact, bored a hole through Dart. He understood the meaning of Dart’s reserved tone of voice-he was trying to warn the sergeant off. Perhaps the only coincidence that Haite could pick upon-without Dart’s cooperation-was the date of Zeller’s retirement, which followed quickly after the Ice Man investigation.

“No questions,” Haite whispered dryly, fingering the photocopy of Wallace Sparco’s driver’s license, and Dart had to wonder what the man saw in the face. Did he, too, see the resemblance to Zeller?

Dart nodded. “Fine with me.” He hesitated and asked again, “And the ERT raid?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Haite now looked as pale as Teddy Bragg.

Two vans pulled onto Park Terrace at 1:00 A.M. One was painted gray and carried a red diagonal stripe that read: MANNY’S STEAM AND CLEAN. It had been confiscated by the State Police in a drug bust two years earlier and was now outfitted with a personal computer and printer, communications hardware, and an elaborate video setup. The second van was a customized beige Dodge with what appeared to be darkly tinted windows but were in fact one-way glass. Behind the glass, six men and one woman sat on opposing steel mesh benches. Clad all in black, wearing combat boots that laced over the ankle, four were members of the State Police ERT unit. One of the outsiders was Joe Dartelli, who had suffered through an egregiously boring ninety-minute briefing that had been lectured by the commander of the State Police unit, Tom Schultz. The remaining two, a woman named Gritch and a man named Yates, were a team that someone at HPD had coined “Ted Bragg on amphetamines”: evidence technicians whose specialty was speed and efficiency.

They all wore communications devices in their ears, night-vision goggles perched on their foreheads, bullet-resistant vests, black handcuffs, black nine-millimeter semiautomatic handguns in their belt holster, and maglights Velcroed to their belts. Gritch and Yates carried bulging black canvas bags at their sides, the straps slung over their shoulders and necks. They all wore black farm hats that carried the single word POLICE in bright yellow stitching. The veterans called these “target caps” for obvious reasons. The ERT members wore the hats backward like black and Hispanic kids. The protective vests carried bold yellow print across the back: STATE POLICE. All but Dart also carried a stun grenade and a smoke grenade-both of which Dart had argued to leave behind. But ERT, the most militarylike unit of the State Police, did not, would not, vary from procedure.

One of the ERT members sitting directly across from Dart said, “A military unit could put a scope on those windows and tell us if we were facing any life-forms.”

“Life-forms, Brandon?” one of the others teased. “What are you expecting, Klingons?”

“Attack dogs, asshole. Animals and humans. The scopes work off infrared. You can scope right through walls with the newer ones.” Brandon held a bunch of electronic gear in his arms. Dart easily identified him as the techie.

“Hey, commander,” a third said to Schultz. “We ever gonna get anything like that?”

“On our budget? Who the fuck you kidding?” Schultz was the marine drill-sergeant type who had given the briefing. Every other word was a swearword or a denigrating, obscene comment involving some aspect of female anatomy. “Tit-sucker.” “Fist-fucker.” “Cunt breath.” A real charmer.

Gritch apparently tolerated Schultz, storing away enough harassment ammunition to retire comfortably if she ever chose to press a suit.

After the ninety-minute soliloquy, Schultz and Dart had entered into a brief but vehement discussion of chain of command, Dart emphasizing that it was his raid, Schultz insisting it was his team. They compromised whereby Schultz would handle the team logistics while Dart directed the actual reconnaissance-in this case, the physical inspection and the collection of evidence.

The search warrant had to specify what it was that Dart was looking for, if that item was to be removed for lab work. The trick-one of the oldest tricks-was for him to list everything and anything that he could think might be found in the search. It took a cooperating judge to go along with such practice, but there were plenty. On Dart’s list was everything from a portable vacuum cleaner to lamp cord, wool rugs, to latex gloves.

“Scope on,” Schultz directed Brandon, who carried what looked like a black metallic snake clipped at the calf and thigh to the outside of his right leg. He reached up to his head and flipped a small device into place that looked like a dentist’s mirror and came to rest two inches off his eye. His right hand worked a small box attached to his belt that Dart could not fully see. He reported, “Scope fully functional.” ERT members, Dart thought, apparently saw little use for verbs.

Schultz checked his watch. It had a black face and was on a black plastic band. Probably wearing black shorts, Dart thought. Schultz looked up at the van’s ceiling, which Dart now understood was this man’s reaction to radio communication, because as lead detective Dart was also able to hear the voice traffic from the operations van. “Two minutes,” Schultz told his troops.

Dart felt the prickle of heat in his scalp.

Exactly two minutes later, following a brief communication check between members of the unit, the van started up and turned into Hamilton Court.

Schultz rattled off orders. “Single file, people. We stay in shadow where possible. Brandon will scope the back gate; we move on my signals-we speak as little as possible. Any resistance, we withdraw to the park and our support transportation. Questions?”

“If we encounter weapons fire?” one of Schultz’s men asked.

“Dartelli leads the retreat to park. You, Brandon, and I take up defensive positions and follow ASAP. Anyone else?”

Dart felt his heartbeat strongly. He wanted to think of this as a drill, but his adrenaline told him differently. The van stopped and the doors flew open. The team moved quickly, quietly into the shadows. Dart, a part of them, could barely see the others.

“Okay,” Schultz said.

He followed at the back behind Gritch. The unit was well trained and moved as an entity. The van, having hesitated only long enough to disgorge the team, purred down the alley. Schultz held them in shadow for exactly one minute and then moved himself and his gadget man, Brandon, across to the green wooden gate. The two knelt and Brandon uncoupled the black snake from his leg and inserted it under the fence. The snake was, in fact, a fiber-optic camera, the small dentist mirror at his eye a viewing scope. Brandon inspected the back garden area and, with a hand signal, pronounced it clear. Schultz, using a speed key, unlocked the gate and then signaled the unit forward, his ERT man leading the way, followed by the evidence technicians and then Dart.

Within seconds, the unit was lined up in shadow alongside the house. Dart’s heart pounded heavily and he felt sweat trickling down his ribs. Brandon slipped the fiber-optic camera under the weather seal of the back door and used the video gear to inspect the inside. A moment later, Schultz had opened this door as well. Again, he waved them forward.

They were inside.

Dart had only used night-vision equipment once, in a seminar hosted by the New England Law Enforcement Association. The goggles were bulky, and the view from within them an eerie combination of green, black, and white. The unit moved ahead fluidly, but Dart felt awkward and disoriented, as if he had stepped into a video game. With his world reduced to glowing colors, he moved forward one unsure foot at a time.

Inside, the house was as it was outside-old and worn. In this first room there was a shoddy couch, a tilting standing lamp, a frayed recliner, and an old television set. Gritch and Yates fixed their attention onto Dart, who immediately pointed to the recliner; the two evidence technicians attacked the piece, working silently, efficiently, pulling cushions, sweeping, dusting for latent prints, digging at the crevices. Glassine and white paper bags, premarked with room locations, were used to capture the finds. In seconds the recliner was itself again. “No prints,” Gritch whispered into her microphone, playing in Dart’s right ear.

Dart scanned the room, experiencing tunnel vision, annoyed by the goggles.

Schultz and his commandos were gone, presumably conducting a preliminary search. Gritch tried dusting the television remote. She shook her head at Dart. Yates took a special solvent and cleaned the dust away, leaving no trace of their having been here.

Dart looked across at an upright piano missing several keys. There were a half dozen photographs in acrylic frames on top. He pointed these out to Gritch and Yates as well, and again they descended on their targets with an uncanny quickness and efficiency. Bags were opened-somehow silently-and Gritch produced a special camera. Yates removed what looked like a flashlight from his pouch, switched it on, and directed it at the photographs. Without the goggles, the special light would have appeared an extremely dull violet. Inside the night vision it appeared as if he had shined a halogen flashlight onto the subjects. Gritch fired off a series of shots, and to Dart’s surprise the camera worked in absolute silence. It would be explained later that the camera was digital, recording the images onto a computer disk. These images could be enlarged and manipulated electronically.

Room by room, the team moved through the house. The kitchen was tiny. Gritch and Yates spent most of their three minutes there dusting objects and pulling tape in hopes of lifting latent prints. Dart checked the refrigerator and made mental notes: male food. Bacon, eggs, hot dogs, beer, Diet Coke, turkey sausage, English muffins, ice cream, orange juice, and a dozen frozen dinners. Yates swiped the toilet rim and bagged the tissue from the downstairs half bath. Gritch seemed to inventory the cleaning products, paying special attention to those that retained price labels.

All the while, a steady stream of communication flowed in to Dart and Schultz from the operations van. Mostly, this came in the form of a running time count: “one minute,” “two minutes thirty seconds …” These were punctuated by announcements of “traffic approaching” and “traffic clear.” This barrage instilled in Dart a sense of protection, of security; knowing that three plain-clothes street officers were working the immediate neighborhood and were in constant touch with the operations van.

They had been inside the building just over five minutes before Dart began to understand Schultz’s actions more clearly. Saddled with a team of six-concerned for the unit’s safety-the team leader was deftly deploying his manpower to avoid having more than three people occupy any one of the small rooms. Dart, Gritch, and Yates were orchestrated as a team, while Schultz and his three armed ERT men swept the next area and kept on constant alert.

Dart and the evidence team next found themselves headed down a narrow wooden staircase into an unfinished basement area that housed a washer/dryer, a clothesline, several cardboard boxes of storage, and, just to the side of the staircase, a workbench cluttered with fly-tying materials and hardware. Gritch signaled Dart, pointing to the side of the clothes washer, and to the shelves above. She shook her head no. Dart returned the gesture. Her message was unclear to him. She touched her communication pack and whispered, “No detergent, no bleach.” Dart saw then what wasn’t there, realizing, as Zeller might have once schooled him, that what was missing was as important as what was present, and that Gritch and Yates had been carefully schooled in such matters. Dart nodded, making a mental note.

Dart pointed out the fly-tying work area, and the team descended on it, furiously photographing, sampling, and collecting. Again, Dart found himself impressed, all their combined movements measured, coordinated, and productive. They left the basement within two minutes.

Schultz directed Dart and the evidence team to the second floor, where a narrow hall accessed two bedrooms and two baths. The main bedroom was larger than the guest room and had its bath adjoining. There was enough ambient light here that Dart could remove the annoying goggles, but Gritch and Yates kept wearing theirs.

“Seven minutes,” came the steady voice in Dart’s earpiece.

The evidence pair went about photographing and sampling areas of the room while the detective stood back, studying the layout. The bed’s headboard was centered between two windows that faced the alley. Across from the bed, a chest of drawers awkwardly spanned the corner, just clear of the door to the bath, to the right of which was a door to a closet. Something about the room troubled Dart, though he couldn’t put his finger on it-the neatness? the cleanliness? the lack of personality? He wasn’t sure.

It clearly had been lived in. He could make out a small pile of coins on top of the dresser, a Bic pen, and what might be a roll of antacids. Yates was already busy working these for latent prints. Dart edged over to the closet and carefully opened it, his hand sweating inside the latex glove. There were a dozen shirts on hangers, and a white wire rack that held folded jeans, socks, underwear, T-shirts, a sweatsuit and other clothing.

Gritch tapped Dart on the shoulder, moved him, and began shooting photographs of the closeted clothing, Yates training the special low-level flashlight on the contents.

“We have an unidentified male approaching on foot on Zion,” the voice in Dart’s ear announced.

“Heads up, people,” Schultz’s voice said into Dart’s earpiece. “Let’s rendezvous at the base of stairs immediately.” He paused. “Right now, people.”

Yates returned to the clothes dresser and wiped down the pen and several of the coins. Gritch prepared and then bagged the digital camera and said to Dart, “This was closed, correct?”

“Yes.”

She shut the closet door. “Fully closed?”

“Fully closed,” Dart acknowledged.

“Suspect is turning down Hamilton,” came the spotter in Dart’s right ear.

“Team leader,” inquired the male voice from the van, “do you copy that please?”

“Copy,” replied Schultz.

“Prepare to evacuate all personnel,” the operations van announced calmly.

“Roger.”

Over the communications device Schultz ordered, “Down here now, people. Get the lead out!”

As Dart headed out of the bedroom, he glanced over his shoulder to see both Gritch and Yates dash into the bathroom and then back out through the bedroom, their heads and the ungainly goggles sweeping left to right. During the briefing, Schultz had informed Dart that he wanted these two particular technicians because of their incredible photographic memories. He had told a story about Gritch returning from a raid and reciting forty-five tides of books contained on the study’s shelves-he estimated that Gritch had been inside there less than a minute. A later SID report had confirmed all forty-five titles.

“Report?” the operations van requested.

“Subject is entering Hamilton Court,” the male voice replied. “You’ll need to abort via the back route. Copy?”

How could the dispatcher sound so calm? Dart wondered. His chest felt on the verge of exploding.

“Copy,” said the van.

“Back route. Copy,” replied Schultz.

Schultz and his two men were waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

“We have an abort situation,” Schultz announced over the unit intercom. “Unidentified subject approaching.” He tripped a button on his belt pack and said to the operations van, “Status?”

“The back is still clear,” Dart heard in his earpiece.

Schultz repeated this.

Schultz now addressed Dart directly, the night-vision goggles making him look like some kind of bug. “Your call, Detective. Do we apprehend or not?” This was first time Dart heard emotion override the man’s military manner-Schultz wanted to stay and apprehend the suspect.

Dart asked Gritch, “How did we do in here?”

“Well below what we might have hoped for.” Yates nodded his agreement. She was saying that they had nothing. No evidence of consequence.

In a flurry of activity, Dart then heard the operations van direct the field surveillance operatives.

OPERATIONS VAN: This is Control. Shepherd, can we get a video of the subject with a drive-by?

DETECTIVE SHEPHERD: Negative. He’s already in the alley. If you get a pickup you’ll be lucky. I’d advise the team to enter Pope Park. We’ll pick up at York Street.

OPERATIONS VAN: Negative on Pope Park. We’re rolling. Team leader, acknowledge abort.

Schultz, off mike, said, “Well?”

Dart did not want to apprehend, given the lack of evidence. He wanted this suspect, but not yet. “Negative.” Then he immediately voiced a consideration to Brandon. “Can we get a look at him?”

Brandon, aware of the order of rank, looked to Schultz for the answer.

“We can get anything, Detective.” Schultz said. “It’s your call.”

PERSONNEL VAN: What’s the call?

OPERATIONS VAN: Team leader?

FIELD AGENT: Suspect has passed target. He’s turning down the drive.

Schultz yanked the gooseneck microphone to in front of his mouth and said for everyone to hear, “He’s going for the back door. We’ll take the front.” He threw the switch on his communications device and spoke.

SCHULTZ: We’ll need ten seconds.

OPERATIONS VAN: You won’t get it.

Schultz placed his gloved hand on the doorknob.

Pointing at Brandon, Dart asked, “Can we leave the camera set up in here?”

“If we leave Brandon, we can,” came Schultz’s answer. “We don’t have the necessary warrants for wire surveillance, but we are allowed in here. If you want to record this guy, it’s going to have to be in person. Your decision.”

“But we’ll pick it up in the van?” Dart asked.

“In the operations van, yes,” Schultz answered.

“Brandon and I stay,” Dart said.

OPERATIONS VAN: Suspect is inside the back gate. You better get out.

Dart heard a rattle at the back door as a key turned.

Schultz faced his crew and said, “We’re going to take him, people. Positions!”

“No!” Dart objected with a harsh whisper, his body in full sweat, the sound of the key in the lock somehow louder.

“We can’t make it.” Schultz countered, “We’re too late.”

Dart argued, “We hide. Ride him out. Maybe we get a shot to leave.”

Schultz and Dart faced each other, and despite the goggles, Dart felt as if he were looking directly into the man’s eyes and that they were locked in a battle of wills.

Schultz acquiesced. “Observation only until further notice. Go!”

The door cracked came unlocked and cracked open tentatively.

The ERT crew scattered and disappeared instantly. Brandon and Dart raced up the stairs. Dart didn’t see where the others went, only Schultz, who stashed himself into the front coat closet. As he reached the landing, following closely on Brandon’s heels, Dart heard something like static in his right ear and realized it was Schultz, barely whispering over the intercom:

SCHULTZ: I want location reports. Check in ASAP.

Give me suspect’s position, people.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Philgim. I’m in the kitchen.

ERT AGENT DONALDSON: Donaldson. Basement stairs.

ERT AGENT BRANDON: Brandon. Upstairs bedroom.

DART: Dartelli. Upstairs bedroom.

SCHULTZ: Split it up, up there.

ERT AGENT YATES: Yates. Basement with Donaldson.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: He’s inside.

Silence over the intercom. Dart heard a floorboard creak downstairs, and he prayed it was the suspect, not one of Schultz’s commandos. He didn’t want a dead suspect, and these ERT types were weapons-sharp. Brandon, following orders, motioned for Dart to enter the closet and that he, Brandon, would take up a position in the bathroom.

To Dart, it felt as if several minutes passed before another voice came over the intercom.

ERT AGENT GRITCH: Gritch. Living room. He’s heading for the stairs. He’s using a flashlight.

The idea of a flashlight didn’t sit well with Dart. The resident would certainly use the lights-unless, Dart thought, he wanted to disguise his coming and going.

Perhaps hiding in the closet affected Dart, so much of his youth having been spent hiding in places like this. Perhaps it was that even all these years later by imitating his actions as a child, he was suddenly a part of those emotions. A surge of frustration, anxiety, and anger swept through him, stealing control of the rhythm of his heart. He realized that he was not standing inside this darkened closet by choice but because someone else had directed him here. Brandon. Schultz. It didn’t matter who. He had done this not by choice, but necessity. Adrenaline filled him with panic. He felt claustrophobic, as if this tiny space were shrinking in on him. He heard footsteps coming up-and he could actually smell his mother’s cheap perfume, could hear the woosh of her dress. He knew where he was, a cop standing in a darkened closet, that it was their suspect coming up the stairs, not his mother. But nonetheless, he smelled her. No mistaking that perfume. He yanked the goggles down over his eyes and wondered if the beating of his heart could be heard through the closet door.

SCHULTZ: Suspect is at top of stairs. Donaldson, Philgim, provide backup.

Schultz was seeing to it that Dart and Brandon-an HPD cop and a techie; the lowest of the low in his opinion, no doubt-had some ERT support, something Dart could do without. He mustn’t lose this suspect or find himself in a firefight.

He heard breathing on the other side of the closet door, and it was everything he could do not to imagine his mother. I’m a grown man! he told himself. And yet the past remained. He held his breath-he could hide better than the best of them. He reached down and fingered his weapon. If that door came open, there was going to be hell to pay.

He could picture the two ERT men ascending the stairs delicately, not emitting a sound despite the old planks. Trained to be weightless. Trained killers. He wondered what their nightmares were. What demons possessed them?

The sound of the suspect’s heavy breathing passed by the door, grew faint, and then disappeared.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Suspect is inside the bathroom.

Dart heard a sweep of fingers on the outside face of the door, like a faint scratching, and realized that the ERT men were signaling him, warning him they were in the room. They didn’t want Dart firing on them.

SCHULTZ: I don’t want Brandon at risk. Apprehend suspect. Repeat: Apprehend.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Apprehend. Copy.

Dart gently eased the closet door open. Philgim’s goggles swung to face him. The agent nodded, pointed toward the bathroom and then to the weapon in his hand. Dart slipped his sidearm out. Philgim pointed to Donaldson, who was also facing Dart. Donaldson held a phosphorous grenade up for Dart to see and indicated for Dart to remove his goggles-the bright light would be blinding. Dart nodded, lowered his head, pulled the goggles up onto his head, and covered his eyes.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Brandon. Phos. grenade.

Dart heard the click of a tongue. Brandon, being in the same room as the suspect, could not speak, not even in a whisper, and yet had communicated his acknowledgment.

These people aren’t human, Dart told himself.

He heard a loud pop, and even with his eyes shielded, a flash of blinding white light flooded him. There was a series of harsh shouts and commands as the ERT agents announced themselves. “Police! Stay where you are! No movement! Hold it!” They moved in careful orchestration, one protecting the other.

Dart, screening himself with the doorjamb, saw the suspect kneeling on the floor, both hands over his eyes. The grenade had blinded him. The effect would last several minutes. There was a smell of bitter smoke and a gray haze floating on the ceiling.

The porcelain lid that belonged on the top of the toilet tank was off, and a wet brick and a plastic bag containing small glass vials sat on the closed seat. The brick, ostensibly inside the toilet to conserve water, turned out to be a hollow plastic imitation-a hiding place designed and sold as such. In their quick assessment of the bathroom Yate and Gritch had missed this.

Philgim yanked the man’s arms behind his back, announcing, “You are under arrest on suspicion of tampering with crime scene evidence.” This was the way the search warrant read. Dart was amazed at the team’s efficiency, and the way that they stuck to procedure. The handcuffs snapped into place.

“Fuck off!” said the husky voice of the suspect, his head still bent toward the ground.

Dart knew that voice. It belonged to Roman Kowalski.