Tick Tock

Chapter 30

PEDAL TO MY CITY-ISSUED IMPALA'S METAL, flashers and siren cranked to full amplification, I plowed a swath through the BQE's left lane that morning.

A scraggly red Ford pickup that had missed out on the Cash for Clunkers deal tried to cut in a hundred feet in front of me. His mirrors must have been broken, as well as his ears. I roared up until I was practically in his rusting truck bed before I sent him packing with a fierce barrage of machine-gunning yawps and whoops.

No wonder I was on the warpath. What was happening was beyond incredible. Police presence had been beefed up at all major public places around the city, and still our bomber had managed to set off even more explosives. At the same time as all three network morning shows were being broadcast, no less!

I thought about the crime scene from the night before.

I lifted my BlackBerry as I pounded past a nasty stretch of Queens tract housing and half-finished construction sites. Talking on the phone was beyond stupid and reckless, considering I had my cop car up near the three-digit range, but what was I going to do? Stupid and reckless happened to be my middle and confirmation names this crazy morning. It was time to brainstorm with Emily Parker down at the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program in Virginia.

"Parker," Emily said.

I quickly told her about the previous night's murder scene and the Son of Sam letter addressed to me.

"So not only is someone setting off bombs every three seconds, but the Son of Sam has apparently returned," I said in conclusion. "And to top things off, the only connection between the crimes so far seems to be a desire to correspond with lucky old me."

"You think the three terrorist acts are connected to the Son of Sam copycat killer?" Emily said. "That is truly bizarre."

That's when I remembered what Ricky had said as I was leaving. I almost ran off the elevated expressway.

The mad bomber strikes again!

"Wait! The Mad Bomber. Of course!" I cried. "It isn't a terrorist act, Emily. The bombings are copycats, too. There actually was a Mad Bomber who terrorized New York in the forties or fifties, I think."

"Hold up, Mike. I'm at a computer," Emily said.

I could hear her typing.

"My God, Mike, you're right. It's right here on Wikipedia. The guy's name was George Metesky. He was known as the Mad Bomber, and it says here that in the forties and fifties, he planted bombs at New York landmarks. Wait! It says he planted bombs at the Public Library and Grand Central Terminal."

I shook my head.

"Is that what this is?" I said. "Someone or more than one person is copycatting two famous crime sprees at once?"

"But how?" Emily said, sounding astounded. "Think about the logistics. How could it be coordinated? Four bombings and a double murder in a little over twenty-four hours?"

"Well, from the sophistication of the bombs, we're not dealing with dummies," I said as I fumbled my grip on my phone. I was just able to catch it against my chest.

When I looked back up, I immediately stopped thinking about the case. In fact, my entire brain stopped functioning. Then my lungs.

Because around a curve in the expressway, being approached at roughly the speed of light, were three packed lanes of dead-stopped traffic.