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Authors: Hilary Norman
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and meticulous man you
could hope to find.”
“So you don’t think we should consider bringing in outside help?”
“Not until we have to,” Hagen said fervently. “Lord knows there are too many people involved already.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get moving on some calls.
Over the next couple of hours, I’m going to have to persuade the Chicago and Boston Police Departments and the Ferguson and Long families that we’re moving heaven and earth to nail this
down.”
“You have to keep them quiet, Al.”
“We’d better all hope and pray that I can.” Hagen’s eyes were very grim. “Because if I can’t, and if they do insist on making this public, all hell is going
to break loose.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Leary said.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, January 9th
Though ribbing, gentle or otherwise, was as much a part of life in the Chicago Police Department as drinking with the guys at the end of a shift, ever since Lieutenant Joseph
Duval had almost single-handedly doused the flames of the multiple arsonist-killer known as
The Inhuman Torch
, few of his colleagues mocked his hunches. They teased the sharp-nosed,
sharp-jawed detective because he stayed thin no matter how much he ate, and they scoffed at him because he could get drunk on one bottle of beer, but they respected his well-known tenacity and they
seldom kidded around when Duval had one of his gut feelings.
Within fifteen minutes of entering the president’s office at Hagen Pacing early on Friday afternoon, Joe’s sixth sense – which always began in the form of a weird prickling
along his spinal cord – had warned him that not only was this going to turn into a case, but that, sure as shit, it was going to be a big one.
“I hate scientists,” he confided to Commander Jackson on Saturday morning at the station. “They’re on another planet. We have two bodies, a man and a woman nine hundred
miles apart, their chests blown to chopped liver by their pacemakers, both made by these guys, and all they can say is that it couldn’t happen.”
“According to Al Hagen, it couldn’t,” Jackson said.
“But it
has
happened.” Joe shook his dark head. “Apples don’t explode either, but if forensics sent me a report proving that two Red Delicious had blasted into
atoms, that would be good enough for me. But not for these people, with their formulae and their lists of components.”
“All of which supposedly prove there’s nothing in these things that could explode.”
“Which means either they’re wrong, and there’s been some kind of chemical reaction they never envisaged – ”
“Impossible, according to Hagen.”
“ – or,” Joe continued, “those two devices contained a little something extra.”
“You’re talking about sabotage, Duval.”
“I’m talking about homicide.”
“You’re talking about bombs.”
“I guess.”
“There’s no real evidence.”
“Not yet.”
“I want you to be wrong on this one, Duval,” Jackson said.
“I want me to be wrong, too.”
“But you don’t think you are?”
“No.”
“Jesus.” The word was softly spoken, almost a murmur.
“All they seem to know so far is that both pacemakers were produced months ago,” Joe said. “The Quality Assurance Manager – a guy called Schwartz – swears the
factory is clean.”
“Hagen says they need time,” Jackson said.
“How much time can we give them, Commander? It’s been almost a week since Long died.”
The two men fell silent. Within the dark wood-lined walls of the commander’s office, with its framed certificates and photographs of its occupant shaking hands with distinguished men and
women from the mayor to the Superintendent of Police, it was generally possible to seize a fragment of calm, while outside in the big open-plan office filled with chipped desks, dented filing
cabinets, a bunch of detectives and secretaries, there was usually an atmosphere of noisy chaos. Isaiah
could hope to find.”
“So you don’t think we should consider bringing in outside help?”
“Not until we have to,” Hagen said fervently. “Lord knows there are too many people involved already.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get moving on some calls.
Over the next couple of hours, I’m going to have to persuade the Chicago and Boston Police Departments and the Ferguson and Long families that we’re moving heaven and earth to nail this
down.”
“You have to keep them quiet, Al.”
“We’d better all hope and pray that I can.” Hagen’s eyes were very grim. “Because if I can’t, and if they do insist on making this public, all hell is going
to break loose.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Leary said.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, January 9th
Though ribbing, gentle or otherwise, was as much a part of life in the Chicago Police Department as drinking with the guys at the end of a shift, ever since Lieutenant Joseph
Duval had almost single-handedly doused the flames of the multiple arsonist-killer known as
The Inhuman Torch
, few of his colleagues mocked his hunches. They teased the sharp-nosed,
sharp-jawed detective because he stayed thin no matter how much he ate, and they scoffed at him because he could get drunk on one bottle of beer, but they respected his well-known tenacity and they
seldom kidded around when Duval had one of his gut feelings.
Within fifteen minutes of entering the president’s office at Hagen Pacing early on Friday afternoon, Joe’s sixth sense – which always began in the form of a weird prickling
along his spinal cord – had warned him that not only was this going to turn into a case, but that, sure as shit, it was going to be a big one.
“I hate scientists,” he confided to Commander Jackson on Saturday morning at the station. “They’re on another planet. We have two bodies, a man and a woman nine hundred
miles apart, their chests blown to chopped liver by their pacemakers, both made by these guys, and all they can say is that it couldn’t happen.”
“According to Al Hagen, it couldn’t,” Jackson said.
“But it
has
happened.” Joe shook his dark head. “Apples don’t explode either, but if forensics sent me a report proving that two Red Delicious had blasted into
atoms, that would be good enough for me. But not for these people, with their formulae and their lists of components.”
“All of which supposedly prove there’s nothing in these things that could explode.”
“Which means either they’re wrong, and there’s been some kind of chemical reaction they never envisaged – ”
“Impossible, according to Hagen.”
“ – or,” Joe continued, “those two devices contained a little something extra.”
“You’re talking about sabotage, Duval.”
“I’m talking about homicide.”
“You’re talking about bombs.”
“I guess.”
“There’s no real evidence.”
“Not yet.”
“I want you to be wrong on this one, Duval,” Jackson said.
“I want me to be wrong, too.”
“But you don’t think you are?”
“No.”
“Jesus.” The word was softly spoken, almost a murmur.
“All they seem to know so far is that both pacemakers were produced months ago,” Joe said. “The Quality Assurance Manager – a guy called Schwartz – swears the
factory is clean.”
“Hagen says they need time,” Jackson said.
“How much time can we give them, Commander? It’s been almost a week since Long died.”
The two men fell silent. Within the dark wood-lined walls of the commander’s office, with its framed certificates and photographs of its occupant shaking hands with distinguished men and
women from the mayor to the Superintendent of Police, it was generally possible to seize a fragment of calm, while outside in the big open-plan office filled with chipped desks, dented filing
cabinets, a bunch of detectives and secretaries, there was usually an atmosphere of noisy chaos. Isaiah
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