relief.
“My wife’s name’s Phil.” Cameron paused in his work and looked at the cop straight-faced, to see the cop’s reaction.
“Oh …” The cop’s ruddy face reddened slightly “… well, that’s fine, too.”
“Look, as soon as we’re finished here, we want to interview the people who were in the building.” Cameron finished gathering his tools and went back into the office. Gaston was withdrawing his arm from the hole.
“I can feel metal back in there,” he said. “It’s sheared clean, too. And there’s traces of blood on the top here. We’ll have to call the blood guys.”
Without a word of discussion, the two hefted the desk onto its bottom and laid out their tools. The best, and also most frustrating, team of investigators in the police department was on the job.
Gaston began to measure the sizes of the holes using a tape measure, while Cameron shot video and still images of the room and closeups of the holes.
“You were talking to the officer?” asked Gaston, running a string between the holes.
“Yeah. He asked if you were gay.”
“And you told him?”
“Sure. Said you were a Twinkie.” Cameron paused in his photography and grinned the broadest grin of the night, showing white teeth amidst the rich caramel face and black whiskers. Gaston knew what the grin meant.
“And I suppose you told him you were married? And then you told him your wife’s name was Phil?”
“Yup. He asked.”
“But you didn’t tell him Phil’s full name is Phyllis, and that she’s a lovely lady, and that you have two great kids.”
“He didn’t ask.”
Gaston couldn’t help smiling himself. Cameron loved his little jokes. “Jimmy, one of these days you’re going to play your head games on the wrong person.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.” Cameron arched his eyebrows, pleased with himself. They bent to their work. Over the next two hours, they tracked the path of the hole wherever it led — through offices, storage rooms, elevator shafts and stairwells, finally reaching the other side of the building. They ran string, took angles, measured diameters, took video and photos and chemical samples, and sawed off samples of wallboard and metal at the holes’ edge.
Finally, they’d reached the far end of the building, peering out the last hole that penetrated a steel girder and the modern angular skyscraper’s granite stone facing. Their view was of an early morning San Francisco Bay and its famous bridge. As they breathed in the cool air and watched the dawn begin to break, they decided it was time to talk to the only two people who had witnessed the event.
Soon, Bob Balch and Anna Mercer were sitting on the same office couch that had supported their lovemaking the night before. However, this time, they sat as far apart as possible. Balch wore a white shirt with a suit coat and pants and black shoes, his ankles revealing only one sock for his two feet. Mercer wore a maroon skirt and an overcoat she’d found in one of the offices. She clutched it tight around her.
The rising noise of morning traffic spilled through the hole, but Balch and Mercer avoided looking at it, as if it were evidence against them of some crime.
The large cop stood uncomfortably at the door. He knew Gaston and Cameron were supposed to wait for the lieutenant. But hell, he was just a beat cop. It wasn’t his business.
“We told our story to the first cops already,” said Balch, waving his manicured hand at Gaston. “There was just this big damn explosion. That’s all I know.”
“And what happened to your clothes?” asked Gaston.
Anna Mercer shifted uncomfortably, held her knees tightly together and looked nervously at Balch. But she said nothing.
“Well, like we told the first cops, they got messed up, so we took them off,” said Balch.
“How about your pants?” asked Cameron.
“They didn’t get messed up.”
“So, you had them on the whole time?”
“Yeah … sure.”
Cameron reached down
“My wife’s name’s Phil.” Cameron paused in his work and looked at the cop straight-faced, to see the cop’s reaction.
“Oh …” The cop’s ruddy face reddened slightly “… well, that’s fine, too.”
“Look, as soon as we’re finished here, we want to interview the people who were in the building.” Cameron finished gathering his tools and went back into the office. Gaston was withdrawing his arm from the hole.
“I can feel metal back in there,” he said. “It’s sheared clean, too. And there’s traces of blood on the top here. We’ll have to call the blood guys.”
Without a word of discussion, the two hefted the desk onto its bottom and laid out their tools. The best, and also most frustrating, team of investigators in the police department was on the job.
Gaston began to measure the sizes of the holes using a tape measure, while Cameron shot video and still images of the room and closeups of the holes.
“You were talking to the officer?” asked Gaston, running a string between the holes.
“Yeah. He asked if you were gay.”
“And you told him?”
“Sure. Said you were a Twinkie.” Cameron paused in his photography and grinned the broadest grin of the night, showing white teeth amidst the rich caramel face and black whiskers. Gaston knew what the grin meant.
“And I suppose you told him you were married? And then you told him your wife’s name was Phil?”
“Yup. He asked.”
“But you didn’t tell him Phil’s full name is Phyllis, and that she’s a lovely lady, and that you have two great kids.”
“He didn’t ask.”
Gaston couldn’t help smiling himself. Cameron loved his little jokes. “Jimmy, one of these days you’re going to play your head games on the wrong person.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.” Cameron arched his eyebrows, pleased with himself. They bent to their work. Over the next two hours, they tracked the path of the hole wherever it led — through offices, storage rooms, elevator shafts and stairwells, finally reaching the other side of the building. They ran string, took angles, measured diameters, took video and photos and chemical samples, and sawed off samples of wallboard and metal at the holes’ edge.
Finally, they’d reached the far end of the building, peering out the last hole that penetrated a steel girder and the modern angular skyscraper’s granite stone facing. Their view was of an early morning San Francisco Bay and its famous bridge. As they breathed in the cool air and watched the dawn begin to break, they decided it was time to talk to the only two people who had witnessed the event.
Soon, Bob Balch and Anna Mercer were sitting on the same office couch that had supported their lovemaking the night before. However, this time, they sat as far apart as possible. Balch wore a white shirt with a suit coat and pants and black shoes, his ankles revealing only one sock for his two feet. Mercer wore a maroon skirt and an overcoat she’d found in one of the offices. She clutched it tight around her.
The rising noise of morning traffic spilled through the hole, but Balch and Mercer avoided looking at it, as if it were evidence against them of some crime.
The large cop stood uncomfortably at the door. He knew Gaston and Cameron were supposed to wait for the lieutenant. But hell, he was just a beat cop. It wasn’t his business.
“We told our story to the first cops already,” said Balch, waving his manicured hand at Gaston. “There was just this big damn explosion. That’s all I know.”
“And what happened to your clothes?” asked Gaston.
Anna Mercer shifted uncomfortably, held her knees tightly together and looked nervously at Balch. But she said nothing.
“Well, like we told the first cops, they got messed up, so we took them off,” said Balch.
“How about your pants?” asked Cameron.
“They didn’t get messed up.”
“So, you had them on the whole time?”
“Yeah … sure.”
Cameron reached down
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