The Twelfth Card

the officer cried.
    Sellitto ignored him. When people make improvisedexplosive devices they never worry about obscuring fingerprints or other clues because once the devices blow up, most evidence is destroyed. They knew Boyd’s identity, of course, but there could be some trace or other prints on the device that might lead to the person hiring him or his accomplice.
    “Call the Bomb Squad,” somebody transmitted.
    “Shut up. I’m busy.”
    There was an on/off switch on the radio but he didn’t trust that to deactivate the explosive charge. Cringing, the detective worked the black plastic back off the radio.
    How long, how long?
    What’s a reasonable time for Boyd to get into his apartment and disarm the trap?
    As he popped the back off and bent down, Sellitto found himself staring at a half stick of dynamite—not a plastic explosive but plenty powerful enough to blow off his hand and blind him. There was no display. It’s only in the movies that bombs have easy-to-read digital timers that count down to zero. Real bombs are detonated by tiny microprocessor timing chips without displays. Sellitto held the dynamite itself in place with a fingernail—to keep from obliterating any prints. He started to work the blasting cap out of the explosive.
    Wondering how sophisticated the unsub had been (serious bomb makers use secondary detonators to take out people like Sellitto who were fucking around with their handiwork), he pulled the blasting cap out of the dynamite.
    No secondary detonators, or any—
    The explosion, a huge ringing bang, echoed through the bathroom, reverberating off the tile.
    “What was that?” Bo Haumann called. “Somebody shooting? We have gunshots? All units report.”
    “Explosion in the bathroom of the subject’s unit,” somebody called. “Medics to the scene, EMS to the scene!”
    “Negative, negative. Everybody take it easy.” Sellitto was running his burned fingers under cold water. “I just need a Band-Aid.”
    “That you, Lieutenant?”
    “Yeah. It was the blasting cap went off. Boyd had a booby trap rigged to take out the evidence. I saved most of it . . . . ” He pressed his hand into his armpit and squeezed. “Fuck, that stings.”
    “How big a device?” Haumann asked.
    Sellitto glanced at the desk in the other room. “Big enough to blow the shit out of what looks like a gallon jar of sulfuric acid, I’d guess. And I see some jars of powder, probably cyanide. It would’ve taken out most of the evidence—and anybody who was nearby.”
    Several of the ESU officers glanced with gratitude toward Sellitto. One said, “Man, this’s one perp I wanna take down personally.”
    Haumann, ever the voice of a detached cop, asked matter-of-factly, “Status of unsub?”
    “No sign. Heat on the infrared was a fridge, TV and sunlight on furniture, looks like,” one cop transmitted.
    Sellitto looked over the room and then radioed, “Got an idea, Bo.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “Let’s fix the door fast. Leave me and a couple other guys inside, clear everybody else off the streets. He might be back soon. We’ll get him then.”
    “Roger, Lon. I like it. Let’s get moving. Who knows carpentry?”
    “I’ll do it,” Sellitto said. “One of my hobbies. Just get me some tools. And what kind of fucking entryteam is this? Doesn’t anybody have a goddamn Band-Aid?”
    *   *   *
    Down the street from Boyd’s apartment, Amelia Sachs was listening to the transmitted exchanges about the kick-in. It seemed that her plan for Sellitto might’ve worked—even better than she’d hoped. She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened but it was clear that he’d done something ballsy and she heard some newfound confidence in his voice.
    She acknowledged the message about the plan to pull everybody off the street and wait for Boyd to return, then she added that she was going to warn the last residents across the street from the safe house and, after that, she’d join the others on the stake-out. She knocked on the front door and told the woman who answered to stay away from the front of the house until she heard it was safe to come out. There was a police action going on across the street.
    The woman’s eyes were wide. “Is it dangerous?”
    Sachs gave her the standard line: We’re just being cautious, nothing to be alarmed about and so on. Noncommittal, reassuring. Half of being a cop is public relations. Sometimes it’s most of being a cop. Sachs added that she’d seen some