CHAPTER 68
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Anna Rizzo and I get the okay to move from behind the BMW. The bomb squad has cleared the building. The cops searched every rooftop on Montgomery.
No suspects. No evidence.
No surprise.
Rizzo scrambles to her feet. “Let’s get back to work.”
We retrieve our go bags, put on paper booties and medical gloves, and make our way to the entrance of the building. I keep looking back over my shoulder. Being tagged by a sniper will do that to you.
We get to the second floor, and CSI is already there, marking the scene.
The tile floor in the foyer is smeared with water, soot, and blood.
I can see blast damage on both sides of the wall.
All the doors and windows are broken. Most of the window glass is blown out onto the street, but our feet crunch over shards from the inside door panels.
The floor and walls are soaked from the fire hoses. Desks and chairs are blackened and upended. Computers are smashed. There are wet papers and file folders everywhere. The suspended ceiling is mostly gone, exposing pipes, wires, and insulation.
A firefighter emerges from a wrecked office with his pike pole. “Watch your step,” he says. “Not sure about the floor joists.”
There’s a breeze coming in from the opening blasted in the exterior wall; it’s surrounded by cracked wallboard, splintered wood, and crushed brick.
Rizzo points to one yellow plastic triangle near the door entrance and a second one about a yard away. Each triangle sits next to a splotchy pattern of blood. “That’s where the maintenance guy and intern must’ve been standing when it went off,” she says.
I take a few seconds to say a silent prayer. Two innocent lives, snuffed out in a split second. Why?
“What are you thinking?” asks Rizzo.
Focus, Sampson, focus!
“I’m thinking that the first two bombings had a certain terrible logic. Car and truck bombs designed to cause mass casualties, spread terror, make people afraid to live their lives.”
“Right,” says Rizzo, looking around the wreckage. “This was a serious bomb, but it doesn’t look like the plan was to kill a lot of people. Especially at this time of the morning.”
“I agree. If you were targeting the Interfaith Coalition, wouldn’t you wait until there were a lot more people here in their offices or together in a conference room? Tactically speaking, this seems like a wasted opportunity.”
Another ATF tech comes in behind us, taking photographs. I nudge Rizzo. “Let’s get out of her way.”
As we head down the stairs, we pass a few other techs coming up. Rizzo’s phone buzzes. She checks the screen just as we get out onto the sidewalk.
“Holy shit!”
“What’s that?” I ask, sneaking a peek at her screen.
“I just got the taggant codes for the C-4!”
“You’re welcome.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “What do you mean? What did you do?”
“I had a visit this morning from two CIA operatives. It turns out that Aiden Phillips was one of theirs—at least temporarily.”
“Huh. Do they know where the C-4 came from?”
“He stole it from the Taliban.”
Rizzo checks her screen again. “But these are American codes. This is our stuff.”
“Correct. Part of the huge pile we left behind in August of ’21. I’m thinking Phillips brought it back. Maybe he thought nobody would be able to trace it.”
“I’m thinking the other way. Maybe he knew we would. Maybe—just maybe—he wanted us to find out.”
If so, I think with a shiver, that’s a whole different kind of message.