Chapter 63
I FELT COMPLETELY drained after our fight at the bar and confrontation with Arnold Marks. But there was no time to rest. Or recover.
Every time I tried to think about the situation here, the bombing case popped into my head. When I tried to concentrate on the bombing case, Arnold Marks started swimming through my brain. It was a classic case of indecision. I knew the best way out would be to talk to someone who understood.
Gary Trilling had gone over to talk to his mother and grandfather next door. I grabbed my partner and told him I wanted us to go for a walk together.
“A walk? You know it’s even colder now than it was after the funeral,” Rob Trilling pointed out.
“I’ll confess I didn’t factor that into my request. But I’m prepared to brave the weather.” As usual, Trilling didn’t object. Instead of saying anything, he opened Gary’s hall closet and grabbed two heavy coats with fur-lined hoods. After we each put one on, we headed out the back door.
Trilling said, “If we stay on the side of the house with the hills to the left, the wind shouldn’t be too brutal.
” I was happy to follow along. That turned out to be the same side with Fido’s pen.
As we walked there, I understood why it was wedged in on this side of the house—it was protected from the wind on one side by the hills and on another by the house.
Amazingly, without the wind hitting you in the face, the temperature was almost comfortable. At least Fido seemed to appreciate it.
The llama was eating from a trough inside his shelter when Trilling and I stepped up to the fence that made up the perimeter of his pen. Fido immediately stopped eating, turned, and made a hissing sound as he spat at me. Again? What the hell did I ever do to this thing?
Trilling pointed out some wolf scat.
I asked, “How do you know it’s a wolf?”
Trilling shrugged. “Too small to be a bear and Fido’s locked up all the time. That pretty much leaves a wolf.”
“Sorry, you have to remember that I’m a born-and-raised New Yorker who’s always lived in Manhattan. Tracking and cataloging animal poop wasn’t ever taught in my local schools.”
Trilling laughed. He knew I was only trying to occupy my mind. He stopped and said, “You’re thinking about the bombings, aren’t you?”
I had to smile at my partner’s growing insight into my habits. I nodded as I admitted, “A few things bug me. Like why’re the bombs becoming more powerful? Who’s smart enough to overcome security systems and make complex bombs? I haven’t heard about anyone like that since Ted Kaczynski.”
“Who?”
“You know, the Unabomber. A brilliant nut who lived in the woods by himself. You must’ve heard of him.”
“Yeah, I think I read about him once in a history book. But he was active a long time ago.”
“You’re not screwing with me, are you?”
“Not this time.”
I did some quick math and realized Rob Trilling was probably telling the truth.
He wasn’t even born when the Unabomber was arrested in 1996.
I decided not to dwell on how old that made me feel.
“Ted Kaczynski was a very smart guy, but he was a recluse and a radical who worried about high tech taking over and a bunch of other stuff. To get attention and to punish those who supported positions he disagreed with, he mailed lethal letter bombs. Very effective domestic terrorism. His bombs killed several people.”
“Wasn’t there something about a manifesto?”
“Yes. The New York Times and the Washington Post both published Kaczynski’s manifesto.”
Trilling asked, “How was he caught?”
“His brother figured it out from reading the manifesto. He went to the FBI with what he knew.” I could see Trilling had more questions. I told him, “Kaczynski was convicted and died in prison.”
Trilling said, “I bet we could get Walter Jackson to compare some profiles similar to our bomber. We should come up with a good name too. Something catchy like the Unabomber. The Lone Bomber?”
“We don’t know if the bomber is working alone or not,” I pointed out.
“Even if other people are involved, I bet only one guy is making the bombs. And that guy is smart.” Trilling’s face lit up. “So we call him Smart Bomb.”
I groaned. “You’ve been spending too much time with Walter Jackson.”
“The Manhattan Project?”
“Taken.”
“The Steak Bomb?”
“How’d you come up with that one?”
Trilling shrugged. “Just hungry, I guess. I’ll keep working on it.”
“You do that.”