CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The aftermath of a bombing is more terrifying and more horrible than any other form of murder. When I was an infantry officer, I once helped clear a bombed barracks in the Middle East. I have never erased the sights, nor the distinctive smells of seared flesh, blood, and internal organs from my mind.

Joan Townsend was a former FBI agent. Once a Fibbie, always a Fibbie. She remained admirably disciplined, a creature of habits wholesome and predictable-church every Sunday morning, a stop at the dry cleaners every Wednesday, grocery shopping on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and an efficient cardio workout every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at the Gold's Gym located at Tysons Corner.

Twenty minutes of pumping light weights, ten minutes on the stairstep, finished off with twenty minutes on the running machine, a quick shower, and a fast dash out to the parking lot for the drive home. She was dedicated and she was fit, and at sixty years old she still wore a size four. She had just settled her firm and svelte butt into the leather seat of her gray Crown Victoria, and was probably in the process of buckling her seat belt when she blew right into the roof and windshield.

Three unfortunate souls were getting out of the car parked beside Joan Townsend's and also were obliterated. A few limbs were scattered around, and I noted some viscera hanging from the handicapped parking sign.

When it's the boss's wife, word spreads both efficiently and fast. It appeared that half the FBI had rushed to the scene. Three fire trucks were parked alongside the curb as the firemen were rolling up hoses and putting away their equipment. Yellow crime scene tape was already strung, and forensics experts were combing the scene, picking through body scraps and car parts, bagging and tagging. Also, I noted, a few TV vans had made it to the scene, and three or four reporters were scrambling to get their mikes and camera crews into broadcast mode. The circus had started: It was going to be a three-ringer. But a large and expanding crowd of people who mostly dressed and looked distinctively alike were congregating outside the black-and-yellow tape, staring numbly and unhappily at what was left of their chief's mate.

You can bet they all had big knots in their stomachs. Right under their noses, the first lady of the Bureau had been blown to bits. Jason Barnes had chosen a spectacular and, I thought, horribly personal way to stick a finger in their eye. Also this was a spectacular exhibition to show Washington how utterly helpless it was against his incandescent ruthlessness.

On the drive over, Jennie and I argued fiercely about which of us had been the most stupid and the most blind. It was a tough proposition. Her position was that as an experienced profiler, she was trained and conditioned to put together the schematic pieces, and she-more than anybody-should have appreciated that Joan Townsend was a victim in the wings. She was right. My position was that I had allowed a combination of exhaustion and lust to deaden my instincts. I was equally right.

Agent Mark Butterman was in charge of this mess, and he stood with a group of agents interrogating witnesses. Away from the crowd I saw George Meany, off by himself, shoulders slumped, experiencing a quiet fit of depression and frustration. Jason Barnes had outsmarted us all, and for sure, there would be enough blame to go around. But, ultimately, George was in charge, and rank conveys not just enviable privileges and advantages, but also responsibility. When this was over, George would be lucky to be handing out towels at the FBI gym.

Jennie got us past the crime tape, and we approached Mark Butterman, who stepped away from the witnesses and guided us to a quiet spot. Without pleasantries, Jennie asked, "What have you got?"

"It went down like a mob hit. Joan got into the car, and boom."

"Was the bomb rigged to the ignition?"

"Doubtful. Her keys were found in the backseat."

I said, "Then we're assuming it was command detonated?"

"That's our working assumption. The underside of her car's still too hot to touch. After it cools, we'll know."

"Type of explosive?"

"That we are sure of; C4."

I glanced at Jennie.

Butterman continued, "The field tests have confirmed that, and trace samples are on the way to the lab at headquarters. In a few hours, they'll know the type, the manufacturer, and who it was shipped to."

Jennie said, "I want to know as soon as you know."

"Got it, boss."

She asked, "Anything from the witnesses?"

He looked over his shoulder at the agents doing the interrogation. "Bombings are always a bitch. Nobody really pays attention till the boom, then they're all fixated on the blast. So far, it's useless."

I observed the local surroundings. The gym was situated in a strip mall that abutted a busy highway, and directly across the road and to the left, I noted two more strip malls with large, heavily trafficked parking lots. Basically, within a five-hundred-yard radius were hundreds of places where the killer could perch, hunched down in the seat of a car or leaning casually against a shop front, finger poised on a toggle switch or listening to a cell phone, observing the entrance to the gym, and waiting for Joan Townsend so he could blow her to pieces.

Jennie continued to pepper Mark Butterman with questions, but I had stopped engaging and I had stopped listening. In fact, I was experiencing a delayed reaction to something Butterman had said, and my stomach was in knots. I waited for a pause in their conversation before I took Jennie's arm and said, "Let's have a word. Now."

"Of course."

Butterman returned to the witnesses, and Jennie and I moved a few yards to another isolated spot where we couldn't be overheard. I said, "We blew it. We really-"

She released a large breath. "Don't rehash it. I should've known about Joan. You should've known about Joan. We all should've put this-"

"Not that-the C4."

"What about it?"

"The theft at Fort Hood. The range thefts-Bouncing Bettys, LAWs, and C4 explosive were stolen." I added, "Tanner was right. These are the same people."

"You can't be certain of that."

"Come on, Jennie. We have an exact munitions match. In a few hours, your lab will confirm that the C4 was military grade." I stared at her and said, "Eric Tanner, maybe for all the wrong reasons, came to the right conclusion."

She turned away and surveyed the destruction in front of the gym. Not looking at me, she replied, "I'm not ruling it out. I never ruled it out with Tanner."

"Yes you-"

"I did not. Don't put words into my mouth."

"But you-"

"I merely pointed out that his investigation was sloppy and his conclusions were nonpersuasive. I never said it wasn't possible."

She was splitting hairs and mincing words, and that pissed me off. "Bullshit."

"Excuse me."

"You tore the guy to pieces. You ripped him and his theory to shreds."

"His fault, not mine. He did shoddy work and misrepresented his findings. I did my job."

"You steamrolled him."

Her eyes turned, really cold. "You were right beside me. I don't remember hearing you object or coming to his defense then. And I don't appreciate your accusation now."

Of course, she was right. More to the point, she knew she was right. After a moment she advised me, "Cool off."

But I wasn't ready to cool off yet. "Doesn't this bother you in the least, Jennie? Tanner handed it to us, and we ignored him"

She touched my arm. "Post facto, Sean, everything always looks clearer. This isn't a court of law, where everything's a review of the past. This is police work. It's happening now. It's part of our business."

Right. I still felt like crap.

She continued, "Ask yourself-what difference would it have made? Tanner couldn't identify the culprits. He had no idea of the target. Right? Even if we reacted to his theory, it wouldn't have saved Joan's life."