least until further notice. We have a team liaising with the press so no oneneeds to talk to the media. I hope everyone's clear on that…” Metzler referred to a sheet of paper in his hand. “Working in conjunction with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, as well as the various departments within the SFPD, we can now confirm that a vehicle loaded with explosives—ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel, we think—parked out front of the Transamerica building, was the cause of the initial explosion.” He had the room's full attention.
“Surveillance cameras picked up this vehicle in front of the building shortly before the explosion. I can confirm that it belonged to a courier company and that it had been stolen from a location in south central Los Angeles a week before the bombing.”
There was a general nod from the audience. Progress.
“We also believe that the secondary gas explosion was deliberate. It originated beneath the Four Winds apartment complex, in its basement parking lot, which accounts for the high levels of loss of life and damage at that location. Forensics has yet to conclude how the gas leak was engineered or how the explosion was touched off. They're telling us we should know within the next twenty-four hours.
“All this would seem to indicate a highly organized, systematic attack, though no organization has so far claimed responsibility for the bombing. That is all we have at present. I don't have to remind you all that if you come across information important to this case, share it.
“Another progress report will be given in ten hours' time at four this afternoon. That is all, thank you.”
A firestorm of questions followed, which I didn't hang around for. Metzler had given up everything his team had found and, I noted on the issue of solid leads to go on with, that was a fat zero.
I made my way to the office Metzler was using. I badged the guardsmen covering the door. “I have an appointment,” I said to the young sergeant. She looked at me like I was a ghost, then let me pass. I'd received that same look before. DoD investigatorsare mythical creatures, up there with yetis and unicorns. That uniqueness has its uses, one of them being the ability to open doors others found locked.
Inside, I scoped Metzler's seconded office. Nice digs. According to the various Kodak moments scattered around, the usual occupant was a young guy who earned far too much money. His girlfriend—it could have been his wife—was too good looking. He drove a Dodge Viper, water-skied, went parachuting, and liked to go deep-sea fishing with his buddies. A vacation snap showing him standing beside a large shark caught my attention. The fish was hanging by its tail over some wharf down in the Florida Keys, with its guts spilling out its mouth. Maybe sharks had a case for revenge, after all.
Metzler arrived ten minutes late, peeling his collar undone and loosening his tie as he made his way to the desk. The desk phone was ringing. He picked it up, his back to me. He listened for half a dozen seconds and then said, “Aw, shit, I don't know!
You
work it out!” before slamming down the receiver.
He turned and gave a small jump when he finally saw me. “Christ, how did you get in?” he demanded.
“Actually, the name's Cooper. Through the front door, and I can come back,” I replied.
“No, sorry. It's all right. I remember. Special Agent Cooper, right? DoD?”
I nodded, impressed by the guy's memory. He'd met at least a hundred new faces in the last couple of hours.
He gestured at the phone. “We've got six hundred wounded—crush injuries, cuts, broken bones—and nowhere to take them. Not my problem.”
Something about Metzler's manner told me he'd make it his problem. I'd heard about this guy. San Francisco was his town, and he cared about it.
“So,” he said, “you want to tell me what the DoD's interest is in this event?”
“We're concerned about one of the residents of the Four Winds apartment
“Surveillance cameras picked up this vehicle in front of the building shortly before the explosion. I can confirm that it belonged to a courier company and that it had been stolen from a location in south central Los Angeles a week before the bombing.”
There was a general nod from the audience. Progress.
“We also believe that the secondary gas explosion was deliberate. It originated beneath the Four Winds apartment complex, in its basement parking lot, which accounts for the high levels of loss of life and damage at that location. Forensics has yet to conclude how the gas leak was engineered or how the explosion was touched off. They're telling us we should know within the next twenty-four hours.
“All this would seem to indicate a highly organized, systematic attack, though no organization has so far claimed responsibility for the bombing. That is all we have at present. I don't have to remind you all that if you come across information important to this case, share it.
“Another progress report will be given in ten hours' time at four this afternoon. That is all, thank you.”
A firestorm of questions followed, which I didn't hang around for. Metzler had given up everything his team had found and, I noted on the issue of solid leads to go on with, that was a fat zero.
I made my way to the office Metzler was using. I badged the guardsmen covering the door. “I have an appointment,” I said to the young sergeant. She looked at me like I was a ghost, then let me pass. I'd received that same look before. DoD investigatorsare mythical creatures, up there with yetis and unicorns. That uniqueness has its uses, one of them being the ability to open doors others found locked.
Inside, I scoped Metzler's seconded office. Nice digs. According to the various Kodak moments scattered around, the usual occupant was a young guy who earned far too much money. His girlfriend—it could have been his wife—was too good looking. He drove a Dodge Viper, water-skied, went parachuting, and liked to go deep-sea fishing with his buddies. A vacation snap showing him standing beside a large shark caught my attention. The fish was hanging by its tail over some wharf down in the Florida Keys, with its guts spilling out its mouth. Maybe sharks had a case for revenge, after all.
Metzler arrived ten minutes late, peeling his collar undone and loosening his tie as he made his way to the desk. The desk phone was ringing. He picked it up, his back to me. He listened for half a dozen seconds and then said, “Aw, shit, I don't know!
You
work it out!” before slamming down the receiver.
He turned and gave a small jump when he finally saw me. “Christ, how did you get in?” he demanded.
“Actually, the name's Cooper. Through the front door, and I can come back,” I replied.
“No, sorry. It's all right. I remember. Special Agent Cooper, right? DoD?”
I nodded, impressed by the guy's memory. He'd met at least a hundred new faces in the last couple of hours.
He gestured at the phone. “We've got six hundred wounded—crush injuries, cuts, broken bones—and nowhere to take them. Not my problem.”
Something about Metzler's manner told me he'd make it his problem. I'd heard about this guy. San Francisco was his town, and he cared about it.
“So,” he said, “you want to tell me what the DoD's interest is in this event?”
“We're concerned about one of the residents of the Four Winds apartment