dammit, Nick. You just have to tickle my grumpy bone, don’t you. We’ve only been able to find another three bombs. And the State Police say the one they took has no prints. Wiped clean. They’re looking at the timers, but say those are clean, too.”
“What about the two guys at the Continuum Center?”
“No IDs. Prints have been sent to wherever we could think of from Interpol to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Someone must have something on these guys.”
“And the guns?”
“The .22 had its serial number ground off, but the Troopers say they can probably get something off of it anyway. Magic wand stuff. The other guy’s .38 had a clear and unaltered number. We’re running it now.” I could hear him gulp what I assumed was coffee. “How are the kids?”
“Okay. Scared. Thought they were going to be killed. I’ll get a description of the guys who grabbed them and let you know.”
Forte disconnected.
Tim Dornan sat on a corner of the workbench with Dorothy standing close. Color had returned to their faces. Tim draped an arm around Dorothy’s shoulder.
Both had settled down.
“How’d you wind up here?”
Tim blinked rapidly. “I was supposed to stop here and get another hundred bucks for telling the cops about the propane tank in the woods. A kinda second installment.”
“And instead they hog tied you guys and then what?”
“They rummaged around in that room back there for a few minutes and left.”
“How many?”
“Two when we got here. Then one guy left and the other guy did something back there for a half hour or so then he left.”
“What was he doing?”
Tim shrugged. “No idea.”
Dorothy pushed her Clairol-tinted blond hair back from her face, leveling her green eyes at me. “It sounded like he was tinkering with tools of some sort. You know that metal on metal sound when someone’s working on a hinge or a bolt or something.”
“When he left, what was he driving? Did you see any kind of a vehicle when you got here?”
Both shook their heads in unison.
Tim answered, “Nothing. I pulled up to the front and there weren’t any other cars. My first thought was they were going to stiff me the hundred. Not show up, you know?”
Dorothy added, “They probably were parked out back. When the first guy left, he went through the rear doorway.”
“And the second guy?”
“Same,” Tim answered.
Sal had been watching their faces, looking for any clue they were either holding back information or lying. Finding nothing, “Did you hear or see any kind of a vehicle or vehicles they could have driven away in?”
Again, simultaneous head shakes.
The big man cut a look at me and gave an almost imperceptible nod. In his opinion, they were being honest. To the teenagers, “Describe the guys?”
Tim shuddered, “The one was about my height. 5-foot-9 or so. About 160 pounds. Red hair, brown eyes and big hands.”
“Long or short?” I asked.
“His hair? Short. Not a military cut. He had it combed.”
Dorothy added, “Natural red, too. His eyebrows were the same color and his beard was coming in. Like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. It was red, too.”
“And the other one?”
“Six-foot, 200 pounds, black hair and blue eyes. Moustache but clean shaven otherwise.”
“Age?”
“Maybe 35 or so,” Dorothy said. “Both of them.”
Sal interrupted, “The six-footer. Muscular or going to fat?”
Dorothy smiled, “Very muscular.”
Tim gave her a sideways glare.
She continued, “Big arms and legs. Big chest and maybe a 34 inch waist. He looked like a guy who works out regularly, but not muscle bound. Know what I mean?”
Sal nodded, “Not a runner, not a weight lifter, just someone who isn’t afraid of physical work.”
Dorothy nodded and gave a slight grin at Sal. “He reminded me of a field hand. Outdoorsy. Know what I mean?”
“One last question,” I said. “Any accent? Southern, Texas, Mid-western?”
A spark flared in both teens’ eyes.
Tim answered first. “English! The red head sounded like he was from England or something.”
“And the other guy?”
Dorothy shook her head. “No. Nothing that stood out, anyway.”
Tim nodded, “American.”
Glancing at my watch, “Look, we’re in deep stuff here timewise. I want you two to get back to town, go the police station and give Chief Forte written statements. Do it quickly. And then get the heck out of town. Got me?”
Both nodded. Tim climbed from the table, grabbed Dorothy’s hand and pulled her with him to the front door. Not before she gave Sal a big grin and softly said, “Thank you, Mister Rand.”
Sal’s beard twitched. A smile, though no one would see it behind all those whiskers.
After phoning in our conversation with the two teens to the Chief, Sal and I began a quick survey of the back room with the circles in the dirt.
“Footprints look like three people, not two,” I said.
Sal agreed. “Something odd, though.” He pointed to one set of prints, “Like this one was shuffling. Not a lot, but a little.”
I pulled out my cell phone, scrolled through the contact list and settled on Doctor John DiMaggio. Hit the “call” button and got him on the second ring.
“Doc, it’s Nick Drago. You got some time right now?”
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
DiMaggio, a dapper guy with bright eyes and an undercurrent of having been a hellion in his younger days, is a recognized and published forensic podiatrist who does case evaluations, expert testimony and crime-scene evaluations of footprints. Bandon’s got all kinds.
Filling him in on the help I needed, he clicked off.
While
