Counterplay

Superman’s X-ray vision. It’s called ground-penetrating radar, or GPR. It works by shooting an ultrahigh-frequency radio wave into the ground through a transducer or antenna. Part of that signal from buried objects or differences between, say, compact soil and loose soil reflects back up to the antenna, which stores them in a digital control unit.

Huh? It was getting complicated for Guma.

Uh…think of it sort of like taking an X-ray of what’s underground, Swanburg had said. When you take an X-ray of your arm, the picture you get back shows the bone as a denser white, while things like ligaments are more a shade of gray.

So we’ll be able to see Teresa’s body? Guma asked.

Well, yes and no, Swanburg explained. GPR produces a cross- sectional profile of what’s under it-a record of subsurface features. It isn’t as exact as that X-ray at your doctor’s office. It could indicate when it’s reflecting off something hard, like bone, but it’s more for finding “anomalies” in the soil-like a pocket of natural gas or looser area soil of a size and shape to indicate a grave.

Seems like a lot of trouble, Guma said. Why not just go in there with a backhoe?

Well, a couple of reasons, Swanburg said. As you just heard, the judge isn’t going to let you go on a fishing expedition and dig up holes all over this guy’s yard without narrowing the search. Another reason is, unless you know exactly where to dig, you could miss a grave by a few inches and never know you were that close-unless you’re intending on bulldozing the entire backyard.

I might, Guma said.

Well, that would be a mistake, Swanburg said. When we excavate bodies, we do so very carefully with small hand trowels and whisk brooms. We try not to miss a single shred of evidence, like bullet casings or pieces of clothing, that could be overlooked from a bulldozer. Also, any human remains might be disturbed, likely damaged, by machinery-sometimes even the position of the bones in a grave can tell us a lot. GPR, while not perfect, can give us a good idea of where to dig.

Swanburg had referred any other questions to Clarkson, who was a geologist working for an oil company “in my real life.” GPR, Clarkson said, was used by geologists to evaluate the location and depth of buried objects-from buried cables to mineral deposits. It was capable of penetrating to one hundred feet in loose soils, like sand, but was more limited in denser soils, such as only a few feet in clay, which is why we asked if you knew the soil composition.

“The question is,” Clarkson said now as he ran the GPR antenna-the red box-over a test area on the patio, “where exactly beneath the cement we should dig?”

“What if it’s under the hot tub?” Guma said.

“Then we’re screwed,” Clarkson replied. “GPR sends its signal straight down, not sideways.”

Swanburg saw Guma look over at the hot tub with concern. “Funny thing, Ray,” he noted. “We’ve done a couple of these-and so have other groups like ours-and for some reason, killers who hide their victims on the property, don’t like to put things like hot tubs or even new rooms or outdoor furniture directly over the graves. Maybe it’s superstitious or disconcerting for their consciences, but they avoid it.”

Over the next two hours, Clark slowly pulled the GPR device over the patio area, which had been divided by Swanburg into grids, as the digital recorder made a printout. Guma looked at the printouts but couldn’t make heads or tails of them-they just looked like a bunch of different-colored bands and squiggly lines.

After they were finished, and the scene secured with a sign NYPD, the ensemble went back to the hotel where Clarkson and Swanburg were staying. Ordering a half dozen beers and ice up to the room, they pored over the printouts.

Clarkson showed Guma what the bands and lines meant. “Here’s one that clearly indicates the electrical line just under the concrete, which is about six inches thick, that goes to the hot tub.”

But it was the printout taken in the corner of the yard closest to the house that caused the two scientists to get excited. “Here you can see that this light area is looser soil and begins a foot beneath the concerete and goes about three feet below the surface, approximately six feet long and thirty-one inches wide,” Clarkson said. “If I were looking for a grave, that’s exactly where I’d dig.”

“It’s also right below Zachary’s bedroom window,” Guma said. “So what’s our next step?”

Swanburg answered first. “Me? I’m going to get on the phone and call Char Gates, the leader of our forensic anthropology team. We’ll need her for the excavation and, if we’re right, the exhumation of the remains…. You, call the judge and ask what’s the earliest we can see him with our ‘something stronger.’ We can assure him that we only need to dig one hole.”

“What about the concrete pad?” Guma asked.

Clarkson cracked another beer and grinned as he took a sip. “Know any guys with the public works department who might have a jackhammer at their disposal?”

15

Even as Guma and the 221B Baker Street Irregulars celebrated with another round of beer, the two plainclothes police officers parked outside of St. Malachy’s Church were trying to stay awake. “Hey, Dan, check out the legs on this hooker,” Jose Villa said, nudging his partner and nodding toward the rearview mirror.

Dan Solomon turned his beefy body so that he could see the woman walking down the sidewalk toward them from Broadway. The ass-high short skirt, acres of visible cleavage, as well as the knee-high boots and the bad platinum blond wig identified her as one of the streetwalkers who hoped to make a buck from horny tourists in Times Square.

They had been told that terrorists wanted to assassinate the pastor of St. Malachy’s and to keep their eyes peeled. But they’d had the evening shift duty for three days and “nothin’ doin’.” Tonight, their backups, a couple of federal agents, who’d been staking the place in a hotel linen supply van hadn’t even bothered to show up. Chatting it up with a prostitute was better than listening to each other talk about the same shit they had the night before- and who knew what favors she might offer for free.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Solomon called from the passenger window when the woman was nearly even with the car. He flashed his badge. “You wouldn’t be doing nothin’ illegal that maybe I should run you in?”

The hooker smiled and sauntered over. “Hi, boys, thinking about going to church?” she said. “Maybe you want to do something worth confessing first?” She leaned down to look in through the passenger window, giving Solomon a clear view of her ample free-swinging breasts.

“Hey, where you from?” Villa said leaning over from the driver’s side to get a better view of her tits. “India? You have a nice accent…and your tan ain’t half bad either.”

“Actually, Palestine,” Samira Azzam purred, “which is unfortunate for you.”

The first bullet tore a hole in her purse, where she’d kept the gun to muffle the sound, on its way to Solomon’s brain before exiting and lodging in the roof of the sedan. She then turned the gun on Villa whose smile was just beginning to fade as his mind comprehended what had just happened. The bullet caught him in the throat. He raised a hand and tried to ask her to spare him as she pointed the gun again, but all he could do was gurgle until the second bullet shut off the lights.

Azzam stood and tossed the gun in the car. It had been reported stolen from a home in Martha’s Vineyard two years earlier. No sense getting caught with it later, and she wasn’t going to need it for what she planned to do next. Looking up and down the mostly empty street to make sure no one was paying attention to a whore stopping to talk to a couple of possible customers, she quickly ascended the steps to the church and pushed the door open.

Inside, Father Michael Dugan finished his evening prayers at St. Malachy’s and prepared to lock up for the night. He was in a hurry as an old friend…a young, old friend, he thought with a smile…was in town for a visit and there was a lot to talk about regarding Andrew Kane.

The last of the worshipers had left, and there was no one waiting in the confessional. All that remained was to lock the front door, and then he was done with his duties for the night. He missed the days when churches left