involved in the explosion and he thought maybe you and I could swing through the Park over there and—”
“How long?”
“Two minutes.”
“I’ll be out front.”
The Secret Service agent’s car pulled up in front of the Doubletree lobby and Dixon climbed inside. It was a Jeep Cherokee with a wire cage in the rear and a dog back there.
“I appreciate this, Sheriff,” Hernandez said, pulling out of the lot.
“No problem at all. What kind of explosion was it?”
“That’s what we want to find out. Looks like a tractor-trailer rig and a DC squad car were involved. A collision, is what they’re thinking so far.”
“Pretty big collision to make a bang like that.”
“That’s what we think, too.”
“That your dog back there? Or, an official one?”
“That’s Dutch. Mandatory retirement after eleven years service. He’s got one year to go.”
“Dutch, huh? Good name.”
“Named after my first boss, President Reagan.”
“Dutch still goes to work?”
“All the K-9 dogs get to go home every night with their handlers. Part of my family, Sheriff.”
“What is he? Looks a lot like a German Shepherd.”
“He’s a Belgian Malinois. That’s all we use now. Trained to detect drugs, explosives, firearms.”
“Explosives, huh?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.”
“Great minds think alike,” Dixon said, and, looking out the window at Washington in the snow, he added, “And so do ours.”
There had to be twenty squad cars and emergency vehicles already at the scene. Tape was up, surrounding a big black hole in the ground. The surrounding snow-covered trees were lit up with flashing blue and red lights. Dixon noticed two vehicles marked BOMB DISPOSAL parked near the blackened center of the explosion. On the far side, a large FBI crime scene van was a hive of activity.
He and Hernandez climbed out of the car and fetched Dutch out of the back. Once he was on his lead, they went up to an officer standing inside the tape and showed their shields.
“White House dog?” the D.C. uniform asked Hernandez, rubbing Dutch’s coat.
“Yes, he is.”
“Glad to have him at the scene. You gentlemen let me know if you need anything.”
“Two vehicles involved, officer?” Dixon asked the uniform before he could turn to go.
“Correct. We’ve got tracks of only two vehicles leading to the scene. Most likely a DC Metro cruiser and an eighteen-wheeler. Not much left of either one as you can see. I suppose the gas tanks on both vehicles blew when they collided.”
“Collided,” Dixon said, pushing his short brim back on his forehead and looking at the hole.
“That’s what it looks like.”
Dixon said, “Anything else you can tell us?”
“Well, this doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but an Officer Darius called in with something about a remote-controlled vehicle here in the Park. What’s that all about? Some kid flying a toy plane? Nobody knew what the hell to make of it. A couple of minutes later, boom.”
“Have you heard from Officer Darius?”
“No, sir.”
Dixon and Hernandez looked at each other, thanked the officer, and walked away. There was a small group of uniformed officers and others who stood looking down into the hole. Three men in HAZMAT suits were down at the bottom taking soil samples or whatever it was they did. Dixon looked around. A bomb disposal technician was playing with a little robot back in the trees where the road had been cordoned off to protect any tire tracks in the snow.
The hole was nearly fifteen feet across and ten feet deep. Hernandez released Dutch and the dog took off at a trot, circling the crater and the dirty black snow all around the edge, all fired up.
“How good is he?” Dixon asked, watching with admiration as the dog worked.
“They learn to detect almost nineteen thousand individual scents. After twenty-six weeks of training, Dutch scored 650 out of a possible 700 points. He’s good.”
“I think I’ll stroll back down that road a ways. Take a look around. Let Dutch here do his job in peace.”
“I’ll be right here, Sheriff.”
The scene had been carefully protected for about five hundred yards. The two-lane road curved back and disappeared into some trees. There were still two sets of tire tracks in the snow, lightly covered with fresh snow but you could still make out two distinct tread patterns. Dixon bent down and looked at a point of intersection between the two. He got his pocketknife out and stuck the blade into the snow. He’d seen something while staring at the treads. He pried it out and picked it up with his handkerchief. It was shiny, maybe some kind of glass.
Black glass.
“What have you got, there?” the bomb technician said, walking over with his robot in tow.
“Piece of glass.”
“Lots of that around. A lot of this black shiny stuff. Kinda weird, isn’t it? Here, hold your piece up to my flashlight. See that? Something inside, like another layer or something.”
“Yep. I do. It’s mirror.”
“Mirror. That’s what I thought, too. Now, what do you suppose that is all about?”
“Excuse me, will you please?”
Dixon turned and hurried back through the deep snow to the crater. Hernandez was still there, working the dog.
“Could you take a walk with me over here a little ways? The trees over yonder.”
“Sure.” Hernandez followed the sheriff to a nearby tree, away from the crowd. “What have you got?”
“Got your flashlight?”
“Right here.”
Dixon showed him the piece of glass he’d found, turning it over in his hand so it caught the light. Hernandez said, “You’re seeing something here, Sheriff. I’m not.”
“That truck Homer and I stopped that first night? The Yankee Slugger. Had heavily tinted windows. Blackouts with a layer of mirror in the middle. I tried to see inside that truck’s windshield, with my light right up against the glass just like this. Couldn’t see through the stuff. Just like this piece right here.”
“You check the truck in Virginia?”
“Identical glass in the cab. That bomb technician over there says this glass is all over the place. Lots of it.”
“So, you think this truck was one of the remote-controllers?”
“I’d bet on it.”
“Keep an eye on Dutch for me? I’m headed to my car to get the boss on the radio. Tell him what you’ve found. See what he wants us to do about it.”
Dixon nodded, “Won’t let him out of my sight. Borrow your flashlight while you’re gone?”
Dixon took the Superlight and walked back to the crater. He watched Dutch working something on the far side of the crater. Nobody in the crowd was paying any attention but he was on to something, all right. Dixon wasn’t a trained dog handler. But you didn’t need to be. You could see the whole thing in his body language. He was all over something or other.
“Hey, Dutch,” Dixon said, rubbing his ears, “What have you got, boy? Huh?”
There was a jagged piece of blackened metal lying between the dog’s feet. Dutch was guarding it, but decided to let Franklin look at it. Dixon took out his hanky again and held the thing up to the light. Twisted metal, burned, but you could make out some letters stamped into it.
R-O-L-E.
“The dog found this,” he said to the FBI man standing in the open door of the van.
