LAWRENCE GOODWEATHER’S FORMER RESIDENCE—AND THE SCENE OF THE LAST MURDER—WAS A LARGE TWO-STORY WHITE HOUSE WITH A PARTIAL STONE FRONT. The big house on Forrest Avenue had sat empty since the time of the Goodweather murder. It was old but well maintained, just as one would expect from a retired gentleman accustomed to working with his hands.
All the teams were in place and ready to enter the house. SWAT had set up an invisible perimeter and was waiting for the go signal. Kaleb Duran sat three houses down in the driveway of one of the neighbors. He had requisitioned an old beige Buick Regal from the impound to use during the operation. One of the other detectives sat in the passenger seat, sipping coffee and looking uninterested.
Kaleb drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tapped his foot on the floorboard in nervous anticipation. “What the hell are we waiting for?” he asked, more to himself than the other man in the car. The other detective just shrugged.
SWAT had already done a cursory recon of the property and hadn’t seen anyone inside. They should have been storming the castle. Waiting was a waste of time.
Kaleb growled in disgust, pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans, and dialed his mother’s number. “What are we waiting for?” he asked as soon as she picked up.
“We’re going to give it some time. If he’s using this as a staging area, then we may get lucky and catch the guy. We haven’t seen any signs of life inside, and if we go in now, we blow our best shot at him.”
“But there’s a crime scene in that house. We might find some evidence to lead us to him. And what if the kid’s in there?”
“We haven’t found any evidence that we could use to locate him at the other crime scenes. No reason to think this one would be any different. And SWAT doesn’t think anyone’s inside.”
“They can’t be sure of that.”
“I don’t have time for this. The call’s been made.”
Captain Duran hung up. Kaleb said, “Dammit, I don’t like this. We’re wasting time.”
The other detective leaned back and closed his eyes. “Patience, kid. The captain knows what she’s doing.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The next hour crawled by with little activity. A few kids. A lady walking a dog. A couple of joggers. No one paid any attention to the house or so much as gave it a second glance. The sun was high in the sky, and the Dunham boy’s time was running out.
Then Kaleb’s radio buzzed into life. “We got someone suspicious coming up the alley from the east.”
Kaleb couldn’t see the alley from his position. One of the other cops asked, “Can you see the face?”
“No, the suspect’s wearing a dark-hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He’s keeping his head low, like he’s trying to conceal his face.”
Captain Duran’s voice echoed from the tinny speaker. “This could be it, people. Everyone be ready. If the suspect enters the house, we move in.”
“Dammit,” Kaleb said. “I wish I could see what’s happening back there.”
“Suspect is approaching the back porch ... Still can’t see the face ... He’s going in ... I repeat, he’s in the house.”
Captain Duran said, “SWAT move in. All teams are go. Maintain control of the perimeter. Make sure he doesn’t run.”
Kaleb stepped out of the Regal and looked across the street at the Goodweather house. The SWAT team poured out of the house next door and converged on the target home. Four black-clad men entered through the front, and four went in the back. Kaleb wanted to be in there with them. Not being part of the action was killing him.
The sound of the first explosion rocked him back on his heels. Screams poured out over the radio. Most of it was unintelligible, but he recognized words like bomb ... trap ... pull back.
Kaleb sprinted across the street. The other detective yelled something at his back, but he paid the old pencil-pusher little mind. The men in that house needed help.
The rumble of two more explosions echoed up the quiet suburban block before Kaleb reached the other side of the street.