WHEN THE MUSIC DIES (MUSIC CITY MURDERS Book 1) (36 page)

“I think I found the reason for Bart’s alert,” he said as he patted next to his knee which was resting on the crotch of the waiter’s pants. “Let’s get his pants down,” Stephens said.

One of the officers helped Stephens unfastened the man’s pants and pulled them down.

“No man has that kind of bulge,” Cole said.

Grateful for his nitrile gloves, Stephens grabbed the waistband of the waiter’s briefs with his left hand and removed a small Beretta semi-automatic pistol with his right. He held it up for Lieutenant Cole to see.

“How the hell did he get that in here?” Cole asked.

“He didn’t bring it in today; that’s for damn sure,” Stephens said as he released the magazine and ejected the bullet from the chamber.

“He had to have it hidden somewhere on this floor,” Cole said. “We’ve been sweeping the place for two days.”

Officers secured the waiter’s ankles with plastic cable ties and one of them placed his knee on top of the restraints between the waiter’s feet to prevent any movement. Gloved hands prevented the man from moving any part of his body more than an inch.

The EMTs arrived and began to work on closing the waiter’s wounds.

He was screaming something in Arabic, but the officers didn’t know or care what he was saying. They simply wanted him to stop his attempt to free himself. With all the officers in place to keep the man secure, there was barely room for the EMTs to work.

Cole shouted into his mic, “Twenty-one. Get an interpreter up here now, grand ballroom.”

The conference organizers knew an international function of this size was likely to present multiple opportunities for interpreters, so a group of multi-lingual Tennessee State University students had been employed to assist the hotel and the police during the conference. One of the male students from Kuwait was on the ballroom level and was rushed to the scene of the scuffle.

“What is he saying?” shouted Cole.

The young man listened. “He is praying to Allah,” said the student, “begging forgiveness for his failure.”

“Failure of what?”

The young man spoke to the waiter in Arabic.

The waiter mumbled.

“He said for his failure to execute Allah’s retribution.”

“For what?”

“Failure to—”

“I heard you the first time,” Cole said. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Do you want me to ask him?”

“Yes, damn it. Ask him.”

Before the translator could speak, the waiter screamed at him in Arabic.

“What did he say?” the Lieutenant asked.

The student hesitated. “He cursed me. He called me a traitor to Islam and a whore.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Cole said.

The waiter’s screaming banter was becoming a distraction.

“Damn it,” Cole said to the EMTs. “You guys got anything to shut that crap up?”

“Gladly.” One of the EMTs reached into his kit, tore open a packaged syringe, grabbed a small bottle and inserted the needle. He withdrew some of the clear liquid and after a couple of thumps to the syringe he provided the waiter with a reason to sleep for a few hours.

Officer Stephens continued to pat the man down. As he reached under the waiter’s arm he felt a variation in texture that caused him to pause. He checked under the other arm and found the same firmness. He pulled the clip-on bowtie from the shirt collar and unbuttoned the top button of the waiter’s shirt. With both hands, he slowly popped each button on the shirt to expose what appeared to be some sort of strange contraption which, under the circumstances, convinced all the officers—it was a bomb.

“Oh Shit,” three of the officers said in harmony as they leaned back from the unconscious waiter without releasing their hold on his extremities.

Cole immediately shut down his radio, formed his hands around his mouth and shouted across the large room, “Signal Sixteen. Signal Sixteen. Shut off all radios, now. Signal Sixteen. Pass it on.”

All officers switched off their radios.

“Listen up,” Cole turned to Sergeant Hughes who was standing nearby. “I need the bomb squad in here now, Signal Ten. Keep it quiet. I don’t want a panic.”

Sergeant Hughes pointed to a young officer who said, “Ten-four, I got it,” then broke away from the group and sprinted for the elevator.

International occasions such as this were rare in Music City and the MNPD prepared for just about anything. Officers from the Bomb Squad had been assigned to conference security and were on-site with their equipment at the rear of the hotel.

“And clear this top floor of all civilians and non-essentials, immediately,” Cole said. “I want a controlled evacuation of this entire hotel beginning with the ballroom and working down floor by floor from the top.”

The officers huddled around their Sergeant for instructions.

“You guys about through?” Cole said to the EMTs as he returned to the sleeping suspect.

“We have the bleeding stopped, but he needs to be transported soon.”

“Okay, you two get out of here. If we need you again, I’ll send for you.”

“Yes, sir,” the senior EMT said. “He’ll be asleep for a while.”

“Good,” Cole said.

It took less than five minutes for Sergeant Rob Smolinski from the MNPD Bomb Squad to arrive on the top floor and begin to examine the contraption.

“Lieutenant, I don’t think this is a bomb,” Smolinski said.

“Great news,” Hadley said.

“Maybe not.”

“What do you mean?” Cole asked.

“My guess is this device, whatever it is, may be more dangerous than if it was a bomb.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I can disable a lot of bombs. This thing is different. I’ve never seen anything like it. There appears to be no timer attached to these— things.”

“Is this good?” Cole asked.

“Not really,” Smolinski said. “If there was a timer, we’d know exactly how long we have to deal with this thing. As it is, it could go off any second.”

“Smo, you’re not making us feel any better about this,” Stephens said.

“Sorry. Just telling it like it is. One other thing.”

“What?” Cole asked.

“I’d keep this asshole asleep if I were you, at least until I can get this thing off him and into our containment vessel. If he wakes up, he’ll likely attempt to trigger it, now that he knows he’s caught.”

Cole brought his hands to his mouth, getting ready to shout again.

“Lieutenant,” Smolinski interrupted.

“Yeah?”

Smolinski stood and leaned toward Cole. “Let’s get the Hazardous Devices Unit up here.”

Cole motioned for one of the officers to come to him and instructed him to see his Sergeant and get the HD crew in the ballroom immediately.

In less than ten minutes, officers from the Hazardous Devices team and the Bomb Squad began removal of the strange vest from the waiter. As they cut away his jacket and shirt, they were careful not to compromise any part of the mechanism. Once the device was exposed, the officers looked it over in order to be sure there was no booby-trap.

Convinced they were safe, they snipped the straps holding the mechanism in position against the man’s body. Extending upward from the canister on the man’s left side was a plastic ring mounted to a short strap which ran to the back of the unit. This was undoubtedly the trigger to the release valve for whatever variety of death he planned to distribute to the unsuspecting conference attendees.

Two of the officers elevated the sleeping waiter’s upper body so the other two could remove the device and place it into the containment vessel. Once it was clear from his body, they secured the mechanism, closed and vacuum sealed the vessel.

A loud noise surprised the officers until they realized it was applause coming from the other officers watching through a cracked door to the ballroom entrance. The four officers smiled. They gathered their equipment and with one man on each side of the containment vessel, they carried the heavy container from the ballroom with the apparatus securely inside.

While the officers from the Bomb Squad and Hazardous Devices Unit were receiving their appreciation in the hallway as they waited for the elevator, Hadley and Stephens helped the EMTs load the impotent terrorist onto a gurney. Following transport to Metro General Hospital, he would be placed into strict quarantine until he was examined and determination could be made as to his threat level and ultimate disposition.

Once the device was removed from the ballroom, Lieutenant Cole gave the okay to allow the ballroom staff back into the hotel. A group of officers, who were waiting in the hallway, began to return in order to help ready the ballroom for the hundreds of thankfully oblivious guests on the first floor.

Officer Parker squatted near the rear of the ballroom to reward his K-9 partner once again with some well-deserved attention.

“Good job, Bart,” the officer said as he scratched behind his partner’s ears. Parker checked his watch. It was almost 14:15 and Lieutenant Cole had just asked all the K-9 teams to make another full sweep of the ballroom and kitchen while the hotel staff was being gathered for return to their work stations.

As Bart and Officer Parker approached the kitchen, they were suddenly lifted from their feet and hurled toward the rear of the ballroom. The impact from the explosion had such force it tore through the room tossing dark blue uniformed bodies and furniture about like toys. All the windows, as well as the glassware and china throughout the ballroom, shattered from the shockwave.

Parker found himself lying on the floor and up against the wall. He tucked himself into the fetal position and held his ears in an attempt to halt the ringing and the pain. He saw dozens of officers rushing into the room searching through the smoke and the mist from the sprinkler system for any of their friends who needed medical attention. Parker waved off one of his fellow officers who came to his aid.

“Help someone else. I’m okay,” He tried to say. His voice sounded to him like he had his fingers in his ears.

Parker called for Bart and squinted trying to find him through the haze. He couldn’t hear anything except the incessant ringing. He called for the dog again and began to feel around along the room’s perimeter thinking he would have been also thrown against the wall. Searching in the dust and broken glass, he could tell his hands were bleeding, but he didn’t care. He finally grabbed a handful of fur and called to Bart again, but he didn’t move.

“Bart,” Parker yelled. “Bart.”

Parker put his hand on Bart’s chest. He could feel a slow swell telling him his partner was still breathing. Bart’s hesitance to respond to his voice caused Parker to fear the dog’s sensitive hearing could be damaged.

He prayed to God his partner was okay. He had grown to love this dog as much as any of his human friends, even more than some. There was a bond there which was hard to explain. He was his partner; his other half.

“Bart. Come on boy. Talk to me, Bart.”

Bart at last raised his head enough to look up at Parker’s face, then as if no longer able to support it, his head dropped back to the floor. Parker knelt on one knee beside his partner, slipped his hands and arms beneath the dog’s body and picked him up. He staggered, and then fought to stand with the large dog in his arms.

“I need Med-Com,” Parker shouted as he stumbled toward what looked like the ballroom entrance. “I need Med-Com, Signal Ten,” he screamed. “Officer down!”

Near Downtown

Nashville, Tennessee

Thursday Afternoon

Mike stopped talking mid-sentence and turned up the volume on the radio. He looked at Cris and then back at the traffic before him. He checked his mirrors, flipped on the emergency equipment, then accelerated out of a U-turn in the middle of Eighth Avenue.

The dispatcher called for available units in the vicinity of The Centurion Hotel. They were a couple of miles from the hotel, but Mike knew they could be there in minutes.

“Forty-six,” Mike said.

“Forty-six, go ahead.”

“ETA to Centurion is two minutes.” Mike confirmed their intended response to dispatch.

“Ten four, Forty-six,” the radio squawked.

The fact they were close had nothing to do with Mike’s response to the call. The Kurdish-American Conference was opening today at The Centurion and the homicides of the two Middle Eastern men remained unsolved. This sudden disturbance at the conference was surely no coincidence.

As Mike listened closely to the radio for more information, his cell phone interrupted.

“Damn.” He dug the phone from his pocket, looked at the display and flipped it open. “Yeah, Lieutenant.”

“Mike, where are you?” No doubt, Burris could hear the siren.

“We’re on Eighth approaching Division; about a minute from The Centurion.”

“Listen. I know you’ve heard already about the disturbance at the hotel. You need to know they captured a man in the ballroom; he was dressed as a waiter. He had some type of device strapped to his body.”

“A bomb?”

“What?” Cris said.

“They’re not sure yet what it is,” Burris said. “The Bomb Squad is there and they’ve called in the Hazardous Device team. They say they have him secured, but I don’t want you two near the ballroom until they have him out of there and the threat neutralized. Do you understand?”

“Lieutenant?”

“I mean it, Mike. You both stay out of it until they remove him and the bomb from the hotel. I need you investigating, not policing. And I damn sure need you in one piece.”

“Who is this asshole? Do we know which group of crazies he represents?” Mike slowed for a traffic light as he and Cris searched for cross traffic.

“We don’t know much of anything yet,” Burris said. “They told me the suspect was speaking Arabic. So far, it’s all I know. They’ve locked down the ballroom. Hopefully, you’ll be able to evaluate what, if anything, this fanatic and his intentions may have to do with your two murders. My gut is telling me he’s involved—somehow.”

“Okay. We’ll wait outside until they bring him out. I’ll need you to keep me posted so we’re not the last ones to get in there.”

“Count on it,” Burris said. “Stay off your phone. If you need to make calls, use Cris’s phone. I’ll get back to you shortly.”