2023/10/31 - Karen Coe, P.I. Ch. 01

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One afternoon Karen was showing her latest guy, Professor Clark Mathers around her office, giving him the sanitized version of why she was no longer "Detective." She had just been pointing out to him the two main similarities between her office and his, the bottle of whiskey and the comfy couch. Then suddenly she heard a message being left on the office answering machine. She buttoned up her blouse and made her way to the phone.

She sat on the edge of her desk, crossed her legs, and cradled the receiver between her shoulder and her ear, "Good Afternoon, Coe Private Investigation, how can I help you today?" She grabbed a cig, tapped it briskly, filter side down, on the top of her desk and fired it up.

"Well, well, well. Sgt Colangelo!"

"Well.... I was actually Detective Colangelo when I left the job."

"Ha ha, you were Sergeant to me, when we were in the 114th in Afghanistan!"

"Ohhhh yeah! Army. Way back when. Who's this?"

"Brackwell Waterhouse... long time, Colangelo."

"Holy crap! Lieutenant Waterhouse! Great to hear from you. How can I help you today, sir?"

"First of all, you can knock off all that 'sir' shit. I'm a civilian now, although still in government work. I'm with Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, but our good friends call us ATF. At work they call me Special Agent Waterhouse when I'm dressing 'em down, but they call me Brack when we have a drink together. Speaking of which, we need to get together to knock one back for old time's sake. You still drinkin'?"

"Nope. I finished five minutes ago."

"Heh heh that's my girl. Tell you what, we are looking at looping you in on a domestic explosion situation. Guy died. Looks like a bomb in his car. Not sure if he's an innocent victim or a clumsy perp. Too soon to tell. But Washington sent me up here to New England and I've got to interact with the locals, you know, state cops, city cops. And I don't know a damn one of them."

"Well, sir, er, Brack, I know a bunch of them."

"I know you do Colangelo. I've done some snooping. I've got your story down and you are just perfect for my operation. Your experience with me in Afghanistan, all the ordnance, explosives, detonation, that was your thing. And you know your way around the local law-enforcement scene. If I'm gonna hafta deal with every ego and agenda in town, I'd feel better about having you as my canary in the coalmine. And just so we get this out of the way, my agency budget gives me discretionary funds so I can pay your fee. And it's an Exigent Circumstances fund, sorta like petty cash, that allows me to keep you funded as we go along. In other words, you won't be waiting for two years for the US Treasury to cut you a cheque."

"Much appreciated, sir."

"Uh, uh?"

"Ha ha. Sorry...Brack..."

"That's more like it, Karen. OK, then I'll need you tomorrow to be at O-8 hundred hours, State Police HQ in North Scituate. I'll brief you and everyone else about what we've got and where we're going."

"Will do. See you then, Brack." Karen put out her cigarette, did a shot of Jack, unbuttoned her blouse, made her way back to the couch and said "OK Prof, where were we?"

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Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Karen was waiting in front of Rhode Island State Police headquarters when Special Agent Brackwell Waterhouse got out of a black SUV with his number two, agent Dante Washington. Introductions were made, and they were led by reception to a conference room. After a minute or two, they were joined by Superintendent Edward Cicero, the ranking officer of the Rhode Island State Police, who made a brief address, promised to put any and all resources at ATF's disposal, then left them in the capable hands of Detective Bureau Commander Sean Brennan, who was known to Karen.

He'd been one of her training officers at the police academy. She had celebrated her graduation from the academy in his bed. Their eyes locked and there was a brief nod, "Colangelo..."

"Commander...."

Waterhouse caught this, "So you two have met?"

"Mm hm. Commander Brennan was my TO at the academy."

"Well then, gentlemen, this is as good a time as any to make introductions. This is Agent Dante Washington and he is my right hand. This is Karen Colangelo. She served under my command in Afghanistan. You want to know anything about explosives, this is your girl. She also spent 5 years with Providence PD. Made detective. Now she's a private citizen and owns her own PI firm. I brought her in as a consultant, so she's attached to my end of the operation. She had the top Close Rate with PPD. You'll find she has her own methodology, her own process. Rarely colours inside the lines. Traits that will serve us well."

Also present were representatives of Woonsocket Police. The explosion had taken place in their jurisdiction. But as low men on the totem pole, they would be relegated to doing the boots-on-the -ground work, door-to-door canvassing and the like. The deceased was one Khalid Shah, 46 years old, husband and father. Owned a Halal grocery in Providence. All angles had to be looked at; was he a terrorist whose bomb had detonated prematurely? Or was he a victim? In which case they would need to look at things like trouble in the marriage, trouble at work, trouble at the mosque, trouble elsewhere in "his" community, or trouble with someone in the larger community. Yes, the possibility that this was an anti-Muslim thing had to be explored. Shah's brother was pushing this narrative in the press. But he offered nothing by way of evidence. The investigation was in its infancy.

While Waterhouse carried on from the podium, Karen was lost in thought. She was looking at the crime scene photos. It wasn't pretty. The condition of Mr Shah was much as she'd expect, and told her little about what she wanted to know. She really studied the condition of the vehicle. She turned the photos as she gazed at them, held them at angles as if it might give her a 3-D view. Waterhouse broke into her process, "What are you seeing there, Colangelo?"

"Well, Agent Waterhouse, there are things I'm seeing, and things I'm not seeing. If Mr Shah were, for example, a terrorist transporting a bomb to, let's say, a synagogue, I'd expect to see a blast pattern different to what I'm seeing here. So I am not seeing a terrorist. I'm not seeing a man transporting a bomb. I'm not seeing a blast pattern consistent with transporting a bomb in the passenger compartment of his car. What I am seeing is a blast pattern consistent with an explosion from beneath the chassis... a bomb fastened to the underside of the car."

"So, Colangelo, you are seeing murder?"

"Yeah, Brack, either.. oops excuse me.... Agent Waterhouse, either murder or an unnecessarily complicated suicide. I'd put my money on murder."

"Thanks Karen. And you were right the first time. Guys, just call me Brack. It takes five times longer to say Agent Waterhouse. Were you able to make out in the photo any details about the bomb itself? Was it a pipe bomb? What triggered the detonation? The ignition?"

"Brack, these pictures don't show me half of what I need. Where is the wreck right now? Can I go see it?" Waterhouse shot an inquisitive look toward Commander Brennan who, in turn shot a disapproving look toward his Woonsocket counterparts.

"Um, Karen... Brack... the larger parts of the wreck are accounted for and being held in an evidence garage. Unfortunately, the blast site was not sufficiently secured. The blast took place when the car was parked on-street, and to keep the roadway open, the scene was treated like an accident scene, you know, load the big stuff on the flatbed, then public works sweeps up the small stuff."

Karen groaned undiplomatically. Good old Karen, thought Brack. She knew that the small stuff now sitting in the landfill was the stuff she needed. What was left of the detonator had been swept up as if it were glass from a broken side mirror.

24 hours later they reconvened to compare notes. Preliminary interviews and a search of social media had shown no problems in the marriage, with extended family, at work, with friends. No political activities. No financial irregularities. Local surveillance was examined. Doorbell ring cameras and such. They saw no images of anyone lurking about the car. Heads in the conference room were being scratched when the door suddenly flew open. Another bombing had taken place shortly after 8 that morning.

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Seekonk and Woonsocket are both suburbs of Providence, although they sit on opposite sides of big city. And, because the state line runs between them, Seekonk sits in Massachusetts. Waterhouse and Washington looked at each other. They knew what it meant. Now they would also have to deal with Massachusetts State Police and Seekonk police. Karen also reminded everybody that it was now an interstate matter, and that would bring the FBI into the picture. Explosions of unknown origin? Plan on a visit from Homeland Security. Karen was right and they knew it. There was again a collective groan.

The Seekonk bombing took place in the driveway of a small single-family house. The deceased was 34-year-old Clinton Hopwood, white male, fire fighter, divorced. This time Karen got to see the wreckage. It confirmed her observation that the detonation took place beneath the undercarriage. Also this time, the finer bits of débris were collected, some pieces from the lawn, some from the neighbour's. This would take days for Karen to sift through. But, as it turns out, days were not a luxury at their disposal.

On the third morning, as she hopped out of the shower shortly after dawn, her phone rang. It was Brack. "Karen, don't bother going to the RISP. We had another explosion around O-5 hundred. The guy is miraculously still alive, but just barely. He's on life support. Meet me at Rhode Island Hospital." Karen met Brack outside the burn ward. "Is the guy still alive?"

"Yeah Karen. I can hardly believe it myself. He's in surgery. They say he didn't suffer the usual compression trauma you get when you're in an explosion. He got hit by flying shrapnel and suffered burns. They found him outside the car. Must have been thrown out by the blast."

She thought for a second or two. He could see the wheels turning. "No.... he.... Brack... he was never in the car." They couldn't talk to the guy, so they went to his home, a nice house in a well-to-do section of Providence. They looked at what they had on the drive over. Jason Brenner, 28 years old and a successful self-employed landscaper. Married. They were still trying to locate the wife, Deena Brenner, also 28. They took a quick look at the wreck, still being guarded from curiosity seekers by a couple of guys Karen remembered from her time at PPD.

They searched the house. Saw a calendar on the fridge. It showed that Deena had been on a "Trip to Miami" for the last week. Later that morning, the moblie phone number registered to her address was found, and she was contacted. She was on the next flight back north. Karen watched the doorbell footage. "Fuck me! Brack come look at this." There it was.

The paperboy dropping off the morning paper in the driveway around 5. Two minutes later, Jason Brenner walked toward the newspaper which was just beyond his car. It was a chilly morning. The car needed to warm up. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and hit the remote start button. He was about 20 feet from the car. The explosion threw him another 20. Karen went back out and sifted through the wreckage and something caught her eye. It was a piece of a small mobile phone. One of those disposable burners. Sort of high-end for a disposable.

They spent the afternoon sifting through notes and could not find any link between Khalid Shah, Clint Hopwood and Jason Brenner. Nobody who knew any of the the three recognized a picture of the other two. Deena Brenner was back in town that night and at the hospital. She asked to see her husband but he was in recovery from surgery and his burns were still being treated. They levelled with her that he was at death's door and was not expected to live through the night. She then begged to be allowed to say goodbye. They relented and dressed her in sterile hospital scrubs and a mask. They needed to protect him from further infection.

Brackwell Waterhouse was in touch with his second-in-command, Dante Washington, who had been going through the financials of the three victims to see if there was any activity that would point toward a motive or a suspect. So far, Washington reported, they were coming up empty. With three bombings in three days, events were unfolding faster than the pace of the investigation. The team had to find a way to get out in front of this. There was now a full-fledged public panic, and answers were being demanded. There would be little sleep tonight.

Brack and Karen planned to work well into the night comparing notes. They wound up at her condo. She put on a pot of coffee and they spread the files out on her larger dining room table, occasionally breaking for a snack on her smaller kitchen table. They kept their phones handy. Brenner was not expected to live the night and they waited for the call.

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At dawn, the timer went click, the coffee pot started brewing, Karen rubbed her eyes, and rolled over in her bed, "Hey there lover, rise and shine, big day ahead of us. Lotsa people to talk to."

Brack yawned and stretched, "Shower alone or together?"

"Ha ha, simmer down, cowboy. We'll never get out of here if we go together. I'll go first."

"Oh crap, I have to wait for you to finish up before I can take a leak? I'll burst."

"You got the bigger bladder. I go first. Go make yourself a cup of coffee, I'll be out before you know it. You'll be surprised. Go on, scat! Go prime that pump." Sure enough, five minutes later, Brack had finished his coffee and out walked Karen in a terrycloth robe, towel drying her hair.

"See, baby? I took the Evelyn Wood speed-peeing course. Go do your thing."

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Brack and Karen made the hospital their first stop. There was no change. Jason Brenner was still on life support. His parents had flown in from their retirement home in Georgia. They were with Deena and they were comforting each other. His parents had been given the opportunity to don scrubs and bid their son farewell. Jason had been given last rites. Now all they could do was pray and wait. Deena, like Jason's parents, had no idea who Shah and Hopwood were. Further digging showed no connections between any of the three men and the two wives, or Hopwood's ex-wife. Things had been cordial between Hopwood and his ex. Everywhere Karen and Brack looked, they saw nice, relatively happy people. No extraordinary problems or debts.

By 10 o'clock that morning, Brack and Karen were getting ready to leave the trauma ward and head to the state police barracks to meet with all members of the team and have a working lunch. Halfway to RISP HQ, Brack's phone went off. "Waterhouse... hey Dante, what's up...." There was a silence. A long, long silence. Brack went white. "God, God, no. How many?... How old?... Holy fuck....Text me the address and any other info you've got."

"Brack, what's going on?"

"Hold on tight. And steel your nerves. This is going to be rough." He did a sudden U-turn and found the on-ramp for Seekonk.

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The quiet residential street was closed off. Brack flashed his badge and they were waved through. A tent was around the whole vehicle. It couldn't be seen from the outside. They were greeted by the chief medical examiner from the Massachusetts State Police. "Dr Robert Levin, and you are?"

"Special Agent Brackwell Waterhouse, ATF, and this here's my associate, Karen Colangelo. What are we looking at here, Doc?"

"It's a mess in there. If you've got weak stomachs I'd stay out. The best I can put together, it looks like an adult female and an undetermined number of young children."

"Undetermined?"

"Yes, when I say mess I mean mess. You shouldn't see such a thing. I've seen a lot over the years and even I am not going to sleep well. Stay out of there."

Then Karen piped up. "Doctor, did you see evidence of children's car seats?"

"I did indeed. There were three I could make out, all banged up. Now that doesn't mean there were three kids. One seat could be empty. Or they could all be full and a fourth kid not in a car seat. The remains are here and there. Once we put them together and run DNA, we'll know more."

"OK thanks, Doc. Let my people know when the remains are cleared. We will want to look at the vehicle before it's removed, and we may need to see photos of the remains inside the vehicle. Have them ready in case we ask for them. I'm hoping we won't have to."

They walked around the inside of the house, looking for something.... anything. There was mail. Some addressed to Tyler Voight, some to Vanessa Voight, some to both of them, and some to Vanessa Grabek. The land records showed Tyler and Vanessa as the property owners. There was a framed photo of a twenty-something couple and three young children. Karen pulled it from the frame and saw the date on the back. Four months ago. Two kids looked in the 3-4 range and one looked about a year old. Their stomachs dropped.

Karen shook, then wept, then slammed her fist on the table, "That bastard! I'll kill him with my bare hands!" Brack ran a comforting hand up and down her back and got her back on track. Tyler Voight was located at the high school where he taught biology. A MSP cruiser brought him directly to Rhode Island Hospital. During the drive over, he was told that they had no information as to what the matter was. If by not knowing he was allowed to think the worst, that was for the best, given what he was about to learn.

He was not being taken to the hospital to identify anybody. There would be no visual identifications. He would be sedated and treated for the shock that was mere minutes away. Meanwhile, Deena Brenner could do little but wait. His parents, too. The elder Brenners were religious and spent a good bit of time in the hospital chapel. This time they'd brought a reluctant Deena with them. They were just about to enter the chapel when they heard a wailing from the hallway.

Adjacent to the chapel was a room where surviving family members were told about the unexpected death of a loved one. They could then avail themselves of the chapel's comforts if so inclined, or be medically treated if needed. Tyler Voight needed the latter.

The gentleman escorting the Brenners to the chapel crossed paths with a woman who dashed out of the condolence room, tears running down her face. "What's the matter, Connie?"

"Oh my God, Willis, that was the husband. There was another car bombing this morning. He lost his wife and their three babies!"

The Brenners went white. Deena's knees buckled and she slid down against the wall.

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Vanessa Grabek Voight was 26 years old when she died. Her husband Tyler was 30. They had been married for 5 years. Their dead children were 4-year-old identical twin daughters Olivia and Priscilla, and 18-month-old son Colton.

Karen and Brack spent some time with Tyler Voight, but things went slow. He would weep gently when talking about his wife, but became hysterical when he tried to talk about his kids. There was no sign of trouble in the marriage. He loved her, adored his kids, lived comfortably, liked his job and had no problems with anybody. At one point, Karen left for the ladies room.

When she didnt come back, Brack went for a stroll, finding her at length outside the building, sitting on the ground, back to the wall, arms wrapped around the knees she had pulled up to her chest. She was clutching a burning cigarette that she did not actually seem to be smoking. She was weeping bitterly. He sat next to her and put his arms around her. "Goddamn, Brack! The babies! I can't take it! The babies!" She howled and wept. This was not the hard-boiled soldier and cop that he knew. Everyone had their breaking point and this was hers. Murdering toddlers. She'd make it her life's mission to see the monster punished who did this.