Circle of Terror Read online

  CIRCLE OF TERROR

  CIRCLE OF TERROR

  A Novel

  Larry Powalisz

  New York

  CIRCLE OF TERROR

  A Novel

  © 2017 Larry Powalisz.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published in New York, New York, by Morgan James Publishing. Morgan James and The Entrepreneurial Publisher are trademarks of Morgan James, LLC.

  www.MorganJamesPublishing.com

  The Morgan James Speakers Group can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event visit The Morgan James Speakers Group at www.TheMorganJamesSpeakersGroup.com.

  ISBN 978-1-63047-976-3 paperback

  ISBN 978-1-63047-977-0 eBook

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2016902262

  Cover Design by:

  Chris Treccani

  www.3dogdesign.net

  Interior Design by:

  Bonnie Bushman

  The Whole Caboodle Graphic Design

  In an effort to support local communities and raise awareness and funds, Morgan James

  Publishing donates a percentage of all book sales for the life of each book to Habitat for

  Humanity Peninsula and Greater Williamsburg.

  Get involved today, visit

  www.MorganJamesBuilds.com

  Lynn, you’ve been my best friend for over thirty-eight years, through thick and thin. Thanks for pushing me to finish the manuscript.

  Krista and Ryan, thanks for the joy you’ve provided us, for marrying wonderful people, and for bringing God’s most precious gifts into our lives.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 Holy Cross Cemetery: Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  Chapter 2 Milwaukee

  Chapter 3 Milwaukee Police Department Headquarters

  Chapter 4 Milwaukee PD Headquarters

  Chapter 5 Milwaukee

  Chapter 6 Brookfield, Wisconsin

  Chapter 7 Milwaukee’s Riverwest Area

  Chapter 8 Off Duty Get Together

  Chapter 9 On the Streets of Milwaukee

  Chapter 10 MPD Headquarters

  Chapter 11 River Hills Nursing Home

  Chapter 12 Search Warrant: Milwaukee

  Chapter 13 Pulaski Football Stadium, Milwaukee

  Chapter 14 Chicago Trip

  Chapter 15 Milwaukee’s Riverwest Area

  Chapter 16 St. Adalbert’s Cemetery: Milwaukee

  Chapter 17 St. Adalbert’s Cemetery

  Chapter 18 Chicago’s North Side

  Chapter 19 District Five Police Station: Milwaukee

  Chapter 20 Tomczyk Responds

  Chapter 21 Milwaukee’s Riverwest

  Chapter 22 River Hills Nursing Home

  Chapter 23 Downtown Milwaukee

  Chapter 24 Identification of a Mad Bomber

  Chapter 25 Puzzle Pieces Start Falling into Place

  Chapter 26 Milwaukee Riverwest

  Chapter 27 Chicago Bound

  Chapter 28 Thirty-Eight Hours to Detonation

  Chapter 29 Chicago: Thirty-Three Hours to Detonation

  Chapter 30 Chicago: Twenty-Two Hours to Detonation

  Chapter 31 Chicago: Twelve Hours to Detonation

  Chapter 32 Chicago: Four Hours to Detonation

  Chapter 33 Chicago: One Hour Plus to Detonation

  Chapter 34 Chicago: Detonation Time

  Timeline for the 1935 Reign of Terror

  Author’s Note Facts

  Cast of Characters During the Public Enemies Era

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  HOLY CROSS CEMETERY: MILWAUKEE, WISCONSIN

  A morning breeze sent a mixture of orange and brown leaves tumbling across the neatly trimmed grass. The sun beamed in November splendor as the cool night air slowly dissipated. The first hints of an early winter shrouded him. On one knee, Detective Declan Tomczyk measured the length of a shoe print left behind by an unwanted visitor.

  “Size elevens,” the detective told a uniformed police officer standing near him. “At least one of the suspects had on a pair of size eleven boots with four grooves across the middle. And look at this notch on the outside corner of the sole. Must have caught it on something during one of his nightly escapades. If we find this boot, we have one of our suspects.”

  Tomczyk slowly stood, patted some dirt off the knees of his blue jeans, and surveyed the cemetery. “How many did you say were damaged, Jerry?”

  Holding a small, brown notebook in his left hand, the young officer moved a black pen downward and flipped the page. “I count thirteen.”

  “Thirteen?” asked the detective rhetorically. “Not that I’m superstitious, but coincidentally, kind of an unlucky number of gravestones damaged in a cemetery on Halloween night, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is. My money’s on the group of neighborhood teenagers too old to trick or treat for the first time,” responded the officer, providing a theory for the crime.

  “Who knows? You could be right,” Tomczyk admitted. “If you want to take off, I’ll handle it from here. We’ll use the cemetery as the complainant. Do me a favor and file a short supplementary—you know the drill: why you were sent, who called it in, and that you secured the scene until I arrived. Just check with a couple neighbors living by the entrances to see if they saw or heard anything. If you get something good, call me.”

  The dark circles under the uniformed officer’s eyes and the beard stubble told a story of someone who had worked all night.

  “Thanks, Ski. Mind if I file the report tonight when I come in? I’m beat and still have to make ten o’clock court on a crummy subpoena for a preliminary hearing; it’s my third day of court in a row. My wife’s ready to hang me out to dry.”

  “No problem, man. Promise me you’ll go home and get some sleep after that. You look like hell. Consider this a grim reminder that they don’t call it the ‘graveyard shift’ for nothing.”

  The officer smiled. Nodding his head in agreement, he walked toward his marked squad car parked on a nearby cemetery roadway, looking carefully for anything that might reveal the identity of the perpetrators.

  Tomczyk visually examined each headstone. A total of eight had been kicked over and defaced by pentagrams made with bright red spray paint. Four others were still standing, but had the same red, spray painted pentagrams. The final headstone, a three-foot-high brown marble, was lying at an awkward angle against one of the other stones. A twelve-inch inverted cross had been spray painted on it, and the word PIG was manually inscribed, using some sort of chiseling tool. Someone took particular fascination in that one. The detective diligently noted the last names of the departed souls: MALICKI, GRACZYK, KILOGORE, STANISLOWSKI, STAWICKI, WENDT, CZAJKOWSKI, SLAMMS, LIGHT, BALANSKI, SCHNEIDER, REINER. That final headstone was of a Harold SCHLUNDT: “1900-1982, Loving Husband and Father.” In his mind, Tomczyk divided the small area into sectors and performed a methodical search of each grid. Inside a well-groomed bush about thirty feet away from the area lay a partially hidden can of red spray paint. Good, at least I found something helpful, he thought to himself.

  Just then, he felt the presence of somebody behind him. He turned and saw a woman—attired in a black pant suit and
white blouse, covered by an unbuttoned beige trench coat.

  “Can I help you?” asked the temporarily startled detective.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” said the woman as she walked closer. “Don’t think we’ve ever met before. My name is Anne Dvorak. I’m a special agent with the FBI.” She opened a black leather wallet displaying her shield and credentials.

  Slightly confused, Tomczyk extended his right hand. “FBI? What a pleasure, I think. A-ah, hi, I’m Detective Declan Tomczyk. I’m guessing you already know I’m with Milwaukee PD. So, do you usually get all dressed up and hang out in cemeteries on beautiful fall mornings in good ole’ Milwaukee, Wisconsin?”

  “Not too often,” Dvorak replied, her shoulder-length, brown hair gently moving about in the breeze. “I’m new here in Brewtown, just a little over two months. I was on the way to get my morning shot of caffeine when I received a call from my office about this assignment. Thought I’d stop by and see what you had here before facing the stack of paperwork on my desk. Not to be rude on our first visit, but Declan Tomczyk? That’s quite an interesting handle.”

  “I’d be a liar if I said you were the first one to ever ask. Suffice it to say my proud Irish mother wanted to make sure her children had some identity. She gave us very Irish names to go with our Polish last name. Please, call me Ski.”

  “I get that.”

  “So, a federal agent gets sent to check out a vandalism complaint in a cemetery? Okay then.” Tomczyk wanted to scratch his head and ask why the FBI would have the slightest interest in this case, but decided to just go with it. “Just started poking around. I’m guessing kids. But something is bothering me here,” he said, pointing to the headstone of Harold Schlundt. “Why would someone take the time to etch the word PIG on a headstone and to spray paint an inverted cross instead of a pentagram like the others? I’m sure there’s a story behind it. It’s the first case of this type I’ve investigated. I’ve only worked this gig for ten months. Left the robbery squad to seek my fame and fortune in the intelligence unit.”

  “Ah, makes sense. You know what they say,” Dvorak added. “Your first hunch is usually the right one. These types of cases are usually juveniles, but there are always exceptions.”

  He watched as she looked intently at the downed headstones. “I’m sure there are,” Tomczyk grinned. “Halloween night is the night to visit your local cemetery and do crazy things.”

  “Don’t let Halloween jaundice your investigation,” the agent warned.

  “I’m not from internal affairs, Anne,” he jokingly added, “so I won’t try to make square pegs fit into round holes.”

  “That’s good,” Dvorak commented. “I sure would appreciate it if you would forward a copy of your report to our office. Did you find anything suspicious around here, besides the obvious?”

  It was the way she said it that struck him as strange. “Should I be looking for anything in particular? I’ll make sure you get copies of the report.” Tomczyk reached into his badge holder, retrieved a business card, and handed it to the agent. “If you haven’t heard from me in a week, shoot me an email or give me a call and remind me. They keep me busy, so I forget things. Hard to be both handsome and smart.”

  “A rare breed if you were,” Dvorak smiled as she gave him a business card of her own. The infamous gold-foil shield and FBI logo protruded brightly from it. “Thanks, Detective. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Likewise.” Tomczyk watched as the agent made her way back to a black Dodge Intrepid, partially concealed behind the cemetery’s mausoleum. In her mid-thirties, the female agent cut a stunning figure. What a knockout. I’ll have to work on getting to see her again.

  Reality struck when a white evidence van with MILWAUKEE POLICE and a blue, horizontal stripe stenciled on the side pulled up. An identification technician in a navy blue windbreaker and black cargo pants walked toward him. “What’s up, Ski?”

  “Oh, just your normal vandalism of headstones in a cemetery on Halloween night,” he smirked. “I’ll need the usual once over, Kim. If you can dust some of the smooth headstones for prints, that’d be fantastic. I have a can of red spray paint over in that bush and a boot print I’ll definitely need your expertise in making a cast for. That’s way past my rudimentary evidence-collection skills. Guess we’re lucky to have this small patch of dirt here instead of all grass. Sure makes for a great print. And, if you have a couple of those colorful, yellow evidence numbers of yours to place around here to take a couple pictures, we’ll be good to go. Even CSI would be proud of us then. You on your regular squad?” As he spoke, Tomczyk wrote on his steno pad: Squad 2385, ID Tech Kim Robertson.

  “You got it. That’s a great boot print; let me get the kit out of my van.”

  Tomczyk grabbed the half-full bottle of orange juice from his coat pocket and took a gulp. At the same time, his handheld radio squawked, “Squad 7376 to 3531 on channel seven.”

  “Removing the radio from his belt, he answered. “Squad 3531 here; go on, channel twelve.”

  “Roger.”

  Tomczyk turned the channel on his handy talkie from the Criminal Investigation Bureau radio frequency to a side channel. “Go ahead, Jerry.”

  “Yo, Ski. I knocked on about eight houses. All but two were home. None heard or saw anything, so I drove back into the cemetery and saw a small, brown paper bag floating around in the wind by the south entrance. Looked inside and found a receipt for two cans of spray paint. They were bought yesterday at a small hobby shop a couple blocks from here.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “There’s more. It appears our rocket scientists also spray painted both brick pillars on either side of the entrance with the same red paint. On one side is the word REMHAD and on the other is REDRUM, printed out in all capital letters.”

  “Well, that makes this case a little more interesting. Do me a favor and hang out ‘til I’m done with the evidence tech here. We’ll be over as quick as we can. I’ll take the paper bag and receipt off your hands. You may have uncovered another piece of the puzzle. Per usual, you’re the man.”

  “Copy that, standing by.”

  As Tomczyk secured the radio back onto his belt, his gaze returned to the strange way two of the gravestones had been placed on the ground. That’s when he saw it. The dark green wire blended in perfectly with the manicured Kentucky bluegrass—except where the two brightly colored orange and red maple leaves crossed its path. He got down on his knees to get a closer view. Shock enveloped him as he followed the wire under the brown marble. He couldn’t believe no one had tripped the wire while they were searching for clues or evidence. Why would someone put an improvised device in a cemetery while defacing and knocking over some headstones? This case just took a really crazy twist.

  “Big favor, Kim?” Tomczyk called over to the ID tech to shut off his handheld to avoid possible detonation from two-way radio transmission. “Get over to the south cemetery entrance and meet the uniformed squad. They have evidence for you to photograph. Throw it in a bag for me to inventory later. But first, give the Detective Bureau a call on your cell when you get over there. Tell them to get the bomb squad over here ASAP. Possible IED. I have some experience with explosives from my deployments over in the Middle East, but never went through the formal training. I specialized in butt-kickin’, not bomb defusing. We need the EOD experts.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me—an IED?!”

  “Wish I were. This thing’s set to go off if someone moves the headstone or trips on the wire. We’re lucky none of us set this dang thing off. Gotta wonder if the intended victim was a cemetery worker or a cop.”

  “Think I’ll wonder about that when I move my butt out of the way. How about if I throw a pylon over the boot print and take the cast after the place is secure?”

  “That’ll work.”

  “Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

  “Fair enough. Appears I won’t be going anywhere.”

  Tomczyk sat in
his squad for what seemed like half his shift. He looked at his watch and logged that it was now ten thirty. His notion of this being a quick assignment was fading fast. As he was pondering a hike to a safe area to call the dispatcher and see where the bomb tech was, he saw the dark blue MPD bomb squad truck. It was followed by an unmarked, light green Ford Crown Victoria driving over to his location. His good friend John ‘Lurch’ Lemke exited the driver’s side of the 2010 Chevy 3500 Heavy Duty truck.

  “Sorry, Ski. All the bomb techs are in training this week at the quarry in Muskego, blowin’ stuff up. I even brought along one of the feds to show him what real police work looks like.”

  FBI SABT (Special Agent Bomb Technician) Kevin Cleary stepped out of the passenger side of the truck. He wore a navy blue, insulated nylon jacket with large FBI letters stenciled on the left breast and standard, federal-agent-tan 5.11 pants. Feds love to don 5.11 pants when they’re not in their business attire—any size, any color.

  “Easy Lurch, or I’ll refuse to play with you again. I’m one of the only feds who actually thinks you’re human.” They chuckled at the comment.

  “This makes two FBI agents I saw in one day.” Tomczyk rubbed his chin. “Does that make for a bad omen?”

  “Depends.”

  “What do ya have?” Lemke had been a detective for over twenty-two years, and a bomb tech for twenty. He didn’t appear to be the brightest bulb, and everyone, including Tomczyk, was amazed he still had all his digits—even more so that he was still alive. Lemke had picked up the dubious nickname of “Lurch” from the scary “you raa-ng” character on The Addams Family. He stood six-foot-five, solidly built, with a slow, deliberate manner of speaking. There was no arguing he knew everything about explosives, WMDs, and anything remotely associated with them.

  “This one kind of freaks me out, Lurch. The district squad was dispatched in response to a vandalism call, and I was sent to meet them because of possible cult connections. As I was checking out some of their spray painting art, I saw a green wire protruding from beneath that brown headstone leading over to the overturned black granite one. Underneath it,” as he pointed to the target headstone, “is a micro switch and wire connected to some kind of hidden container. Thank God no one went in too close or moved anything. At that point, it was time to call for the experts.”