I HAD ALL the information I needed to talk to this Thomas Owens character. Maggie Chin wondered if we needed
to bring some backup. I was afraid we were still swinging in the dark.
We st epped out of the building that housed Manhattan North and instinctively each headed for our own cars.
I stopped and said, “Aren’t you riding with me?”
Maggie said, “I assumed you were riding with me.”
“We literally have the same model car. It doesn’t matter which one we take. So let’s take mine.” This was a
discussion a lot of cops had. Everyone preferred to be in their own car with their own equipment.
After another minute of back and forth, Maggie said, “Okay fine. You drive today. I’ll drive tomorrow.”
I agreed but was annoyed at her use of logic and compromise. I hated those things. They tended to interfere with my
desire to do whatever the hell I felt like.
During the drive, Maggie and I went over what questions to ask Owens once we got to his cabin. She was more
interested in the technical aspect of his bomb making.
Maggie said, “The device used on Sergeant Vega’s vehicle was simple, while the device that detonated at the Office
of Technology was relatively sophisticated. It’s clear that both were homemade, which is incredible.”
“Why incredible?”
“They used virtually no commercial products and combined the C-4 and black powder in ways I’ve never seen or
ever even thought of.”
“You can handle any of the technical questions,” I said. “I’m gonna be a little more subtle and try to figure out a
timeline for when he comes down
to the city.”
We had the exact address for Owens’s cabin from the police r eport Walter Jackson had retrieved for us. We
considered first talking to the county surveyor Owens had threatened but decided it was a better use of our time to
go directly to the cabin.
As we headed north on the state routes toward Millwood, I took a moment to enjoy the change of atmosphere.
Straight pines, spruces, and snowbanks lined the highway the closer we got to Millwood. Once we took the turn
onto a side road, all signs of civilization, exc ept for the asphalt itself, dropped away.
We passed the entrance to the property twice before we were able to spot its long, uphill gravel driveway. We eased
up the driveway slowly, making a lot of noise with the gravel the tires churned up. I wondered if having a noisy
driveway was an intentional early-warning system—a guy hiding in the woods probably wanted to know when
people were approaching. I stopped the car at the edge of a clearing, so we had a full view of a small cabin and the
open area around it. I immediately noticed a large scorch mark on the porch that stretched across the front of the
cabin.
Maggie said, “Looks like he might’ve had an accident with his explosives there.”
“Probably tested something too close to the cabin.”
We st epped out of the car and each walked on different sides of the driveway. I had a view of the left side of the
house and Maggie could see the right. The cabin was run-down, with a couple of cracked windows, and there was
nothing to indicate the property around the house was taken care of. Weeds shot up through the gravel of the
driveway.
The whole place literally made me think of the Unabomber. It was isolated, ramshackle, and off the grid.
There was no other movement at all. It was eerie. It reminded me of the horror movies my older kids liked to watch.
Maggie and I both carefully st epped onto the porch from opposite ends.
I was still trying to stay quiet, even though it seemed more and more unlikely that anyone was here. As I peered
through each window I passed, I could see a layer of dust on the only table in the room.
I knocked on the door, then tried the doorknob. It was locked but not particularly secure. It would be easy to force
open. Maggie had her entire
face pressed to a window, her hands on either side, trying to block any glare.
“No one’s been here in a while,” she said.
I nodded in agreement. We looked around for a few more minutes and found the shed Owens had blown up on
You Tube behind the cabin. Or at least what was left of it. Feeling like we had wasted time, Maggie and I trudged to
the car. Then I froze.
Maggie said, “What is it?”
I retrieved a tissue from my front pocket. I crouched down and studied something in the driveway, then picked it up
carefully with the tissue.
Maggie came up next to me. I heard her mumble, “Son of a bitch.”
It was an old Swisher Sweets cigar butt with a white plastic tip. Just like the ones we’d seen in Leonard “Pry” Barr’s
storage unit.
Owens was our guy.