The detective frowned at the crater. "Whatever blew up, it was big. Too big to carry. Too big to escape notice."
"I walked this beat every day for three years," Guiterrez was saying in frustration. "I know this corner. There was something there."
"Something out of the ordinary?"
"No," Guiterrez said dazedly. "Something that's always been there. I just can't remember what it was."
"How can something be there and you can't remember it?"
"It was something ordinary. Something you take for granted."
The bomb-squad detective was looking around. A lone EMT ambulance stood nearby, in case an unsuspected body turned up. A fire engine was pulling away, its job done. The air smelled of hot metals and warm blood.
"What color?" asked the detective.
"I don't remember that, either. Damn it, why won't my mind work?"
"Was it green?"
"Huh?"
The detective was on his knees. He waved Guiterrez to join him.
Near the pediment of a door, something had chipped at the concrete. A fragment lay on the ground. It was scorched black, but as the detective nudged it with a pen, the other side came to light. It was olive drab.
"Could be military ordnance of some type," the detective was saying.
Guiterrez shook his head slowly. "I don't remember anything military."
"A jeep? A duece-and-a-half truck?"
"It wasn't a car bomb, I tell you," Guiterrez said angrily.
The detective got up and looked around. He held the fragment of scorched olive drab metal in a clean handkerchief.
"It wasn't any guy wearing a brace of M-80s for a girdle, either," he said grimly.
AT THE FIFTH AVENUE city morgue, the coroner extracted a large section of steel from the body of the woman whose pureed innards had come bubbling out of her mouth.
Patrolman Guiterrez was there to see it.
The coroner laid the piece of metal on a stainless steel circular tray and with a thing like a tiny flexible shower nozzle, hosed it clean.
As the blood ran clear, the steel turned olive drab. And embossed on one side were two raised letters: U.S.
"Damn," the bomb-squad detective muttered. "Damn. Maybe it was an ammo box. I hope to hell we don't have militia loose in Manhattan."
"We don't," Guiterrez said slowly. "I don't think."
"You recognize it?"
"Yeah. If you search hard enough, you'll find the piece that fits under it. There'll be letters stamped on it, too."
The bomb-squad detective and the ME looked at him expectantly.
"The letters will say 'Mail.' I remember now. The thing that blew up was a US. Mail relay box."
The detective looked as if he wanted to cry. "Did you say a mailbox?"
"Yeah."
"I gotta call the commander. This could be big."
THE COMMISSIONER of police of New York City received the call from the commander of South Precinct Midtown at approximately 12:53.
"It was a mail relay box that blew up," the commander said.
"Damn. Anyone could have planted it, then."
"No, sir, I said a relay box. Not a postal collection box."
"What's the difference?"
"Collection boxes are blue and are for the public convenience. Relay boxes are olive drab and can only be accessed by a postal employee with a key."
"That should narrow it down, shouldn't it?" suggested the commissioner of police.
"It should, sir," the precinct commander agreed.
"So, this isn't a terrorist event?"
"It doesn't appear that way."
"Could be a Unabomber-style mail bomb that detonated prematurely. Or a disgruntled postal worker."
"Is there any other kind?" the commander grunted. The commissioner thought it prudent not to answer that question directly. It was one thing for a commander to indulge in a little gallows humor. A commissioner had to be sober.
"I have a detective interviewing the postmaster," the commissioner said. "All mail is sorted before it's dropped off. We may develop a lead by the evening news, if not sooner."
"Let's hope we don't have a jurisdictional problem."
"I hadn't thought of that."
"The blown box is a federal problem."
"But it blew in a city street. That makes it our investigation."