Silencing Sam Read Online Free PDF Page B

walked over since he wasn’t behind any crime-scene tape.
    He shrugged. “Check with the boss. I’m not authorized to talk to newsies.”
    He pointed to where a team in uniform had gathered. As I got closer, I smiled when I saw one of them wore a sheriff’s badge. Because sheriffs are elected to office, they often like to appear on television, showing their constituents how hard they’re working.
    â€œGood day, Sheriff,” I said. “What’s up with my cell phone?”
    â€œIt’s complicated,” he replied.
    â€œIt’s none of your business,” a man wearing a dark suit said, interrupting us.
    He looked familiar to me. Then I recognized him as the FBI guy who’d investigated the theft of Minnesota’s record large-mouth bass this past spring. He’d suspected an animal-rights group of freeing the fish.
    â€œNice seeing you again,” I said. I could never seem to remember his name. “Funny how news brings us together.”
    â€œThe bureau is aiding local law enforcement in the wind turbine bombings. That’s all the information we’re prepared to release about Operation Aeolus.”
    â€œOperation Aeolus? What does that mean?”
    â€œIt’s the Latin name for the god of wind,” he answered.
    I recalled he had a fondness for using Latin to sound important, but I refrained from making any remarks about windbags, no matter how appropriate. I could tell the sheriff wasn’t pleased to be cast aside and figured there was a chance he and I could do business together.
    â€œI think we owe it to the residents in the area to keep them updated on the status of our investigation,” the sheriff said. “I think the media, as well as the FBI, can be of some help in avoiding public panic.”
    â€œDoes that mean you’ll do a camera interview?” I asked.
    â€œI think that’s reasonable under the circumstances,” he replied.
    â€œJust a minute.” The FBI guy motioned for the sheriff to follow him out of earshot. From the waving of his federal arms, I got the message that he wanted the media frozen out. Then when the sheriff poked a finger in his federal chest, I got the message that he was telling Mr. FBI just whose turf he was on.
    Sheriff Taber explained that the bomber had used cell phones to detonate the explosives in the turbine blasts. The FBI had brought in a device that blocked all cell calls in the area unless the phone number was part of a preapproved law enforcement list, or obviously 911.
    â€œThat’s why I can’t call out,” I said.
    He nodded. “Have to keep our team safe from any more bombs while we’re in the post-blast investigation.”
    Currently, the K-9 team was moving from turbine to turbine, hoping to find clues to the culprit’s identity. Parts of the explosives, or perhaps even an undetonated cell phone bomb, could have been critical in developing leads. But so far they’d sniffed out nothing but a few far-flung pieces from the blast. They were collected, bagged, and their locations marked on a map.
    â€œDoes this mean terrorists?” I hated to be the first to bring up that word, but I wanted to gauge his reaction in person.
    â€œNo one knows what it means,” the sheriff said. “We’re asking folks to report any suspicious characters. Strangers or not. Could even be a disgruntled neighbor.”
    â€œCould I meet the dog and get some close-up shots?” I knew those shots would please Noreen and elevate my story in her mind.
    â€œMake it quick.” Sheriff Taber radioed the K-9 unit to come over. “Her name’s Scout. She’s down from the Twin Cities and is one of the best explosives-detection dogs in the country.”
    I felt a pang of loneliness for Shep, a German shepherd who’d come to my rescue more than once. He’d joined the K-9 ranks and was now a top drug-sniffing dog. I understood how drug and