“You are free to go.”  The police detective’s words were a welcome relief.  During the past several hours I had repeated my story forwards and backwards so many times that I could probably recite it in my sleep.  It suddenly occurred to me that I was tired.  The exhaustion was not just from physical exertion and lack of sleep, but also from psychological and emotional stress.  The realization of what I had done had just barely begun sinking in.  I leaned back on the hard plastic chair and checked my watch: 3:15 A.M.  My interrogation had gone on for most of the night.

As I left the interview room and entered the hallway, I glanced through the one way glass at the chair in the corner that I had occupied for so long.  I wondered what I had looked like to my invisible spectators when the large, irate officer had burst into the quiet room and exploded into his profanity laced tirade, accusing me of the crime.  In spite of my innocence, I had wished I hadn’t waived my right to have a lawyer present.  Now free of those mirrored windows, I surveyed my surroundings.  

The Centerville police station was filled with tired looking officers, detectives, and bomb squad technicians.  In spite of the excitement of the day’s events, I could see in their faces that there were other places they would rather be.  I retrieved my coat from the chair in the hallway and made my way through the crowd of people toward the door.  Just before I stepped outside, the officer that had transported me to the police station handed me a large brown paper bag with my belongings inside.  In spite of his actions, his suspicion of me was still plainly evident.  No apology was offered, and I didn’t ask for one.  I was too tired to care.  I glanced inside the bag to make sure everything was there.  Wallet, cell phone, handgun, keys… it crossed my mind as I inventoried the contents that, if anything was missing, I would have to file a complaint with the same person who removed the items from me in the first place.  I closed the bag hurriedly and pushed open the door.

The crisp night air was refreshing.  I had turned down the offer of a ride home because, after so many hours of sitting, I could use the chance to stretch my legs.  Retrieving the pistol from the bag, I loaded it and placed it in its holster.  Reaching behind me I clipped the holster to the inside of my belt and pulled my shirt down over it.  With a weary glance around me at the newly fallen snow, I pulled the hood of my coat over my head and began the one mile walk home.  This was not my idea of a restful night, and this was definitely not my preferred method of celebrating an otherwise peaceful Christmas morning.

My mind raced over the events of the past twelve hours.  What had begun as a short, solitary hike up Centerville canyon to do some stream fishing had turned into a life-changing event that would be the foundation of countless future decisions.  I mentally struggled to grasp the gravity of the situation.  While most families in this suburban city were making last minute preparations for the anticipated arrival of Santa Claus, fate had placed me face to face with a sophisticated homemade bomb that the bomb squad described as equivalent to three blocks of C-4 plastic explosives.  The events surrounding that moment swirled inside my mind in a dizzying manner.  One thing was certain: until the authorities could locate and apprehend the three suspects, my precarious situation as sole witness to their crime made me an obvious target.  My hand subconsciously moved to the small semiautomatic pistol I had just placed in the small of my back.  Its presence offered only limited reassurance.  Thrusting my hands deep into my pockets, I picked up my pace.

There are pivotal points in every person’s life that serve as crossroads to be passed through only once.  The choice to turn to the right, left, or remain on one’s current course is crucial in determining personal character.  The decision I had made almost a dozen hours earlier was one of those junctions.  I had chosen to obey the law regardless of the consequences, and if the judge and jury agreed with my account of what I had witnessed, my testimony would send three men that I once viewed as friends to federal prison.

My day had started normally.  Having finished up my traditional last-minute Christmas shopping earlier that morning, I had bribed my sister to wrap the gifts.  Mom had asked me to do a handful of chores which, with the possibility of an afternoon hike, I completed quickly.

It was warm for Christmas Eve, and with snow in the forecast, I imagined this would be my last chance to do some stream fishing before winter set in.  I threw my collapsible fishing pole into the small backpack that held the rest of my fishing gear and quickly putting it on, dashed out the door.  Fishing had always been an escape for me and living a mere 100 yards from the stream that meandered out of Parrish Canyon, it was a retreat I participated in often.

As I did every day, I legally carried my compact Berretta 9mm semi-automatic pistol in a concealed holster at my waist as an additional line of defense against any potential threat.  It was something I had decided to do after I had been attacked by a gun wielding assailant three years earlier after a high school basketball game.  The weight and bulk of the gun had become unnoticeable over time, but its presence was welcomed whenever I ventured alone into the outdoors.

I surveyed the mountains, debating which of the two familiar canyon streams should be graced with my presence.  I wanted a good hike, so I chose the south canyon.  The well worn footpath I would be taking began just above the large irrigation reservoir at the edge of the city, continuing up the northern slope of Centerville Canyon until it dropped down to run along the small stream that local maps refer to as Duel Creek.  I walked the paved road up to the mouth of Centerville Canyon and started up the short dirt road that led to the trailhead.  I had gone no more than a few feet when my eyes lit upon a small brown two strand wire running parallel to the dirt road.  I bent down and looked at it.  It appeared to have been placed in the weeds at the edge of the road so as to deliberately conceal it from view.  I back tracked to the beginning of the dirt road to find where the wire started.  I found the end lying next to the paved road.  The two strands had been pulled apart several inches and the brown plastic shielding on both strands had been stripped back an inch or so to reveal their copper centers.  Returning to where I had first spotted the wire, I began following it up the dirt road.  After about 20 yards, the wire turned and began weaving its way up the hillside between the scattered stands of scrub oak.  I noticed that each time the wire passed a tree it was wrapped around or tied to a low branch to keep it from sliding down the steep hill.  About this time, it occurred to me that I was wasting valuable fishing time on a bit of wire, so I continued up the road and then started up the familiar trail.

In an attempt to focus on the objective of my hike, I tried to force the thought of the strangely placed brown wire out of my mind.  With each step I took, the mystery of the wire’s purpose gnawed at my mind as if begging for a solution.  I finally caught myself standing still in the middle of the trail, pondering the riddle of the wire.  I gave up.  If I was going to find any peace in fishing, I would need to solve the mystery of the brown wire first.

Hastening my pace, I allowed my mind to dwell on the clues as I retraced my steps to where I had left the wire’s path.  I decided to track down the other end of the wire to see if it shed any light on the interesting path it took up the hillside.  I didn’t have to go far.  After only a hundred yards or so I found my next clue.  The wire crested the hill and broke free of the trees before it crossed a weed filled meadow and led to a chain link fence.  The fence surrounded a large irrigation reservoir that was filled with water during the summer.  Each fall the reservoir was drained and left empty until spring.  As the wire neared the fence, it lifted off the ground before passing through one of the links at about waist height.  Once through the fence, it headed down the steep bank toward a cement drainage box about halfway down the rocky slope.  With the riddle’s solution in sight, I ignored the “No Trespassing” signs and squeezed through a gap in the fence.  Possible scenarios raced through my mind as I carefully picked my way down the hill to the cement box that held my answer.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw as I peered into the dark opening.

The bomb consisted of a twenty pound propane tank with six metal pipe bombs duct taped around it.  Each of the bombs was about 1 1/2” in diameter and over 12” in length.  The wire I had been following led into a clear, small plastic box sitting on top of the propane tank.  Inside the box, it split into six different wires which emerged from the other side of the box and connected to their corresponding pipe bombs.  The wires entered the top ends of the metal capped explosives through a single small hole drilled in each cap.  I froze as I realized the danger of my situation.  Pure adrenaline sent me scrambling up the hillside and back through the hole in the fence.  My heart pounded in my ears as I sprinted the half mile home.

I was dialing 911 moments after I burst through my front door.  Panting for breath I tried to explain what I had seen.  Insignificant particulars punctuated my unorganized recounting of the find.  The dispatcher interrupted frequently asking me to slow down and go over important details I had skipped.  Somehow I was able to complete the conversation.  Her disbelief of my story was apparent in her voice but even more evident in the police response.  About ten minutes after my emergency call, a lone police car drove nonchalantly up the road leading to the wire I had seen.

The responding officer respected the “No Trespassing” signs, content to simply view the wire’s path from outside the fence.  He determined however, that it warranted a closer look, so he placed a call to the key holder of the entry gate.  Only after the officer witnessed first hand what I had seen, did he radio for the bomb squad.

Meanwhile, I was at home in my room glued to my police scanner.  I listened intently to the radio traffic as the emergency crews evacuated the immediate area and attempted to dismantle the bomb.  My listening, however, was interrupted by the doorbell ringing.

Opening the door I saw three brothers who, years ago, used to be my next door neighbors.  I immediately saw from their faces that something was wrong.  In hushed voices they confided in me that they had constructed a bomb and had tried to set it off up on the mountain.  I listened speechless as they told me how they had placed the bomb and strung the wire but had forgotten to bring the battery they had planned on using to trigger the bomb.  They left to get the battery about the same time I had left my house to go fishing.  They had returned about 20 minutes later with the battery, (which coincided with my return to the wire and inspection of the bomb) and attempted several times to detonate the bomb unaware of my presence near the device.  They soon discovered that the nine volt battery was too weak to ignite any of the bomb’s six independent detonators.  As they spoke, I realized that the only reason I had not been killed was that they had failed to calculate the electrical resistance in the several hundred yards of wire.  After several failed attempts, they decided to go get a larger 12 volt battery that would be powerful enough to activate the explosion.  When they returned about an hour later with the larger battery, they saw the bomb squad and came to my house instead.  The brothers also told me about additional bombs and bomb making materials that they had left at their house.  They were worried that they might be caught and decided to leave to hide the other bombs from the police.  They left my house not knowing anything of my involvement.

I was caught in a dilemma.  The possibility of someone getting hurt or killed was very high.  In my case it had almost occurred.  On the other hand, the men responsible for the bomb had been my friends.  We went to school together, played together, fished together, and they had just trusted me with a secret that could implicate them in a felony.  I decided to go to the police.

Not knowing how to turn over this information, I called an older family friend who was a Centerville city councilman and explained my situation.  He volunteered to drive me to the crime scene and introduce me to an officer I could talk to.  While in his car on the way to the scene, I remembered the handgun I still had concealed in my waistband.  I carefully explained to the family friend that I was licensed to carry a concealed weapon and that I was carrying a handgun.  I asked him to relay that information to the officer before I talked to him.  Once we arrived, I waited patiently in the car while the councilman went to get the officer.  Only through reading the police report weeks later did I learn that the family friend went straight to the officer and told him that I was the culprit and I had come to surrender.  In addition, he failed to mention that I was licensed to carry a concealed firearm or that I had a firearm with me.  Knowing this, I can understand the officer’s reaction to finding that I was hiding a loaded 9mm pistol under my shirt.  My introduction to the officer, thanks to this family friend, most likely also contributed to me shortly thereafter being on the receiving end of a very lengthy “Good Cop / Bad Cop” style interrogation that makes most police movies seem tame in comparison.

Time would tell the rest of the story.  No one was hurt by the bombs even though two of them exploded while being dismantled at the scene.  It took two weeks for the police to catch the brothers.  One of them accepted a plea deal which let him go free if he testified against the other two.  With that evidence against them, the remaining two plead guilty to all the charges.  Because this was a first offence for both of them, the brothers served only two years each in a federal prison.  To this day I have not seen the brothers again.

I can still remember walking home that night through the snow.  Only once I reached my house did I stop and look back.  In the pale moonlight I could see my footprints in the street leading up the hill.  Before sunrise the snowplows would erase all signs of my journey, but in my mind, I knew I had come to a major crossroads… and I had gone straight.

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