“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. The hazardous materials containment unit. That’s where we keep explosives, corrosives, and stockpile toxic waste.”

“Why don’t we go over and take a look in there?” I suggested.

This unit was smaller, protected by yet another iron barrier.

Bob Bester performed his magic and the garage door lifted. The pall that flowed out caused the two men to cough. Pitman, who was already in a heightened state of distress, actually vomited.

Bester handed me a handkerchief upon which he had drizzled a few drops of camphor. Putting this over my mouth and nose, I walked into the dim cavern.

The armored car was there. The back door was closed but the lock had been broken. The three guards were in different parts of the otherwise empty vehicular safe. They had fallen where they were shot.

A bright light suddenly illuminated the scene I was already trying to forget. You could see clearly that the dead men were decomposing where they lay. Foul-smelling puddles had formed under each one of the deflated bodies.

“Nobody move!” a voice boomed.

Eight or nine men in unfamiliar uniforms were rushing in. They toted serious-looking rifles. The invaders would have been frightening if it wasn’t for the fact of the smell of death. Try as they might, the armed troops could not hold their rifles steady when their lungs filled with the miasma of the dead.

The heavily armed cops were from San Bernardino. A special military-like team of officers that our mayor had let in, in order for them to find the men who took their armored car and its guards.

They identified Leon Starr, shook his hand, and told everyone that they had to wait in an office that could be locked—everyone except me, whom they clapped in chains and dragged off to yet another room.

“What was your job in the heist?” the mustachioed young man who led the strike team asked. His name was Borland and he had no patience with trash like me.

“I’m working with the LAPD, brother,” I said. “I’m the one who located the car.”

He slapped me hard enough to hurt an office worker. For somebody of my persuasion it was just the promise of things to come.

“The fact that you knew where it was proves that you’re one of the gang,” he said.

“It proves that I have a logical mind.”

He used his fist that time. I was seated on a three-legged stool and so fell to the concrete floor.

“Get up!” Borland yelled.

My hands were cuffed behind my back but I knew from the timbre of his shout that he didn’t give a damn about my restraint.

I staggered to my feet and he gave me an uppercut to the gut.

“Stop that this minute!” a familiar voice commanded.

Behind Borland and his two assistants were Anatole, Melvin, and four LAPD uniforms.