Questions?

Gonga trudged past the controlled chaos surrounding the circulation area in the library. Yellow caution tape was everywhere. Downstairs he knew it was worse. The water from the sprinkler system had drained towards the administrative offices and dripped down through the ceiling. Some offices had up to a foot and a half of water.

He still couldn’t figure out why the break in had occurred. After searching through the agency databases, he had figured out the identity of the grey hoodied individual he had followed into the library almost two weeks ago. Students had also reported him, and he turned himself into the MUPD not long after. But they didn’t really know who he was.

The profile had described him as a loner. An explosives technician who liked to pull off unusual jobs. He was an artist of sorts, someone who saw a certain aesthetic in a perfectly timed break-in. Of course, the students didn’t know this. Neither did the police. Thanks to several cleverly executed stunts in the course of his bombing run, he could now plead insantity, and probably get away with it.

The fact that he was typically a hired agent made it even more confusing. Now Gonga just wanted to know the name tied to the bank account financing this moron. The real name. Not the fake identity of some Swiss bank account.

What in the world did anyone want with documents in the Missouri Historical Society? Or was that just a red herring?

The more Gonga replayed the scene in front of the door to the Historical Society, the more he realized that the explosive he had seen was something very small, something designed to blow out a lock on a door, and nothing else. He had hoped to find the pieces later on for analysis, but the “artist” had cleaned up everything.

Oh forget it. It was too much to think about.

Gonga paused in Bookmark café to grab a tall late, then headed out towards speaker’s circle.

It was time to play his accordion and forget about everything.