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Flack paced around the available space surrounding the drill workers, feeling useless. More than once the firemen had tried to convince him to wait outside, but the detective refused to leave. He'd rather be there, feeling useless and impatient than outside, feeling useless and curious.

The top of a pack of cigarettes was peaking from the breast pocket of one of the workers. Flack had quit smoking some time ago. It hadn't been easy, but he was proud of himself for succeeding. Now all he could think about was having a smoke.

Deciding against going to the man and borrowing one, Flack turned around and started pacing again. The sound of the heavy drill was deafening this close so he, like everyone else down there, was wearing ear protection. It didn't manage to completely muffle the noise.

The bomb squad had arrived minutes after the firemen and had soon declared the place safe. Whatever device had exploded the bunker's shaft it was on the inside and there was little they could do before access to the bunker was provided.

Once everyone was sure that the place was safe enough to work, the firemen had moved in. They had taken some time to determine the place's stability and trying to figure out the best way to get inside the bunker. After some discussing and, taking advantage of the bomb squad's presence, it had been decided that a hole would be drilled in to the cemented floor and a small explosive charge would be placed inside, hopefully big enough to blow a new hole and contained enough to not bring the whole house on top of them.

The victim's cell phone and everything else the CSIs had managed to process before going inside the bunker had already been sent to the lab, but Flack doubted there would be any information coming out of that.

In his mind he kept replaying all the events that had led in to this situation, wondering if there was something he might've missed.

The ringing cell phone had been the probable trigger for the charge to go off, but someone outside that room would need to know when to ring the phone. The question running through his mind was how?

Flack didn't remember any car parked on the street, but the killer could've still have seen them arrive at the house, hidden somewhere. Flack had already set out a canvas search of the surrounding streets. Nothing had come up yet.

That, however, wouldn't tell him how the killer managed to have eyes inside that basement.

The expression 'eyes inside' got the detective thinking. Somewhere in that basement there probably was some sort of listening devise or a camera, maybe both.

He looked around. Between the mess of equipment brought in by the firemen and the mess that was already there from the previous owner, there was no way he would be able to find the surveillance equipment using his senses alone. The guys at the lab would have proper instruments to flush the thing out, but right now, without that technology at hand, Flack had a good idea how he could make the killer deaf and blind.

Glad for the long legs his genes had provided him with, Flack quickly made his way outside. It was a long shot, but worth of checking out.

The streets outside had lost the eerie feeling of a sleeping neighbourhood. Attracted by the sirens and circling blue and white lights flashing from the police and firemen department cars, people had started to gather beyond the barriers imposed by the yellow ribbons.

Two separate news stations had their vans parked at a distance and their reporters were struggling to catch a photo or a comment about what was happening. The presence of a car identified as belonging to the bomb squad had left everyone on the verge of panic and the ones that lived nearer were demanding to know what was going on.

Flack ignored the calls of 'Detective! Detective!' coming from the crowd. He had no idea how they did it, but the press seemed to always be on top of the situation, even when the situation was being kept under wraps. Sometimes he wandered if the NYPD shouldn't just hire them and save everyone else the trouble of avoiding the firing flashes.

He looked back, judging the distance between the house and what he was looking for, mentally organizing the structure of the house and the bunker to guide his steps. When he looked ahead again, a policeman who looked young enough to be in high school, was standing in front of him, holding two bags in his gloved hands.

"Breakfast?" Flack asked when the kid failed to talk.

"No, sir, evidence," the rookie policeman offered, clearly searching for the right words to offer his report. "Search party found these next to some tire tracks, just three houses down the street."

Flack grabbed the transparent bags. One had what was left of a hot dog and the other a cigarette butt.

"You told us to collect anything that seemed suspicious or out of place," the policeman justified, seeing the flat look that the detective was giving the two items.

"And why would this be suspicious or out of place?"

"The way it was on the ground, sir, piled on the road near the sidewalk. This is a semi-private street, and according to the locals, streets are cleaned up around midnight and the trash is picked up two hours after that. Clock work, every day except Sundays," he explained. At Flack's nod, he went on.

"It looks like someone parked there sometime after that, stayed there for a while and then left in a hurry. There were skid marks on the road."

"Good work, kid," Flack said, handing the bags back. "See that these are taken to the lab and get someone to photograph those skid marks."

As he walked away from the flashing lights and tumult in the main street, Flack grabbed his flash light and looked around.

His grandfather had spent sometime in house construction and he'd done some safe houses and bunkers too. People were afraid those days, and these things were their safety pillow. It had been a long time ago, but Flack remembered some of the tales the old man used to tell about the inner workings of those things.

Military bunkers were completely self sustained, isolated from the outside world, with built in power generators and air recycling pumps. The first bunkers made available for the common citizen had been pretty close to the military ones. But as the fever grew and more people started to want one, commerce stepped in and came up with their standard version. One that looked safe and sturdy as a bank vault, but without the heavy machinery necessary to make it independent.

Flack smiled when he saw the grey rock and thanked his dead grandfather. Without the air recycling pumps, the bunker needed the usual means to get fresh air down there and these false stones were usually it.

If the killer was getting audio or video feeding from down there, this would be his best way of getting a signal out without calling too much attention.

He bent down, easily picking the plastic stone up and revealing the small opening of the ventilation system. His smile broadened when he saw the tip of wires coming out of it as well.

"Detective Flack!"

Don looked up, greeting the fireman that had yelled for him.

"Something up?"

The other man smiled.

"Something down, you might say," he said, looking curiously at the stone in Flack's hands. "The hole is finished and we thought you might want a word with the guys down there before we put in the explosive."

"You bet I want," he said, the excitement clear in his voice. He dropped his lit flash light on the ground and followed the fireman.

He was giving orders as soon as he came across one of the uniforms on duty.

"Bag this for me and take it to the lab," he handed the rock to the policeman without even stopping. "There's a flash light signaling a venting system shaft opening. Two wires are sticking out of it. I want to know what they're transmitting and where their signal is being sent."

Before entering the house, his eyes fell on the news' vans, with their paraphernalia of antennas and satellite dishes on top. The idea lit inside his head like a magic light bulb. The press would be useful after all.

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