Burn Patterns (10 page)

Iris stood up, letting her eyes find whatever took their fancy. The warm, soothing air held scattered flutterings. The butterflies didn't so much fly as totter in the air, like random zephyr autumn leaves. The orange and the black and a splash of blue winked in real sunlight filtered through a panel in the roof.

Iris raised her arms, closed her eyes. She could smell real flowers, sickly sweet, beginning their decay the instant they opened. There were bananas somewhere too. She listened to her skin. One landed, tickling. She examined her arm. A common grass yellow sat quivering. She scanned the front of her blouse to see another sunning on her.

The butterfly house was not a place to think. It was the
opposite. It was a place where Iris allowed herself not to think. Simply to be. Mindfulness, it was called, but she liked to think of it as mindless, mind empty. Iris was a warm, floating flower. She allowed her sensations to rule, set to feel minute calibrations.

‘Look, Grandma. The lady has butterflies on her.'

‘Don't touch, darling. Look but don't touch.'

‘I'll break them,' said the girl, dutiful.

Rosemarie had liked the butterfly enclosure when she was little. The animals were ticked off, as they tramped every avenue, but the butterflies were treated with appropriate awe. They were too delicate, too tame to be believed.

As Iris was getting out of her car at the maximum security Park Wing in Fieldhaven, she noticed a man leaning on the bonnet of a yellow ute. He waved to her as he heaved himself up and limped towards her.

He wore jeans, boots and a business shirt that strained around his gut, tucked in under a firey's belt buckle. His chunky watch was clearly capable of calculating planetary orbits and sea depths. ‘Gidday, Doc. I was hoping to run into you.'

‘I'm not a doctor,' she said by reflex.

‘Yes you are. It's what we call all you medicos. Saves time. I've got a couple of questions for you, and a few I'd like you to ask him.' He pointed towards the entrance.

The entrance was glassed, the building red brick with a red tin roof. The security started further in.

‘They wouldn't let me in.' He raised his eyebrows, continuing to invite a complicity.

Iris recalled him from the hospital. ‘The fire investigator,' she said.

He seemed hurt. ‘Chuck. I'm working the school fire.' He stopped in front of her. His face was red, tanned, wind-chapped. His eyes were slightly weepy, which could have been from exposure to smoke and carcinogens – occupational hazard. His smile worked hard at reassurance.

‘I don't understand, Mr …'

‘Call me Chuck. I hear you're already interrogating a suspect. What do you reckon?'

‘Mr …'

‘Charles Koch.' Now he was pissed off, which was how Iris felt too. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out his wallet to flip open at his fire service identification.

‘I don't doubt you, Mr Koch. I'm not working for the fire service.'

‘Yeah, sure. You're visiting because of your personal interest in Martians. I get it. There are things in the MO that might be useful to both of us, wouldn't you say?'

Iris thought she could smell whisky.

‘I was under the stage at the school. I saw the set-up. I saw the zeds.'

‘Zeds?'

‘Reason I call him Zorro. He likes to splash accelerant around in the shape of a zed. He leaves a couple of them. How much do you know about arson investigation?'

Iris shrugged. She knew quite a lot, she supposed.

‘Well, the thing about fire is most people think it destroys evidence. Fires are even set to hide another crime. But after the fire's been through, evidence can be found. Evidence of breaking and entering. Evidence of the ignition point. There are burn patterns, charring which is deeper or has tracked differently to the natural path of a fire. He leaves the zeds, amongst other things. I first noticed it in a deliberately lit bushfire a few years ago. No walls, fewer constraints, so bushfires follow the fuel and are driven by wind. I mean this one was heading up a valley towards the houses, which is what he intended I think, but that's another matter. Anyway, he set this one in a bit of a clearing so it was of quite low intensity where it started. He picked a good hot, windy day.'

As he talked, Charles Koch kept edging forward; Iris kept edging back to maintain her personal space. She now found herself backed to her car, loomed over, by the investigator. ‘Mr Koch …'

‘Chuck. Oh, right. I'm starting at the wrong end. Here's what I got from the school. The zeds. The device he set up to start the fire.'

‘Chuck, I'm not investigating the friggin fire. I'm interviewing a suspect.'

‘You don't want to know some salient facts?'

‘I'm working for a psych department, as a favour, not for the fire service.'

‘You don't want to know the facts, either.'

Either?

Chuck went on. ‘I stumbled across this ghost in the bushfire. I've been stumbling across him for years.'

Iris stood with her back to her car. The metal was hot.

Chuck continued, ‘We found the can of Passiona.'

‘What?'

‘Way back at the first bushfire – I went up to the top of the ridge where the fire was licking at the houses, before the fireys got it out and I took a bo peep. You know why?'

‘Because firelighters like to watch.'

‘Yeah. I found a good parking spot where you could look down on the front of the houses. I found tyre tracks and a Passiona can. No prints, which is a bummer, but pretty interesting in itself.'

‘Chuck, I have to go in.'

‘Wanna know what we found under the stage?'

‘A can of soft drink?'

‘Exactly. They think it was kids. I found what I found.'

‘A can of Passiona?'

‘You have to put it together with the other things. In the other fires, which I haven't explained yet, the backpackers, the old people's home, there's this unexplained alloy melt – well, it was never properly analysed. It could have been the Passiona can. It's part of his signature.' His voice was rising, getting thinner with his desperation.

Iris considered his civvies and the ute, which certainly wasn't service issue. ‘This meeting, this discussion we're having now … is it official?'

‘I understand you've had a couple of your own run-ins with the fire service.'

‘I need to get back to work, Chuck.' Iris broke for the entrance to the psych ward.

Chuck tried to follow but his leg must have slowed him. He called after her, ‘Doc, my man understands the science of fire. He understands fire investigation. He's smart. Smarter than nearly everyone. Doc!'

Iris made it inside, closing the glass door on Chuck Koch's thin complaint of a voice.

*

James was in the interview room when Iris arrived, attended by a different psych nurse, but unmanacled. He stood up on the other side of the table with his delighted grin. ‘Welcome, Iris Foster.' He opened his arms as if for a hug.

Iris sat on the door side of the table.

‘You won't hug?'

‘Maybe another time.' Iris opened her bag, took out a notepad and pen, listening to James retaking his seat. She considered her pen, whether it might be taken from her, used as a weapon. Finally, composed again, she looked up.

James was still beaming. ‘What a lovely blouse. You should wear more bright colours.'

‘Why did you pick that chair, James?'

‘Is it the power chair? Is it where you like to sit, Iris? We can swap.'

‘You're playing games with me, already?'

‘You weren't here when we arrived. I wanted to see you come into the room. It's the natural chair to take, facing the door, facing visitors. Was it … inappropriate?'

Iris considered him. He smiled again, in unlikely innocent happiness. She said, ‘I did the same when I first came in.'

‘But your training suggests you should never put yourself between a client and the door.'

Iris studied him. No triumph. Matter-of-fact.

‘It's why most psychiatrists have two doors,' he said. ‘One for the patient, I mean client, and one for the shrink, I mean counsellor. Everyone can retreat. The room becomes neutral ground, a bit like the building in Korea. Did it upset you when I was here first? That you didn't get to be the one sitting and greeting. Because it put me in control. Do you like to be in control, Iris Foster?'

‘Are you riffing Hannibal Lecter, or are you just very talkative today?'

‘I'm happy to see you. I want to talk. You make it easy to share. What's your secret? It must make it easier for you in your line of work.'

‘Have they given you something?'

‘Probably. I feel buoyant.'

‘Buoyant?'

‘Positively bobbing – like a toy duck in a bath full of kids.' He went sad. Drifted. Blinked. Suddenly said, ‘We don't have children on Mars.'

Iris wanted to reach for her notepad but instead feigned only mild interest. She didn't want to frighten him off.

‘If you don't have children on Mars, how do you procreate?'

‘It never takes you Earthlings long to get to sex, does it?'

Iris found herself wondering if James used sex or his attractiveness to get what he wanted, another trick like his juggling and his sweet banter.

‘Sorry, Iris. Did I put you off your line of questioning?'

Provocative, flirting? Or was he tossing sand in her eyes?

‘Children on Mars, James?'

‘We reproduce asexually
and
sexually. We are made up of two organisms. In terms of what can be seen by the naked eye, we disperse through diaspores containing algal and fungal cells, whereas at a microscopic level it's vegetative sexual reproduction. This is at a kind of foetal phase in our life cycle, to put it in Earth terms.'

‘I'm sorry, James, I don't remember much biology.'

‘You didn't pay attention in class.'

‘Too busy chasing the boys.'

‘No you weren't.'

‘Would you unpack your answer for me, about children on Mars?'

‘We don't have children. We most resemble lichen.'

‘The thing growing on rocks.'

‘We're not a thing. We do grow on rocks.'

‘Don't you get wind-blasted, frozen?'

‘Yes and no. We are a hardy race. We live mostly in the cracks in our early life. If we are tough enough, we survive to migrate underground.'

‘Underground.'

‘Of course, Iris. Are you crazy? Nothing can live on the surface when the storms are blowing. We have built processes
by which we can store oxygen, collect and create water, warmth, and enhanced sunlight without the punishing UV. These are all Earth terms, of course, massive simplifications.'

‘For the dullard of the class.'

‘Not you, Iris. I bet you sat up the front, near my desk.'

Iris desperately wanted to write notes. She regretted not putting her recorder on. He had knocked her off balance from the start.

‘How does lichen build things?'

‘We are lichen in our cell structure and in our procreation. We grow.'

‘Into human form?'

‘No.' He gestured to his own body. ‘No, this is a form I found after the crash.'

Iris risked some quick notes. Key words. Crash. Teacher? Kids.

‘So, why aren't there children … in your Martian life cycle?'

Iris watched him closely during the question. Still the barest flicker on children?

‘Well, the term has no meaning. It's not a stage. You spread outside on the planet surface. You become aware, like any animal, your instinct ultimately sends you into crevices. If you find your way underground, you sit and absorb, no one feeds you or offers affection. You listen and you grow until you take adult form, if you wish. We're kind of like lizards – but I don't want you to pigeonhole us, ha ha. Maybe very dry, scaly frogs. We have four legs, very dainty fingers.' He wriggled his fingers at her.

‘So no school.'

‘No defined period called school. We're always learning. Whatever interests. Lifelong learning.'

‘Do you experience love?'

‘No,' he said quickly, then reconsidered. ‘We are a fraternity. No. We're asexual at this stage. Collegial. We work together. We know our survival depends on it. We are like ants, socially, without a queen.'

It was well practised, thought Iris, the construction was not random. There was a purpose. She would come back to this
again later. Frank had asked her to test for pyromania. Many of the profile questions Iris did use were not of great use in this instance. They were socially focused. She could hardly ask James if he was unemployed or did badly at school, while his answer continued to be I'm Martian.

‘Tell me about the crash, James.'

James's voice changed. It became almost childlike. ‘I don't want to.'

‘Why?'

‘It distresses me.'

‘Was it bad?'

His eyes were beseeching. Yes.

‘You weren't alone on board, were you?'

He shook his head. ‘I don't want to think about it.'

‘We will need to talk about it, eventually James.'

‘Why?'

Iris said it. ‘So you can get well.'

‘Well from what? From being what I am.'

‘You don't want to get out of here?'

‘Of course,' he said without enthusiasm.

Iris realised he probably didn't. He was clothed, fed, possibly safe from himself, safe from hurting others.

‘Do you think it is wrong to kill?'

He thought. He faced it. He said, ‘Yes,' like he knew it personally. ‘Why I never would, never have.'

Iris did not believe him.

‘I'm not getting out of here. I'm their Lee Harvey Oswald.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘The patsy for the school explosion.'