Fire Angel (2 page)

“Our suspect has at least a high school education; the cocktail he made to ignite the second fire shows that he has a basic knowledge of chemistry, and it's amazing what you can pick up from the Internet. He understands how fire operates. He has used two different methods to set his fires, which is why we didn't see the connection at first. The fires appear to be controlled, telling us he knows how to manipulate the scene to serve his purpose.”

“Have you figured out how he set the cabin on fire and managed not to have it spread?” asked one of the officers.

“Unfortunately, I haven't been out to the fire scene yet, but I hope I'll be able to figure it out quickly. Everything I learn about this guy may be crucial.”

Jake looked around to see if there were any more questions before continuing.

“Our man knows how to disappear before the firefighters get there. He may have access to a police scanner, and he definitely has a vehicle. Since most arsonists like to watch their fires closely, he blends unobtrusively into the crowds of spectators. We're looking for someone who looks so normal that he could be the guy next door.”

“That gives us quite a list of potential suspects,” said the chief. “Can you narrow it down any?”

“Sadly, no, not at this time, but I can tell you that he's a serial killer, and he will kill again. I suspect some of the victims were chosen; the others seem to have been collateral damage — wrong place, wrong time.” He closed his computer case.

“There's no such thing as the perfect crime. This guy has left clues behind, and we'll find them. Once we do, we'll hunt him down and put him away. Thank you.”

A rousing round of applause followed. A man in a wrinkled brown suit, his tie askew, approached.

“Matt Conway, liaison with the Ontario Provincial Police,” he said. “I work out of Paradise. Nice to meet you, Jake; Everett speaks highly of you.” He held out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Jake taking the extended hand. “I hope I can live up to Everett's expectations.”

Matt Conway was in his mid-thirties. He had short, brown hair, was clean shaven with a nose broken more than once, and puppy-dog eyes, big and brown, the kind of eyes that encouraged people to confide in him. At six foot two, he was a touch shorter than Jake, but just as well-muscled. He enjoyed the outdoors, and his summer color hadn't quite faded. Jake liked him on sight.

“We can use all the expertise we can get on this one; I generally work cold cases, so I'm a little out of my comfort zone,” said Matt. “So, you figure we have a serial killer on our hands. That complicates things. It makes it harder to predict his next target, and so far, this guy hasn't given us much of a pattern. A shack, a flophouse, do you have any idea where he might be going with this?”

“Not yet, but I have two boxes of evidence in the car to review and analyze as well as the stuff the coroner just sent in. I'm going with my gut, and it hasn't failed me yet.”
Well, maybe once, but that was personal, not professional, right?

He and Matt left the briefing room and walked towards Jake's new office. They stopped before the door.

Chief Lewis had gone all out. On the door, printed in black letters on the frosted glass was the sign: John Jacob McKenzie, Criminal Profiler. Inside, the small meeting room had been transformed into an efficient work space. There was a desk, a credenza, and an ergonomic chair. All of the furniture had been laid out in such a fashion that he could get around the room on foot, with crutches, or in a wheel chair. A small beverage fridge had been brought in and a quick glance showed that it had been stocked with pop and water. A cordless printer sat on the credenza next to the phone.

“Wow! The chief spared no expense,” said Matt, further loosening his tie before removing a can of soda from the fridge and popping the tab. “All I got was an old, scarred desk, a folding chair, and a file cabinet. I even have to print in the bull pen. Something tells me he's hoping to bring you onboard permanently.” He took a drink.

“What kind of person are we looking at?”

Jake sat on the chair, impressed that the chief had gone to all this trouble. He knew that there would be days when he would have to rely on the crutches and possibly the wheelchair. He had planned to stay home when that happened, but Everett had done an end run on him. Clever! He unconsciously rubbed his upper leg. He'd been standing for more than an hour, and the stump, where it fit into his prosthetic, was getting sore. He turned his attention back to Matt.

“There are two groups of people who start fires: arsonists and pyromaniacs. Arsonists have a preferred method of setting fires. Their MOs are their signatures, their claims to fame, and they're proud of them. They set fires for one of three reasons — power as in political gain, money from insurance or extortion, or to cover up a crime. The first two don't fit, the third one is iffy.”

“It could be that these were botched robberies, but the fires aren't the same,” agreed Matt.

“Exactly; that's why I don't think he's your run-of-the-mill arsonist. The other type of firebug is far more dangerous; he'll use whatever is at hand to start fires. Pyromania is an impulse control disorder, but not all pyromaniacs set fires impulsively. What they all get from setting fires is exhilaration, and occasionally sexual release. It's considered a mental illness, so if and when we catch this guy, we may never be able to get him into a courtroom.” He took another mouthful of water and leaned back in the chair.

“The biggest threat I see is from another type of pyromaniac,” Jake continued. “These aren't born craving fires, they're created by circumstances. Sometimes, the need for revenge triggers the mania. If our guy has been bullied or rejected, or if he's suffered a great personal tragedy, then he's looking for payback. He wants to get even. Fire puts him in control and makes him feel powerful, but fire alone isn't enough. He needs to make them suffer. We're looking for a very sick S.O.B., a sadist.” He finished his water and tossed the plastic bottle into the recycling bin.

“Matt, judging from last month's cruelty, I think he's a sociopath. I'll stake my reputation that he's killed before, and it's left him wanting a bigger thrill. Usually murder is quick; you stab, shoot, or poison someone, and it's over, but fire drags it out — makes it linger, and the longer he can watch, the better he likes it.” Jake ran his hands through his short chestnut hair.

Chief Lewis entered the office just as Jake finished. He shook his head.

“Jake, I hope you're wrong. We don't need this kind of monster in Paradise, especially not at this time of year.”

Matt nodded. “Halloween, it's just a week away; there'll be no shortage of crazies to add to the list of suspects. I'd better get to my desk and let you do your thing.”

After the men had gone, Jake unpacked his personal belongings, including Minette's daughter Mila's drawing, which he pinned up on the cork board above the credenza. The five year old loved to draw. When he had finished, he sat in the chair and wondered again whether or not he had bitten off more than he could chew.

An active case involved working here every day. It meant going out into the field to interview witnesses and take statements. It meant following leads, tracking evidence, and going out to visit crime scenes — places with uneven floors and crumbling walls, places not fit for a man in a wheelchair or a man with a cane. What was it he'd said to Minette?
“If you want something badly enough you'll work for it.”
He wanted this and he wanted the killer, and by God, he'd get both.

• • •

Jake spent the week reading reports and writing notes. He discussed how the fire had behaved with the firefighters who had been on the scene. He went over every shred of evidence collected by the techs. He interviewed the owner of the cabin and verified dates. He spoke to the bartender down at Stumpy's, the last place the two most recent victims had been seen. He talked to the police officers who had done crowd control; he even spoke with Frank and Lynette to see if they had noticed anyone or anything unusual around town. If anyone knew the pulse of Paradise, it was them.

This man was a ghost; it made no sense. He was there, and yet no one saw him. How could two men get so drunk that they could barely walk, and no one saw them leave the bar? Their truck had been in the parking lot the next morning. How did they get to that place? Neither of them lived there, and those who did had all died from smoke inhalation in another part of the house.

By the end of the week, Jake's eyes burned from hours of reading reports, his back hurt from sitting at the desk making countless entries into his computer, and his leg ached from the numerous visits he had made outside the station to follow leads. The white board in his office was overflowing with information, but he was no closer to the identity of the killer than he had been on Monday.

Exhausted, he pulled into the parking lot of the inn well after six. All he wanted was a hot meal, a couple of glasses of scotch, the whirlpool, and bed. The lot was almost full — Friday night was wing night and karaoke in the restaurant, always a busy time, but Minette would have supper waiting for him. He parked the car in the garage and walked around to the back door; he was in no mood for noisy company.

His was a solitary life; that decision had been made after the disaster in Afghanistan. No one would ever betray him again; they would never get close enough to do it. That, and the memory of a pair of blue-green eyes, reminded him that loving someone carried a high price, a price he refused to pay again. He had his brother's family, and he'd live his life vicariously through them.

The air was crisp and clean. Stars were twinkling, and to his right, the giant orange ball of a harvest moon rose over the escarpment into the sky. He smiled. He had promised to take Mila trick or treating in town; it was only fitting to have a full moon for Halloween.

• • •

The sound of the telephone startled Jake awake and distressed him as all loud sounds did. He reached for the offending handset.

“Hello?” he answered hesitantly.

“Jake, it's Everett. Duffy's Garage is on fire.”

• • •

He got to the fire scene within the half hour. When he stood and stared at the destruction and raging inferno in front of him, Jake questioned whether or not it could possibly be the same arsonist. This fire was out of control, a hellhole from which spewed death and destruction, completely at odds with what his profile and the previous fires had shown. Maybe, for once, it
was
accidental.

Paramedics and ambulance attendants were parked nearby, as was the coroner's wagon. Firefighters worked valiantly to stop the fire from spreading to the neighboring houses; nothing could be done to save the garage. As Jake panned the crowd, he noticed women outside the police lines crying. There was Duffy's wife held tightly in her brother's arms. That could mean only one thing. There were bodies inside.

This fire was different from the others, yet because of the fatalities, he had a strange feeling about it. He shook his head and sighed. Three fires, three months. He didn't believe in coincidence.

Just as it appeared that the fire was under control, flames erupted from another section of the building. Heavy black smoke filled the air. With so many flammable and combustible materials on the premises, the fire could burn for hours. There had been a couple of explosions, possibly from aerosol cans and the compressed gas cylinders — there would have been acetylene and God knows what else in there. The police pushed the crowd back, although it surged forward again, fueled by its own fascination and morbid curiosity.

He noticed Frank's truck on the edge of the crowd and walked over. He needed a jolt of caffeine to wake him, something to help him get his mind around this.

“Hey, Frank, you're working late,” he uttered.

“Lynette got me out of bed. She said you guys needed me. It looks like a bad one.” He moved gingerly to get Jake the coffee he had requested.

“What happened to you? Did you hurt yourself?” Jake asked.

Frank smiled. He stood up straighter.

“Only my pride; I fell asleep in my tree stand this morning and fell out of it. I landed on my ass on the rocky ground. I'll be sore for a couple of days.” He laughed at himself. “On the plus side, I did get the dozen rabbits and the partridges Minette wanted.”

“Well, take care of yourself. If it isn't better by the end of the week, have Dr. Shillingham look at it. You might have a hairline fracture or something.”

“You could be right, Jake, but I think I can consider this my lucky day; Duffy asked me to play tonight, but I bailed; the butt's too sore to sit in a hard chair all night. I guess that's two close calls for me today.” He shook his head and pointed to the widow. “I'll drop by Duffy's house tomorrow with coffee and squares. I hope he had lots of insurance.”

Jake had never really cared for the canteen owner; in high school, Frank had been a bully, picking on people, playing mean tricks. It had always amazed Jake that Frank had managed to stay out of legal trouble. After his father died, Frank had turned himself around, and now, he was a model citizen. Jake handed over some coins to cover the cost of his coffee and turned back towards the fire.

Damn! He shook his head. The problem was that he didn't know enough about fires to do this on his own. He was a profiler; he needed a fire expert. He'd read the reports; he just couldn't see the answers in them, and the answers had to be there. No, regardless of how this particular fire had started, he needed to convince Everett to send for a professional fire investigator.

He had read an interesting article in last week's newspaper about one. Apparently, she used unorthodox methods to solve supposedly unsolvable fires. She'd recently taken down members of the mob who'd been using fires to extort money. Perhaps between the two of them, they could solve this mystery.