Fireproof (7 page)

The mountain of a man with a sprinkle of silver in his hair offered Patrick a beefy hand. “You must be Murphy.”

The unexpected grip crushed Patrick’s hand.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m golfing in an hour, so you’ll have to excuse my attire.” The Southern accent made “attire” sound like two words, “a tire.” “My wife buys these shirts for me with the little polo player on them.”

The knit shirt was bright blue, the khakis well pressed. The tops of the leather moccasins were well polished.

“Guess she’s always hoping she can make this ol’ boy look fashionable.” Again, “fashionable” was drawn out into separate words. He gave Patrick an easy, genuine smile as he waved him to take a seat in front of his desk. “You married, son?”

The question disarmed Patrick, though he tried to conceal that. “No, sir.”

This wasn’t anywhere near the conversation he’d had going through his mind all morning.

“When you find the right one, son, don’t let her go.”

Braxton’s eyes were on the framed picture that took up the left front corner of his desk’s pristine glass top. The woman looked young and small compared to her husband, tanned, with lean arms and friendly crinkles at her eyes. Both of them wore khakis and polo shirts, hers pink, his a different version of today’s blue.

Patrick had no clue what the correct response was, so he simply said, “I’ll try to remember that, sir.”

This time Braxton’s eyes found Patrick’s and held them. “You be sure and do that, son.” But the playfulness had been replaced with something sober. There was almost a sad tinge to his voice. “Hands down, that’s the best advice I can give anyone. You find a good thing, don’t let go.”

Not hesitating, he tapped his index finger on the one file folder
on his desk. “Well then, let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said as he opened it.

Patrick’s palms began to sweat. Was it possible the man didn’t know yet why he was meeting with him? He realized he was holding his breath as he watched Braxton slip on reading glasses and start to thumb through the contents.

“Master’s degree in fire science,” Braxton said without looking up. “Impressive.”

This wasn’t supposed to be a job interview. Patrick already had the job. The question was, Would he be allowed to keep it? Or did his background somehow help plan his punishment? Perhaps Braxton had decided to go easy on Patrick because he knew how serious he was about being a professional firefighter. The man had to have already looked over his file, didn’t he?

“Worked your way through college as a bartender. Even volunteered for a community fire station. Very admirable.”

Patrick eased his back into the chair, relaxing a bit from being on the edge. He set his sweaty palms on his thighs. All those extra hours and all-nighters would finally pay off. Someone finally saw the value. He could breathe again and had to stop an almost audible sigh of relief.

“You must want to be a firefighter pretty bad?” Braxton looked up, gave him a tight smile.

“Yes, sir.”

Patrick had relaxed just enough that he didn’t see the undercut coming.

“Son, I catch you saving another pansy-ass’s house who’s not a paying policyholder of ours, and you won’t just be without a job, but this two-bit degree of yours won’t land you another. You know
why? Because I’ll make sure no one—and I mean no one—will hire you ever again, as a chimney sweep let alone a firefighter.”

The tight smile showed bright teeth but the eyes were cold blue marbles when he added, “You think you can
try
and remember that, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

R. J. Tully fingered the small cartridge in his trench coat’s pocket. The camerawoman had handed it over too easily. Even offered that the live feed would have been recorded at the station and could be viewed there.

Now, as Tully looked down at the body beside the Dumpster, he doubted there would be much to see on the film. This killer had done all his dirty work well in advance of the fire. Tully didn’t need any experts to point out the trail of accelerant that had been poured along the side of the building. Black cinder marked the brick wall and he could still smell gasoline.

Judging by this and the timing of the second blast, both fires had been carefully orchestrated. Chances were, the guy was long gone. Maybe even home watching on TV, enjoying from the warmth of his living room the same film footage Tully now had in his pocket. But gut instinct gnawed at Tully. He still believed the guy who started the fire was here tonight, watching and enjoying the chaos.

“We can’t assume she belongs with the building.”

Really?
Tully wanted to say but stayed quiet.

He’d met Brad Ivan, the investigator for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, only last week, and already the man’s talent for stating the obvious grated on Tully’s nerves. It didn’t help matters that he had an irritating nasal voice. His upper lip disappeared when Ivan was deep in thought. He tucked it under his bottom teeth, a nervous gesture that made him look like a horse chomping down on a bit.

“I don’t think he killed her here,” Racine said, and both men stared at her. It took her a minute to realize that they were waiting for an explanation. She waved a thumb over her shoulder to the opening in the alley. “This whole block is hotel homeless. Same as last week’s fires.” She said it like she couldn’t believe neither of them had noticed. “First of all, she’s not homeless.” She pointed to the woman’s feet. “Not with that pedicure. It took some time to bash the face in like that. Somebody would have heard or seen it.”

“And they wouldn’t have heard someone dragging and dumping a body?” Ivan blew out a breath of disbelief.

“No dragging necessary. Pull a car up to the Dumpster. Open the trunk. Lift and dump.” She brushed her hands together. “Takes five, ten minutes. Not much to notice. He just drives out the other side of the alley and is on his way.”

Tully nodded. Times like this he appreciated Racine’s no-nonsense theories. It made Ivan’s slow, analytical process sound as off-key as Ivan was. Sometimes a spade was a spade even after all the tests and assessments and studies.

Ivan put his hand to his chin—another mannerism that grated on Tully’s patience—closed fist, bent index finger jutting out, creating a perfect shelf for the square dimpled chin. No answer. Not even a nod.

“I’ve got a couple uniforms already talking to the regulars.” Racine didn’t wait for agreement. Tully knew she could care less what Ivan thought.

“Think they’ll be willing to share information?” Tully asked.

“Those who aren’t too stoned or tripped out will. These alleys are their homes. May seem odd, but it’s not all that easy for them to relocate. Downtown’s gotten awfully crowded and businesses have cracked down. The Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library is close by. That’s where the buses load.”

“Buses?” Ivan asked.

“The District operates a free mini-Metro for the homeless.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Most of the soup kitchens and social service offices are still downtown. It’s about a five-mile walk. When the District moved some of the sleep shelters here they added the buses because there’s no place to get a free meal out here.”

“So they come to this neighborhood to sleep, then have to commute downtown if they want a meal?” Tully just shook his head. Only in the District did that make sense. He remembered thinking his trench coat hadn’t been warm enough. The weather had been nice for February, but he couldn’t imagine sleeping on the street all night.

“The homeless have to work at staying homeless, huh?” Ivan actually smiled.

Tully and Racine did not.

The ATF investigator didn’t notice and continued, “That sort of blows your theory. Nobody’s gonna hear anything in this alley if they’re all sleeping in shelters.”

“That’s just it,” Racine said, unfazed. “There are nowhere near enough beds. Drive around here at two in the morning and you’ll
see what I’m talking about. There’s construction for a new shelter about a block away, but that’s months from completion.”

“You just made me glad I live in Virginia,” Ivan said. “I need to start the walkabout inside. I’ll let you two start your work out here.”

And that was the extent of Ivan’s interest. His focus remained on the fire and how it started. That was his job. Dead bodies were an inconvenience, a nuisance, especially ones that didn’t belong to the building or the fire. Dead bodies were Tully and Racine’s job.

Without another word Ivan turned and sauntered down the alley, his gait slow and thoughtful.

Tully glanced at Racine. He knew the eye roll was coming but still caught himself smiling when it did.

“That guy gives me the creeps. What rock did the ATF find him hiding under?”

With Ivan gone, Racine moved in closer to get a better look at the victim. Tully pulled on a pair of shoe covers and followed. He kept the latex gloves in his pocket.

The woman lay in a heap like discarded rubbish that hadn’t quite made it into the Dumpster. Her arms were tucked under her torso and her legs tangled over each other. He wondered about Racine’s theory. Rigor mortis sets in twelve to thirty-six hours after death, but what most people don’t realize is that after thirty-six hours the body becomes pliable again. This woman had been dead for almost two days. Racine was right. No way was this body lying here unnoticed for that long.

Tully suspected her killer dumped her body just before the first fire. It wasn’t unusual for arsonists to hide their murders among
the ashes. But if that was the case, this guy had really screwed up. How could he choreograph two fires in two different buildings and fail to burn his murder victim?

Right now that was the least of Tully’s concerns. Especially when he got a good look at the damage under the tangled hair. It was difficult to guess the woman’s age. Her face had been beaten so badly the left eye socket and nose were practically gone. Her mouth gaped open, a black hole where her jaw and teeth had been successfully shattered. Hair color was impossible to determine, since the hair was caked with blood and tissue. Her clothes were dirty and stained but not torn or ripped.

Did she have a chance to fight back?
Tully wondered.

“First body,” Racine said. “Last week the buildings were unoccupied. Think he’s accelerating? Or just reckless?”

“Maybe he didn’t know about this one.”

Racine raised an eyebrow. “You think someone else did this? Not the arsonist?”

“Just keeping an open mind.” Gut instinct, but he wouldn’t say that to anyone except maybe Maggie. Whoever did this was much more brutal than a nuisance fire starter.

“So what? The killer catches a big break that the building he dumps his victim next to goes up in flames? Too much of a coincidence.”

Tully shrugged. That’s exactly what Maggie would say right about now. He still couldn’t believe she hadn’t argued with him about going to the ER to get checked. He was pleased but concerned. In the years he had known Maggie O’Dell there was only one other time he remembered seeing such uncertainty in her eyes. Uncertainty that bordered on fear. And that one other time Maggie
hadn’t admitted her vulnerability to him or anyone else. So how bad was
this
if she was willing to go to a hospital?

He wished he could convince himself that she had agreed just to appease him. But he knew better. The fact that she admitted she might not be okay was unsettling.

They hadn’t worked together for more than a year. Not since their director, Kyle Cunningham, had died. The case that led to his death had been their last one. And actually, Maggie wasn’t supposed to be on that case after both she and Cunningham were exposed to the Ebola virus. Maggie had ended up in the Slammer, an isolation ward at USAMRIID (U. S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases) at Fort Detrick. Ebola Zaire—the virus she and Cunningham had been exposed to—was nicknamed “the slate cleaner.” About 90 percent of those exposed died, with only a slightly better chance for those given an unregulated, unapproved vaccine.

That Maggie had survived amazed her doctors and the experts at the army research facility. Since then Cunningham’s replacement, Raymond Kunze, had been sending both Maggie and Tully on wild-goose chases, either impossible or simply ridiculous cases, brazenly telling them that they needed to prove their worthiness to him.

It was ridiculous. Both of them were veteran FBI agents. Both had gained hard-earned reputations as expert profilers. It was Kunze’s way of interjecting his authority over a department that held their previous director in high regard. Maybe Kunze felt he couldn’t possibly function in Cunningham’s shadow, so his solution was to tear the agents down and rebuild them in his image, to his standards.

Tully had little respect for the man. He viewed him as a bully
more concerned with power and politics than with solving crimes or deflecting criminals. Kunze slid down even further on Tully’s scale when the last wild-goose chase the man sent Maggie on ended up getting her Tasered, left in a forest, and shot in the head. All because the man wanted to repay a political favor.