“It’s Books,” he says. “Everyone calls me Books.”
“Okay, Books.” She smiles at him. He smiles at her.
Even Dickinson is smiling. At me. A gloating, toothy grin.
Oh, Dickinson, you little weasel—that’s why you added Sophie to the team. Because you knew Books would be attracted to her.
Enough. Get a grip, Em. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for. This is showtime.
It’s time to explain a few things to these folks.
19
“THESE CASES haven’t been investigated properly,” I say. “The locals are taking the easy answer, which is precisely what our subject has given them—an easily explainable accidental cause. Arsons are very easy to cover up, because the evidence goes up in flames. Sometimes the arsonist makes it easy on you by splashing accelerant around the place—gasoline or kerosene—which can be detected in the aftermath. But otherwise, arsons are usually detected in very nonscientific ways, like a gas can or bottle-bomb found at the scene; a knife found next to a cut gas line; eyewitness reports of someone fleeing the scene in the middle of the night; maybe even a strong motive, either a financial one or some personal dispute. The point being, if an arsonist is careful and meticulous, he can usually hide any evidence of his crime.
“And our subject, I believe, is very careful. He doesn’t leave anything behind that would arouse suspicion, he picks victims with whom he has no connection, and on top of that, he hands investigators an easy explanation on a silver platter. What are investigators going to pick? The easy explanation, every time.”
Denny, who has listened attentively to my monologue, dutifully nods, but I see I haven’t won him over. “Ms. Dockery,” he says.
“Call me Emmy.” If Sophie gets to address Books informally, Denny gets to do the same with me. Somehow, this doesn’t make me feel like I’ve evened the score. He gets Malibu Barbie, I get Grandpa Walton.
“Emmy, we have to consider the possibility that the easy answer is the right answer,” says Denny. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in over thirty years on the job, it’s that the simplest answer is usually the correct one. You’re asking us to believe that a genius arsonist is at work based on the fact that there’s no evidence of arson.”
That’s understandable. That, in fact, is why our subject is so good at what he does, because the proof that he’s a good arsonist is the lack of proof of arson.
“I don’t have all the answers,” I concede. “We need autopsies, forensic analyses of the crime scenes, witness interviews, everything.”
“We don’t have the resources for that,” says the Dick.
“Then we have to convince the locals to do it for us.”
“Based on what?” Denny Sasser asks. “I just don’t see the evidence.”
“Neither do I,” the Dick chimes in.
I look at Books, who gives me a curt nod.
“Show them,” he says.
20
I PLACE a poster-size map of the United States on an easel near the end of the conference table. All around the country, little stars have been placed where one of our fires has occurred. Fifty-four stars in all—thirty-two of them red, twenty-two of them blue.
“Here are fifty-four fires,” I say. “Fifty-four fires since basically Labor Day of last year until the present. So that’s a one-year period. As you can see, the fires occurred all over the country, from California to New York, from Texas to Minnesota, from Washington state to the Florida panhandle. Fifty-four fires, all determined to be of accidental origin. Fifty-four casualties.”
The room is silent. There is something about death, even for law enforcement professionals, even if I’m totally and completely wrong about my theory—either way, fifty-four is a big number, a lot of dead people, and there’s no room for mirth or wisecracks.
“These fifty-four fires, I believe, are linked. Why are they different from the hundreds, if not thousands, of other fires that occur in homes across this country on an annual basis? They are unique because they all have four things in common. First, they were determined to be accidental. Second, there was always one, and only one, casualty. Third, in each of these fires, the victim was found at the point of origin of the fire—in other words, the victim was found dead in the same room where the fire started. And fourth, that room, that point of origin, was always the bedroom.”
“That’s unusual?” asks Denny Sasser.
“Very,” I say. “Fires don’t usually start in bedrooms. The vast majority of house fires start in kitchens. Others are caused by faulty gas lines in basements or laundry rooms. Some start with electrical wires that arc, often near heat sources, behind stereos and things like that. But bedrooms? It’s actually quite unusual.”
Denny allows for that. “I haven’t studied recent statistics.”
I smile at him. “I have. But regardless of the room where it started, most people don’t die at the source of the fire. People run from a fire. They don’t run to the fire. What commonly happens in fires involving death is that while people are sleeping, the fire originates somewhere else in the house—the kitchen, the laundry room—and starts to spread. If there are deaths, it’s usually because the victims died of smoke inhalation after their path to safety was cut off. They don’t usually just get burned to a crisp while lying in their beds. In each of these fifty-four cases, the victim died in the same room where the fire was determined to have begun, and in many of these cases, they were found dead lying on or near their beds.”
“Certainly, though, it could happen innocently,” says Sasser.
“Certainly, Denny. In fact, you’ve just articulated the feelings of fifty-four different sets of fire investigators, each of whom have determined that their single fire was accidental. Just looking at a single incident, sure, it’s possible—especially when they find an obvious, so-called accidental, cause of the fire, which our subject always hands them. They go with the easy answer rather than dreaming up some diabolical plot. But we’re not looking at one incident. We’re looking at this nationally, and we’re seeing fifty-four incidents in a one-year period. This, I submit, is a pattern.”
I have the room’s attention. I’m not great at reading faces, but I think I’ve cleared a preliminary hurdle with them; maybe nobody is convinced yet, but I’m not way out of bounds, either.
“But let’s break it down further,” I continue. “Let’s start with a four-month period beginning a year ago—approximately Labor Day of last year—and continuing until year’s end, or January second, to be specific. Focus now on the red stars on the map. These represent thirty-two fires that occurred during that four-month period. Note the scattered nature of these fires, hitting all corners of the country but not the Midwest. These thirty-two fires killed thirty-two people.”
The last fire in that period, the January 2 fire, was Peoria, Arizona. I still remember the phone call from Mom, the panic in her voice, her inability to even get the words out to me. Marta, she said, Marta was—your sister was—. It took me over five minutes to get her to finish the sentence, though after a few attempts my own panic had begun to rise, as it became clear that the news she was delivering was the worst possible. Marta was what, Mom? I cried, my voice cracking, my knees buckling, the ground beneath me splitting open. What happened to Marta?
“So that’s thirty-two fires in four months,” Books says, coaxing me along, helping me, sensing that I’d locked up from the memory. I give him a nod of gratitude and snap back to focus.
“That’s right,” I say. “So that’s approximately two fires a week. And as you can see from the map, the fires tended to be in clusters of two. Two in California—Piedmont and Novato—in the same week in September. Two in Minnesota—Edina and Saint Cloud—in the same week in October. So our subject was a traveler. From Labor Day to basically New Year’s Day, our subject traveled. Why, I don’t know.”
Everyone is paying attention, at least. The lovely Sophie is even taking notes, indicating that she does, in fact,
know how to spell, or at least doodle.
“But then we get to the second time period, the beginning of this year through the present,” I say. “And this is when we start to learn more about our subject.”
21
“THE SECOND phase of our subject’s crime spree,” I say, “is the roughly eight-month stretch from January of this year to today. These are the blue stars on the map. During this stretch, we have twenty-two fires, and exactly twenty-two casualties. Exactly one death per fire. Rather meticulous, wouldn’t you agree?”
Denny Sasser and Sophie Talamas nod. Books does so emphatically, though he’s already heard my spiel. The Dick sits passively, revealing no sign of his thoughts.
With my pointer, I outline a circle around the blue stars. “But our subject wasn’t such a traveler during this second phase, was he?”
Books shakes his head. “All twenty-two of those fires took place in the greater Midwest.”
“That’s right. Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa, Indiana, Missouri, and Kansas. And this took place beginning in mid-January and through last week in Lisle, Illinois. So that’s almost eight months, and only twenty-two arsons. Instead of a pace of two a week, he’s closer to three a month. Why?”
I look over the team like a teacher quizzing her students.
When they don’t answer, I do it for them.
“He’s taking longer to choose his victims,” I say.
Again, nobody answers. It occurs to me I might be annoying them with my question-and-answer routine, but in fact they seem to enjoy it. Everyone in this room, at least in part, entered law enforcement because they like solving puzzles.
“And why is he doing that?” asks the Dick, the first time he’s participated at all. I don’t know whether to take that as a good sign or bad.
“Because he lives in the Midwest, I believe,” I say. “So the rest of his life intrudes—work, friends, whatever he does. When he’s traveling, he skips out and commits his crimes. But at home? He has a job to go to. He has friends, family.”
“He’d also have to be more careful,” Books notes. “If he’s killing closer to home, he stands a greater chance of being caught. Heightened caution means more time between victims.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Note that every murder he commits in the Midwest is in a different jurisdiction of law enforcement. Different cities, different counties. He’s making sure he doesn’t commit the same crime in the same jurisdiction twice, for fear that people will start looking at these things as a group, instead of one-off fires.”
“And you said the victims are always found at the point of origin, where the fire started,” says Denny Sasser. “Is there some reason the subject would do that?”
“Sure,” I say. “The point of origin is the point where the fire burns the longest, and therefore the hardest. Where the most damage occurs. Where the evidence is most likely to be destroyed.”
“Ah. So you think he’s using the fire merely to destroy evidence.”
“I do. Whatever he’s doing to the victims, he wants to make sure we don’t find out. He doesn’t want us to autopsy them. He wants to make sure that there isn’t—”
I think of Marta and my throat shuts down.
“That there isn’t a body left to autopsy,” says Sophie.
I nod, unable to speak. I still remember my mother screaming at the mortician, at the police detective, at anyone who would listen: I can’t even bury my baby? I can’t even give her a proper Christian burial?
I clear my throat. Books wasn’t wrong about the perils of investigating a crime involving a loved one. I don’t want to become a cautionary tale.
“So the fire is secondary,” says Denny Sasser. “He’s not setting fires for some thrill. He’s covering up crimes. Is that what you’re saying?”
I clear my throat again. “That’s what I’m saying. And what he’s doing takes time. That’s why he seeks out people who live alone. So he can subdue them and take his time with them. Then, when he’s finished, he torches their bedroom. He knows that these days, firefighters can arrive within minutes of a fire. He doesn’t care if they save the rest of the house. But the victims will be charred before they arrive.”
Everyone digests that. I’m not sure I’ve convinced anybody that we have a killer, but I’ve convinced everybody that there’s good reason to investigate further.
“So where do we start?” asks Denny Sasser.
“We start where he lives,” I say. “It’s somewhere in the Midwest. If I were to bet, I’d go with the Windy City. So pack your bags, everyone. We’re going to Chicago.”
22
* * *
“Graham Session”
Recording # 6
August 30, 2012
* * *
Well, I guess this can technically count as a separate session. It’s past midnight, officially Thursday now. What a day it’s been, wouldn’t you agree?
No? Nothing? Well, folks, since I’m in a good mood, I’m going to answer questions from the mailbag.
I wish there really was a mailbag, because I’m sure you have lots of questions for me. You’ll try to answer as many of them as you can from these recordings, to read between the lines and study my word choices and voice patterns and all that jazz, but it would be nice for you if I just outright answered some FAQs.
So from time to time, I’ll just go ahead and guess what those questions might be and answer them for you. Thus, here is episode one of Graham’s Mailbag. Cue the theme music, please. What’s that? I’m being told that we don’t have any theme music. Sorry, I’ll have to work on that.
Question: how do you choose your victims?
The simplest answer I can give you is that I go with what inspires me. What inspires me at a given moment will vary, and thus my victims vary as well. You wouldn’t expect Beethoven to write the same symphony twice, would you? Or Tolstoy to pen the identical novel a second time?
Sometimes I seek them out, and sometimes they come to me. Sometimes I must grapple for a time with what I’m looking for, and on other occasions, it simply comes to me like an exotic perfume wafting under my nose.
I am, in a word, a connoisseur.
Sometimes I prefer a nice piece of lamb with a Shiraz. Sometimes lobster with a chilled Chablis. Other times, an Italian beef sandwich with peppers and salt-and-vinegar potato chips. I don’t know what I’ll be in the mood for the next time. I just know that my stomach will start growling sooner or later.
Question: what is your favorite color?
I’ll bet you think my favorite color is red, don’t you? Well, close. It’s purple. Purple is such a twisted, complex color—it conveys the passion of red, the sadness of blue, the depravity of black. Purple is neither happy nor sad. It is pain and despair but longing, too—fiery desire, beaten and bruised but struggling onward, determined to overcome, to move forward rather than retreat.
Plus, it looks nice with my hair.
We have time for one more question: why set fire to your victims?
Well, let’s see. Curtis, have I set fire to you?
[Editor’s note: sounds of man moaning.]
No, I haven’t. I’ve done a lot of things to you, Curtis, but I haven’t set you on fire. Now, don’t lose your head over this, Curtis—I will burn you up when this is over. But that’s just so our fun is kept a secret.
Sorry, everyone, that was a little inside joke between Curtis and me, about losing his head. And if it’s any consolation, Curtis, you have one of the nicest-looking brains I’ve ever seen. Is that consolation? Do you feel consoled?
You’d probably feel a lot more consoled if I got rid of this mirror, wouldn’t you?
[END]
23
LIEUTENANT ADAM RESSLER is not happy to see us. Not that I can blame him. A week ago, he had this case all wrapped up, and now we’re here to ruin his Labor Day weekend. His thoroughly starched uniform looks stiff and hot in the sweltering August sauna that assaults me as I slide out of the Jeep Cherokee we got from
the Chicago field office’s fleet.
Ressler wears the uniform well, though. He is handsome, well built, clean-shaven with a just-right angular cut of the jaw, and he carries himself like a man who has spent time in the military. If it weren’t for the rivulets of sweat escaping from his perfectly combed hair down to his precisely creased collar, I’d hardly be able to tell he noticed the heat.
“Lieutenant Ressler, I assume?” I ask, trying to sound breezy, cool, and confident as my hair begins to stick to my neck and forehead. He grunts his assent without offering a handshake.
Denny, looking wilted, clambers out of his car and joins Books, Sophie, and me on the sidewalk. I do quick introductions. Ressler is quick to shake Books’s hand, presuming him to be the leader—which happens to be true, but he doesn’t know that, typical sexism, but it’s no time for my feminist side to show. He looks over Denny Sasser with a you-gotta-be-kidding-me expression; Denny looks like a half-melted ice cream cone, but I’m beginning to suspect he’s got more going on behind his hooded eyes than he lets on. Ressler seems awfully impressed with Sophie, as would any heterosexual male with a pulse.
“Ms. Dockery,” Ressler starts, “like I said on the phone, this fire was clearly not incendiary in origin. I don’t see why you need to see the scene. If you could just tell me what you’re looking for, I’m sure we could get this wrapped up.”
“You’ve been such a help already, Lieutenant,” I say. “We just need to take a look around. That’s all.”
He glares at me for a moment, then turns abruptly and stalks toward the house. I guess he didn’t like being told to babysit the FBI for the afternoon.
I pause for a moment to examine Joelle Swanson’s first and last home-of-her-own. It’s a modest two-story freestanding townhome with a brick facade and round pillars at the top of the cement stairs leading up to the entryway. It’s new. The whole neighborhood is pretty new, with tiny, hopeful trees and postage-stamp lawns still striped with new sod. There is plywood over some of her windows, and the power is probably off, but there is little other evidence of the devastation of a week ago.
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