Firesetter in Blackwood Township, a Winnebago County Mystery

by Christine Husom

  “What? They were sisters who both had barns burn down within days of each other? A weird coincidence, as Fire Chief Corey said? A little too weird if you ask me.”

  “I agree. But if there is a particular connection between the two, it’ll take evidence, or witnesses, or confessions to prove that. Or that either fire was purposely set, for that matter,” he said.

  “Man. So if the grandmothers are sisters then Angela Simmonds and Sybil Harding have parents that are first cousins, and that makes the two of them second cousins. Wow. What did Angela say about the Hardings’ barn burning down, too?”

  “She didn’t know about it until I told her.”

  “Seriously?” I said.

  “Yep. The family was gone when it happened, for one thing. And according to Angela their families had a major falling out when they were young. Angela would be—let’s see—two years older than Sybil, and Angela thinks she was eight at the time. Her father told her and her older brother that the two families had broken up, and that was that. It caused a rift between their grandparents, too. As far as she knows, no one in either family ever spoke to the other one again,” Smoke said.

  “That’s beyond strange. It must have been something awfully serious.”

  “You’d think. Then again, we’ve seen how disagreements that don’t seem like big deals to the rest of us have escalated into major feuds.”

  “True. I suppose it’s better to stay clear of each than to fight,” I said.

  Smoke cleared his throat. “Angela’s family had lived here in Winnebago County at the time then moved to Wisconsin not long after the break-up. Now that she’s here again, she said she’s been torn about what to do. She’d like to visit her great aunt, find out about other family members, but she doesn’t want to go against her father’s wishes.”

  “That’d be a tough one.”

  “Angela asked about the Hardings, and I told her they were visiting their son in Canada. And their granddaughter Sybil was watching their place. She didn’t remember her cousin’s name was Sybil. She thought it was something else,” Smoke said.

  “That’s kind of odd, and what a shame. I especially wish for Sybil’s sake that they’d connect. I think she could use some family support about now. She seems a little lost.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that too. She’s gotta be feeling overwhelmed dealing with the property loss, with her grandparents being away besides.”

  “I think that’s part of it, but not all,” I said.

  I heard his car door slam. “I’m home now, and Rex is begging for my attention.”

  “All right. Bye for now, and thanks for the update.”

  “Sure thing.”

  After we disconnected, my sense of unease grew so I went inside and started walking. If there was carpet instead of hardwood floors on the main level of my house, with all my years of pacing-thinking time, I would have worn a pathway through it by now. Was there a connection between the fires of the barns owned by the sisters? Mrs. Harding and Mrs. Backstrom were estranged. Mrs. Backstrom had died recently and her property was now in the hands of her granddaughter, but still.

  Queenie whimpered then lay down as I wandered around the house convinced we had a firesetter—maybe more than one—on the loose. What was their motive? It was possible the Hardings’ barn had spontaneously ignited, and the excitement of watching it burn had sparked a desire in someone to start another one. A thrill-seeker who thought they were just old barns that weren’t being used anymore, so what was the harm?

  Smoke had noted what made some firesetters tick, but there were many, many more profiles and indicators of others. The list of reasons was a mile long, too. My friend Sara Speiss, a probation officer for Winnebago County, had an arsonist on her caseload some years back. I reached for my home phone on the kitchen counter and dialed her number.

  “Corky, I was going to call you later. Oh my gosh, another barn in your neighborhood?”

  “It’s awful. We don’t believe it’s a coincidence, but we don’t have any proof yet,” I said.

  “That’s not good.”

  “Sara, remember that arson case you had about five years ago? That guy you did the pre-sentence investigation on?”

  “Oh, yes, he’d be a hard one to forget. Mr. ‘I’m smarter than everyone else, and no one will figure out I’m torching my buildings for the insurance money.’”

  I chuckled. “Hey, give the guy some credit. He was right about that for a while.”

  “He was, in the first three states he lived in until he finally screwed up here and got caught by our fine sheriff’s detectives. When the State Fire Marshal linked him to fires in other counties, and then other states, there were enough charges to keep him in prison for a long time to come. When Minnesota’s done with him, he’ll be remanded to the next state waiting in line.”

  “And may never live as a free man again,” I said.

  “Not so smart after all.”

  “I wonder if he’s figured that out?”

  “You’d think. He lit the fires himself. Others hire people to set fires they’re too scared to start themselves.”

  “Not so smart, either. How about those two guys who did it to hide a murder they’d committed? They set out to rob that elderly man in his home. Something went wrong so they shot him, and then lit the house on fire to cover their crime. Happened in Stearns County.”

  “That was a tragic case for sure,” Sara said.

  “Yes, it was. I’ve done research on the mindset of different types of people who set fires, and it’s all over the board. I’m trying to figure out where our firesetter fits in. There’s no specific profile for a serial arsonist, but fortunately they’re pretty rare. Could be male, female, from any social background, often have some sort of physical or mental disability. They tend to be passive, and setting fires is a way for them to have some power and control.”

  “I know they don’t respond well to treatment. But they don’t scare me as much as kids who set fires,” Sara said.

  “I agree. They’re about as likely to die in the fire as not. They don’t know how many incidents there really are because parents, or other adults, don’t always report them.”

  “I get why they don’t, but it’s wrong. Fire setting is not a behavior you should hide from the authorities.”

  “So true. Then you’ve got firesetters who do it as an act of revenge against someone. And the attention seekers, the curious, the anti-social, the pyromaniac. Also very rare,” I said.

  “Thank God.”

  “The strange one for me is the firefighter arsonist. They set a fire and then respond to it.”

  “That is so wrong. Corky, you think any of our guys in Winnebago County would do something like that?”

  “I know most of the guys in the different fire departments. Of course, I don’t want to believe any of them would be involved in that, but it happens and it’s not all that rare. There are even training courses for fire chiefs on how to spot ’em.”

  “You said the barns were torched?” Sara said.

  “It seems obvious, but we don’t have evidence to support that.”

  “And sometimes old structures burn down.”

  “With a little help from the spontaneous combustion of hay bales or manure piles, or a lightning strike—”

  “Or a firesetter,” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  13

  I had just cleared a call in Emerald Lake the next day when my cell phone buzzed. I pulled over to the side of the road and pushed the talk button. “Sergeant Aleckson.”

  “Sergeant, it’s Stuart here at the lab, calling with an update.” He was the DNA scientist at the regional crime lab.

  “Good to hear from you, Stuart. What have you got?”

  “Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, we’ve had zero success finding a DNA match on the blood sample you sent us. Not one hit.”

  “She’s not in the system,” I said.

  “Correct. An
d you’re right about her gender; the subject is female. And I can confirm she is not pregnant. So we got one of your questions answered, anyway.”

  I mouthed a silent “thank you” then said, “And a big question at that. I really appreciate the quick turn around on the DNA test. We’ve had some incidents bordering on criminal activity we’re trying to get to the bottom of. If we figure out who’s behind them, hopefully we can stop her before something else happens.” After the dead rabbit deliveries, what might be next?

  Stuart cleared his throat. “Glad to do what I can on this end, because I couldn’t do what you do out there, dealing with criminals and the things they do. No thank you. Give me the samples to run and the results to analyze, and then you guys can take it from there.”

  I thought of what it’d be like to trade places with Stuart, even for a day. Running scientific tests and looking through a microscope for hours on end would push me over the edge, no doubt about it. “That’s why we have different positions on the team.”

  “And we work for the same victims, and their loved ones,” Stuart said.

  When we hung up, I phoned Vince Weber.

  “Hey, Sarge, what’s the good word?”

  “Actually, I have two of them. Not pregnant.”

  His exhaled sigh of relief came across the phone line loud and clear. “I will get down on my knees as soon as I get out of my car and say ‘thank you,’ to the man upstairs. And what about the DNA? Were they able to get any results on it yet, find a match?”

  “They got it done, but no match showed up in their database.”

  “I guess that doesn’t surprise me if it’s Darcie we’re talkin’ about. I don’t know a reason she’d be in the system,” he said.

  “We’ll need her DNA to compare the sample to. You don’t happen to have an unwashed glass she used at your house, or anything else with her DNA on it?”

  “Huh. No eating or drinking utensils. No articles of clothing.”

  “Did she use your comb or hairbrush?”

  As soon as he said, “Ha!” I laughed. Vince had kept his head shaved for as long as I’d known him. “Do you even own a brush?” I said.

  “That’d be no. No comb, no shampoo, no hairspray, no special gels, no fancy barrettes, nothin’.”

  The thought of the burly Vincent Weber with a head full of gelled hair made me smile. “Maybe I should simplify my life and start shaving my head.”

  “Yeah, you could probably pull it off. And you’re right, a hairless head makes the grooming part of my life a lot simpler.” He chuckled. “Well, I’ll look around for something she might’ve left at my place, see if I can come up with anything.”

  The day was busy with calls, and between one and the next, my thoughts took turns flitting between my mother’s situation and wondering if anything new had turned up on the barn fires. When there was a lull in complaint calls I phoned Smoke to check on the progress of the investigations.

  “On my way to the Harding place now to have another look-see.”

  “I can meet you there.”

  “Sure. Another set of eyes is always good. And your observations are better than a lot of ’em.”

  “I’m in Emerald Lake and should be there in eight or nine.” But a couple of minutes later, I met a Jeep on County Road 9 that my radar clocked doing seventy-one miles an hour. In a fifty-five mph zone. “Wouldn’t you know it?” I slowed down enough to execute a safe U-turn then speeded up to catch the Jeep. By the time I was on his tail he was doing fifty-two, and when I activated the lights, he pulled onto the shoulder.

  I punched in the license number. The plate matched the vehicle description, and the registered owner was someone I knew. With a valid driver’s license and no violations. “Six oh eight, Winnebago County.”

  “Go ahead, Six oh eight,” Robin in Communications said.

  “I’ll be out with plate number Four-Harry-Robert-Two-Four-Five on County Nine by Emerick Avenue.”

  “Copy, at fourteen-eleven.” 2:11 p.m.

  Every time I approached a vehicle on a traffic stop, routine or not, with someone I knew or not, my senses heightened. Along with my sixth sense and need for caution. I’d learned to expect the unexpected. I bent over behind the driver’s shoulder and was only mildly surprised to see it wasn’t Woody Nevins. Instead, a man some years his junior was behind the wheel, wearing a soiled ball cap and clothes that needed to be run through a few washing machine cycles. Dirt was embedded under his fingernails and in the creases of his cracked hands. He was unshaven and unkempt. What was his story?

  “Afternoon, sir. Do you know why I stopped you?”

  The man lifted one hand off the steering wheel and turned it palm up. “I guess I was speeding. When I saw you was behind me, I looked at the speedometer.”

  “I clocked you doing seventy-one.” I pointed at the fifty-five mph speed sign about sixty feet ahead.

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll need your driver’s license and proof of insurance,” I said.

  “Oh.” He momentarily froze then he shifted and pulled out a thin wallet from his back pocket. His hands were a little shaky as he retrieved a worn Minnesota license and handed it over. It was about as grimy as the rest of him.

  When I looked at it I knew why he’d hesitated. “Mr. Warren, it appears your license is expired.”

  His shoulders hitched up slightly. “Ah, I kind of forgot about that. I’ll take care of it.”

  I read the information on the license. Ross Franklin Warren, age thirty-eight. “Is this your current address?”

  Another pause before he answered. “That address is right.”

  “You’re a ways from home.” His city of residence was about forty miles away.

  “I’ve been helping a friend with some chores,” he said.

  “Okay. How about that proof of insurance?”

  “Ah, let me get that for you.” He reached over, pushed the button on the glove box, and let it drop open. He fumbled around until he located the small blue card then looked at it and handed it over.

  “You’re not the registered owner,” I said.

  “This is my friend’s Jeep. He let me borrow it to run an errand.”

  “Your friend’s name?”

  “Woodrow Nevins.”

  “You call him Woodrow?”

  “Ah . . . mostly I call him Woody.”

  “I’ll do some checking and will be back in a bit.” When I opened my car door, cool air rushed out to welcome me. I slid onto the front seat, turned the chiller fan off, and rolled my window partway down. If Warren decided to make a run for it I’d hear the Jeep’s accelerator before I’d see it move.

  I punched Warren’s license number into the mobile data terminal that was bolted to the center console, and the results popped up almost immediately. Aside from two parking violations, he had no driving offenses and wasn’t wanted by any agency in the state on unresolved criminal matters. I phoned Communications. “Robin, it’s Corky. Can you track down a phone number for me, Woody Nevins, Oak Lea address?”

  It took her about thirteen seconds. I thanked her, hung up, and dialed the number. It went to voicemail after eight rings. “Hello, Woody, it’s Sergeant Corinne Aleckson. I’m on a traffic stop with a Ross Warren. He’s driving your Jeep, and says he has your permission to do so. I’m calling to verify that. Give me a call if that’s not the case. Thank you.” I left my number and hung up.

  I pulled a pair of scissors out of my glove box and snipped off the top right corner of Warren’s license number then studied it again. Something felt off, but what was it? My warrant search on Ross Warren didn’t uncover anything so there was nothing to hold him on. I wrote him a ticket for driving with an expired license.

  His car window was still rolled down, and I noticed him watching me approach his vehicle in his side view mirror—like most people did—but for some reason it unnerved me. He was tapping the steering wheel, no doubt wondering what I was going to do. I gave him the altered license and the ticket.
Were his hands shaking from nerves, or was it a medical condition?

  “Are you feeling okay, Mr. Warren?”

  “Ah, a little nervous I guess.” An officer of the law had that affect on people sometimes.

  “No need to be nervous. Your driving record is clean, and I’m not going to spoil it by giving you a citation for speeding. This time. But you need to slow down. As far as your expired license, you have ten days to renew it without penalty. If you don’t, the fine will be added, and you could lose your license.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks. Can I go then?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, and as I turned to leave, I saw him set both the ticket and license on the passenger seat. I got back in my car and sat there wondering what his story was, what was going on in his life.

  “Six oh eight, Winnebago County.”

  “Six oh eight,” Robin said.

  “I’m clearing the traffic stop.”

  “At fourteen twenty-nine.”

  I phoned Smoke. “I heard you take that little detour,” he said.

  “Sometimes those little detours are unavoidable. And in this case, the man I stopped for speeding had an expired license besides.”

  “Happens. There’s no one around at the Hardings’, and I’ve been poking around some more in the rubble.”

  “All righty, see you in a few.”

  When I pulled into the Hardings’ yard, the first thing that struck me was Detective Elton Dawes was one fine figure of a man. From the top of his head on down. My respect and absolute trust in him had grown into deeper personal feelings. I took a moment to drink in his looks, and it brightened my spirits.

  Smoke’s sunglasses rested on top of his head, and his readers sat on the end of his nose. He was covered in both departments. “You finding anything in there?” I asked as I slipped under the yellow tape that spanned across the area where the barn’s wide front door had been then stepped gingerly around charred pieces of wood.

  “Nothing new. I can confirm the source of the fire is right here.” He pointed to an area on the dirt floor that was blackened and had an irregular circular pattern. “But what started it in the first place is a mystery. That brings me back to the likelihood it was deliberately set. But who did it and why is the big question.”