Incendiary Designs

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Thinnes said, “Thanks. Stick around.” He went over for a closer look at Banks. The bloody pulp of her head and upper body was half buried under masonry debris. But her shoes and uniformed legs were almost pristine. Why?

  He signaled the photographer. “You get this from all angles?”

  “S’ the cardinal Catholic?”

  “See if you can get the firemen to run their ladder up for you and get a couple aerial shots?”

  “Why?”

  “You got something better to do right now?”

  “You’re Thinnes, aren’t you? They warned me about you.”

  Thinnes pointed to the hubcap. “Get a couple shots of that, check it for prints, and bag it. And find out what kind of vehicle it came from.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the tech said, but he started shooting the hubcap.

  Thinnes turned to the sergeant, who’d wandered over to eavesdrop on his conversation with the evidence tech. “Have ’em pick up everything that’s breathing within a mile radius of here for questioning. And make sure when they’re doing the canvass they ask if anyone noticed somebody changing a tire around here this morning. And have someone check every gas station and repair shop in the area—see if anyone had a flat fixed.”

  Eight

  Thinnes stopped back at the hospital before returning to the Area. Nolan was in recovery, Oster informed him, but not conscious yet. Nolan’s wife was pacing the hall outside the intensive care unit. She was of Italian ancestry. She had black hair and eyes and was a smoker. Before he approached her, he watched her take cigarettes out of her purse and put them back three times in as many minutes.

  When he couldn’t stand her nicotine withdrawal any longer, he walked over and said, “Mrs. Nolan, I’m Thinnes, Area Three.” A cop’s wife would know what that meant.

  She nodded. “You catch the bastards?”

  “Not yet. Is there anything you can tell me? Your husband get any threats lately? Been in any arguments?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t think I haven’t been racking my brain trying to come up with something.”

  Things back at the Area were getting nuts. There was a TV reporter with a minicam camped out in front and a radio reporter lounging near the police entrance. “Funny,” he heard a black patrolman tell the guy, “but there were three people gunned down on the south side last week, and I didn’t hear of any of you beatin’ feet down there to cover that.”

  Up in the squadroom, Jaime Azul was typing something at one of the unassigned tables near the coffee pots. He paused to salute Thinnes with his index finger then hooked a thumb toward Evanger’s office. “Boss wants to see you.”

  “Thanks. You lookin’ for something to do when you finish that?”

  “Could be.”

  “I need someone to canvass Nolan’s neighborhood, someone who speaks Spanish.” He took the address from his pocket and held it out.

  Azul took it. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Mrs. Nolan says he didn’t have an enemy in the world. See if the neighbors agree.”

  Rhonda picked up the phone on the second ring. When she said hello, Thinnes said, “Hi.”

  “I heard,” she said.

  They’d been planning on a movie at the Old Orchard Theater, and maybe some window-shopping before dinner at Maggiano’s. It would have to be postponed. Thinnes said, “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “I really am.” He stifled the urge to ask her what she’d do instead.

  “I know.”

  “Rain check?”

  “Sure.”

  There was a long pause. Neither of them could think of anything to say, yet neither wanted to hang up. Rhonda caved in first. “I guess maybe I’ll go to my mother’s.”

  Thinnes thought, both of her parents live there, but the house is “mother’s.” He said, “Have fun.”

  “John, is it bad?”

  Bad as it gets, he thought. What he said was, “I have to go tell a man his wife’s not coming home.”

  “Why you?” She didn’t manage to keep the resentment from her voice.

  Thinnes ignored it. He was learning not to take it personally. It wasn’t meant personally. “It’s my case.”

  “Oh.”

  “Page me if…” There was no point in finishing. If you need me was stupid because he couldn’t come until Banks’s killers were nailed down. If you want to talk…They were talking now. There didn’t seem to be any point in telling her how he felt—that if his feelings were electricity, they would have long since shorted out the phone wires, that if they were gold, he could’ve bought Kuwait. Instead he checked to be sure no one around him was listening, then he told her what he thought she wanted to hear. “I love you.”

  She sighed. “I’ll hold that thought.”

  “Just don’t expect to see me any time soon.”

  Nine

  “Son of a bitch!” Fuego held up the composite sketch and shook it. “I know this guy.” He and Thinnes had been watching detective Swann put the finishing touches on the drawing under Dr. Caleb’s direction. “I sent him to the shit house once,” Fuego continued. “Name’s Brian Fahey, aka Wiley. He must be out on parole.” To Caleb he said, “Funny you didn’t spot his graduation picture.”

  Ryan, who’d stuck her head in to see how they were doing, added her two-cents worth. “Let me guess. He sets fires for fun and profit.”

  “Fun, mostly.” Fuego said. “He’s not good enough to make much profit. Gasoline fires are a new trick for Wiley. His usual MO is the old standby cigarette in a matchbook. Uses wax paper for a trailer. Pretty unimaginative but effective.”

  “I’m afraid—” Caleb began.

  “Guy lights a cigarette and sticks it sideways in a pack of matches,” Fuego said, “then puts the matches in contact with some combustible material—like a couch cushion.”

  Caleb nodded. “I see. When the cigarette burns close enough, it sets the matches off. Why not just put the cigarette on the couch?”

  “Too good a chance it won’t generate enough heat for ignition.”

  “What’s a trailer?”

  “Something that leads the fire to other combustibles. And, unlike an accelerant, wax paper doesn’t soak into rugs or floorboards and leave evidence for arson cops.”

  Ryan said, “This Wiley a rocket scientist?”

  Fuego laughed. “Some sarcastic dick gave him that handle. Sommabitch is dumber than a box a hammers. He thought it was a compliment, started telling all his equally bright friends that the cops think he’s a genius.” He turned to Caleb. “Only problem we got is, in order to prove arson, you gotta eliminate all other possible causes of the fire—including acts of God.”

  Ferris entered the room just in time to hear this last. He was short and obnoxious, with receding auburn hair and a permanent sneer. He said “Isn’t it an act of God that mopes like Wiley are so dumb they think they can get away with murder?”

  Fuego looked insulted. “Not my God!”

  Ten

  Thinnes managed to control his anger until he got out of the car at the home of Arlette Banks. He’d followed the district commander’s car, carrying the commander and the chaplain, and curbed his squad behind it on the street. The house was small and well maintained, with carefully trimmed bushes and mulched, dormant flower beds.

  When the quiet man who’d married Arlette Banks opened the door for them, a sudden surge of rage made Thinnes feel light-headed. He steadied himself against the porch rail. As the chaplain said, “Mr. Banks?” Thinnes fought the urge to hit something. Anger interfered with thought; homicide cops had to keep it under wraps.

  Banks needed a full second to understand the chaplain’s question. He was a medium complected black man with a trim Afro and mustache. He said, “Arlette?” His expression showed the likelihood that he thought his worst nightmare had come true.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Banks.” The chaplain really did seem sorry.

  Banks swallowed as tears filled his eyes and spi
lled over. He backed through the doorway and gestured for them to follow. Inside, he stopped in the center of his neat living room. He crossed one arm over his chest and covered his face with the other, sobbing silently. Thinnes felt overcome by his own anger, and he could see the commander alternate between discomfort and shaking rage. Banks seemed to have forgotten them.

  He stopped crying when a child’s voice called, “Daddy?” He rubbed his cheeks dry against the shoulders of his shirt and wiped away the last of the tears with his palms. He seemed to have himself pretty much in control by the time a girl of about five came running into the room. She stopped when she spotted the strangers, then crept forward to stand next to her father, reaching up to take his hand.

  “Daddy?” She hung on his hand and shifted from foot to foot.

  “What, honey?”

  She looked up at him and said, “Are you sad, Daddy?” She lay her cheek against the back of his hand.

  Banks had to swallow before he could answer. “Yes, honey. I’m sad.”

  The girl looked up at him again and patted the hand. “When mommy gets home you’ll feel happy.”

  He clapped his free hand over his mouth and sobbed, and the chaplain hurried over to put an arm around him. The girl rested her cheek against Banks and stared at Thinnes and the commander.

  When Banks had himself under control again, the chaplain moved away. Banks said, “Lena, would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure, Daddy.”

  “Would you go call Aunt Dolly and ask her if she can come over right away. Tell her it’s very important.”

  “Okay, Daddy.” She skipped from the room with nervous, backward glances, giving the impression she was putting up a brave front.

  “Dolly’s my sister,” Banks said when she was gone. “She’ll come and watch Lena. I’ll have to notify Arlette’s parents.”

  Thinnes didn’t envy him that duty.

  Lena skipped back into the room with a portable phone that she held up toward her father. “Aunt Dolly wants to talk to you.”

  Banks reached for the phone but before his hand contacted it, he waved the girl back and pressed a hand over his mouth, muttering, “I can’t.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” the commander said. He looked at Lena. “May I?” She handed it to him. He walked toward the front door, saying, “Is this Aunt Dolly?” into the phone. He went outside and pulled the door shut.

  Thinnes, meanwhile, introduced himself to Banks. “I’m sorry to have to bother you at a time like this, sir, but there are questions…”

  Banks sighed and turned to the chaplain. “Reverend, could you read Lena a story?”

  “Surely.”

  “Lena,” Banks told his daughter, “Detective Thinnes and I have to talk business.”

  “Grown-up talk?”

  “That’s right. The reverend will read you a story in the kitchen. Do you want to go choose a book and show him where the kitchen is?”

  She nodded solemnly and held her hand up for the reverend. He closed his huge hand around it, and she led him away.

  The commander came in and put the phone down. “Your sister’s coming,” he told Banks.

  “I always knew this would happen,” Banks said. “We talked about it before Arly got pregnant. We decided that life is uncertain at best, so why not? We always agreed that the secret of happiness is to find what you love to do and do it well. Arly loved being a cop. And she was good.” He looked from the commander to Thinnes. “How?”

  Thinnes won the waiting game. The commander finally said, “She and her partner were attacked by a group of deranged individuals. Arlette was…”

  “Beaten to death, Mr. Banks,” Thinnes finished for him. “I’m sorry.”

  “And Nolan?”

  “He’s in surgery. We’re hoping he’ll be able to give us a description of your wife’s killers.”

  Banks nodded but didn’t seem hopeful or particularly interested. Shock, Thinnes decided. He asked the usual questions, discovering nothing. Banks had had no enemies that her husband knew of, no vindictive neighbors.

  “What do you do for a living?” Thinnes asked him.

  “I teach sixth-grade science.”

  “Just one more question, sir. Can you think of anyone who’d harm your wife in order to hurt you?”

  “No.” Banks’s expression made Thinnes think he couldn’t even imagine anyone doing such a thing.

  “We’re gonna get these people, Mr. Banks,” the commander said. “You can put money on it.”

  Eleven

  Save for his cats, Caleb’s lakefront condo was deserted. He locked the door and set the alarm. Sigmund Freud was perched on the back of a nearby chair, with his feet gathered under him. He stood and pushed his rump upward as Caleb ran a hand down his back.

  “Where’s Psyche?” Caleb asked.

  Freud followed him as he got a glass of cabernet from the bar at the far side of the room and drifted into the bathroom. The cat watched him undress. He dropped the borrowed scrubs on the bathroom floor and used the full-length mirror behind the door to inspect his bruises. Tomorrow they’d be horror-film spectacular.

  When he had finished showering and was ensconced—with a refill of cabernet—on the couch in the living room, Psyche made her harlequin appearance. The small, white, orange, and black cat strolled out of hiding with affected indifference, but when Caleb picked her up, she purred like a vibrator.

  For a few minutes, he sat and stroked her and stared at the desert landscape on the wall over the fireplace. The painting had recently replaced his lover’s portrait. Chris died nearly seven years ago, and the migraine of Caleb’s loss had faded to a wistful loneliness. He hadn’t felt despair, which can be a kind of passion, or passion itself, for ages. Though the memory of his love lingered, it was devoid of the extremes of feeling that gave the word its meaning.

  He put the cat down and took up the book he was currently reading. He’d found himself doing this more lately, even turning down invitations in order to stay home and read. During the past year, he’d been going through the motions, dating occasionally, frequenting Buddies’ and Gentry and enjoying the atmosphere, but going home alone. Occasionally he allowed himself to be seduced by a gorgeous face or figure, or an original line, but the attraction rarely lasted the evening. He’d begun to examine friends of long standing with an eye toward getting beyond friendship, but there was something irritating or intolerable about each that would have prevented domestic tranquillity. Too often, he found himself wishing he were home, preferring the company of his cats to most of the people he was meeting.

  As a psychiatrist, he recognized this ennui and lack of initiative as symptomatic of depression, but, he rationalized, reading was like getting the best conversation from interesting people, with the annoying quirks and personality traits filtered out. He agreed with the anonymous authors of Genesis that it’s not good for man to be alone, but he didn’t want to settle for sex or friendship. He wanted passion. He wanted romance.

  He had a routine life, a condo on the Gold Coast full of exquisite possessions, and season tickets for the Lyric and the Bulls, but no one with whom to share them.

  Twelve

  Nolan had suffered a concussion, two broken ribs, moderately severe lacerations of the liver, and minor bruises and burns. The doctors had had to operate to repair the lacerations. Thinnes didn’t get to interview him until he was stabilized and moved to intensive care. He was still groggy, Oster reported, but at least they’d taken the tubes out and he could talk. Oster had waited to question Nolan until Thinnes was present.

  Nolan’s first words were, “How’s Banks?” So Thinnes didn’t escape breaking the news.

  Nolan was outwardly quiet while he took it in, but one of the nurses came rushing into the room to see why his monitors were going crazy. Eventually she went back to her station and Nolan told his story.

  He and Banks had been near the end of an uneventful tour. They’d stopped—it was a habit—to get coffee and donuts b
efore heading back to the District to wrap up their paperwork. They were pulling out of the donut place when they’d heard a woman screaming, and a man flagged them down. He’d pointed to a nearby alley, then run down it.

  “You didn’t call it in?” Oster sounded unbelieving.

  “We didn’t know what it was yet. We pulled down the alley after the guy, and there was a body lying facedown—no sign of anyone else. Banks got out to see what was wrong; I reached for the radio. Something came up alongside the car—I could just see the movement out of the corner of my eye. Then something hit me.

  “The next thing I remember, I was in the back seat of the squad with my hands cuffed behind me and some asshole pouring gas all over the car. I thought I was a goner. Then this big, half-naked guy came charging up. I realized he was probably just a runner, but to me he looked like Jesus Christ and the marines all rolled up in one.”

  The killing of a cop usually brought out the worst in the Department, even though—since certain court decisions and an epidemic of civil lawsuits—justice was no longer summary or administered ex officio. The minute Arlette Banks was reported missing, every station in the city was suddenly like an ant hill kicked open. Fire ants!

  The way things worked—when they worked like they should—was that the cops contacted their snitches and word got around that things would be uncomfortable until the killer was in the bag. You didn’t worry about probable cause, either. Probable could always be found. Some cops manufactured it, but Thinnes never had. Never had to. Long ago—maybe three weeks into his Academy training—he’d noticed that citizens in the land of the free had more laws telling them how to act than any three other countries. Anybody you observed for more than five minutes was bound to break one of them.

  As soon as they got back to the Area, Thinnes sent Oster back to the hospital with mug books, one of which contained a picture of Wiley Fahey. Then he checked to see if Fuego had gotten hold of Wiley’s parole officer yet—he hadn’t.