Incendiary Designs

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  For a fraction of a second, Martin looked ready to cry. Then the sense of what Caleb was telling him must have penetrated, because he nodded.

  A relationship of any worth or substance was built up over time, with each encounter revealing more, friendship growing by accretion as each successive layer of the personality was revealed—the cliché of the onion came to mind. Caleb knew that the electricity he felt was principally infatuation. Yet without it, no one would ever get close enough to bond. He finished his drink and put the glass down. He studied Martin’s face, trying to memorize every line and lovely feature. He smiled and gently touched Martin’s cheek. “I think we need to take this slowly.”

  Thirty-Eight

  According to Oster, the Mrs. Ori who owned the factory with the cooler was the dead man’s aunt, and even though she’d had a poor opinion of Dino Ori, his death was a shock. She couldn’t help them, though. She hadn’t given her nephew permission to use the cooler. She hadn’t seen him in a month or more.

  When you thought about it, Thinnes decided, it was amazing how many people you met postmortem whose lives and personalities you pieced together from other people’s reports and impressions and from the kind of trouble they’d gotten into that got them killed. What was even more surprising was how real some of them became, so you could almost swear you’d met them. And how some were never more real than a poor newspaper photo. Like Dino Ori. Even though he had a color photo of the guy—antemortem, as the ME called it—Thinnes couldn’t get the picture from the cooler, of the bloated, maggot-covered Ori, out of his head. Other people’s impressions of him didn’t help much either—deadbeat, failure, fuckup, disappointment to his long-dead mother, God rest her soul.

  Oster said he’d get with Animal Control and contact the Conservation police about the poaching angle. Thinnes was happy to let him deal with it. The ME had left the manner of death up in the air pending toxicology results, which was fine with Thinnes. He had plenty of other cases to work. Besides, he admitted to himself, he was hooked on Art Fuego’s arson mystery, particularly as solving it promised to answer his unresolved questions about Arlette Banks’s death.

  Before he took off, Oster said, “Oh, yeah, Thinnes, Fuego said he’ll stop by this afternoon and bring us up to speed.”

  After lunch, they assembled in the Area Three conference room, where Fuego laid his notes and case files out on the conference table. “What do you guys know about fire?” he asked.

  “I know when somebody yells fire, if you got any sense, you get out,” Oster said.

  “Didn’t you ever want to be a fireman?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, did you ever see the movie Backdraft?”

  Thinnes nodded. Oster said, “Yeah, so?”

  “Well just about everything in that movie is bunk. I was never in a fire you could see farther ahead in than six inches. The only accurate part was what DeNiro said about fire being alive. That was right on—it is alive. And it eats people and houses and anything else combustible. And it breathes air.”

  “Tell us about arson,” Thinnes said.

  “It’s an equal opportunity crime—females do it just as easy as males, whites, blacks, Hispanics, young and old. Doesn’t take any special brains or talent.”

  “So where do you start with it?” Oster said.

  “You walk around the outside. Look for signs of forced entry. Unless he’s gonna lob a Molotov cocktail at his victim, an arsonist is like any other criminal. He has to gain entry first. So you look for windows broken in, not out, jimmied doors, things like that. You make diagrams, take pictures—document everything. You work from the least burned areas to the most burned. You save what you think is your point of origin for last because once you’ve determined that, you’ve got no justification for poking into less involved areas. You don’t talk to anyone and you don’t let anyone into the scene until you’ve worked it all out.

  “You’ve got to document everything with pictures and physical evidence, just like any other crime. Only for arson, you’re looking for the remains of incendiary devices and traces of foreign combustible materials.”

  “Foreign?”

  “Yeah. Stuff you wouldn’t ordinarily expect to find in the premises—like gasoline in the kitchen. With a real pro, you won’t find anything—they use whatever’s available.”

  Oster nodded.

  “Then, to prove arson, you have to eliminate sheer stupidity, accidents, and acts of God. Usually it’s not easy.”

  “Okay,” Thinnes said. “So where are we with these cases? What’ve we got for a common denominator? Just the MO?”

  “The Ronzani fire totally destroyed his apartment and left the building a virtual loss. His estate collected exactly thirty-seven thousand dollars, about one-third what the building was worth. It was sold to…” Fuego consulted his notes, “…a real estate developer named Michael Wellman.”

  “Who handled the sale?”

  “You mean the realtor?”

  “Realtor, lawyer, whatever.”

  “Don’t know.” Fuego made a note on his things-to-check list.

  “Let’s find out what kind of commission the realtors got—on all of these.”

  Fuego picked up another file. “This one did $50,000 worth of damage to a building worth $75,000. Owner says he’s arguing with the insurance company about whether they’ll fix it or write it off.”

  “Same insurance company?”

  Fuego looked in the file. “No.”

  “Same agent?”

  “No.”

  “Same realtor?”

  “Nah. Wait. Same as for four of the others, but it’s a neighborhood firm so it could be just a proximity thing.”

  “I think maybe we’d better bring Evanger up to speed on this thing. And then we’ll check out Mr. Wellman.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Caleb was making notes in the file of the patient who’d just departed when his intercom buzzed. Irene Sleighton’s voice said, “Dr. Caleb, there’s a woman here to see you.”

  Caleb smiled. “Woman” was Irene’s code for a rude or pushy female person who didn’t have an appointment. He thanked Irene and finished his notation. When he’d put the file away, he crossed to the waiting room to inspect his visitor.

  She was an expensive if not a natural ash blond, and her eyes were an even more unnatural shade of violet. Her makeup was flawless. Her clothes and accessories said money even more definitively than her hair. They were flattering though too obviously expensive, and the simple gold and diamond jewelry underscored the dollar signs. Tasteful new money.

  She walked across the waiting room like a queen taking possession of a new territory, and said, “I’m Helen Morgan.” She held her hand out at a slight angle, as if giving him a choice—to shake it or kiss it.

  Caleb shook it firmly enough to give an impression of strength without causing discomfort.

  She rewarded him with an appraisal verging on a leer.

  “Would you like to come into my office, Ms. Morgan?”

  She smiled, as if that was exactly what she had in mind. “Mrs. Morgan.”

  Caleb nodded, then stood aside to let her precede him into the room. He closed the door. “Won’t you sit down?” He didn’t indicate a particular seat, preferring to let her tell him about herself by her choice.

  She looked the room over quickly but—Caleb was sure—thoroughly. Then she walked over to his desk, and behind it as if to sit in his chair. She was watching for his reaction. He hid the annoyance he felt and waited. She moved to the conversation area, sat down on the couch, and crossed her legs.

  He sat opposite. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Morgan?”

  She put her purse on her lap and started digging through it, though he was certain she knew precisely where everything was inside. Eventually she pulled out a box of Virginia Slims. “Got an ashtray?”

  Caleb produced one from a drawer in the small table next to his chair. She made a production of taking a cigarette out of the
pack, tapping it on the box, then making a V-for victory sign with her hand to hold it between her index and third fingers. She shook it back and forth at him.

  “Got a match?”

  “Sorry.”

  Caleb crossed one leg over the other and clasped his fingers together over his kneecap. Then he leaned back to watch her reaction.

  She put her free hand on her thigh, just above the knee, and the hand with the cigarette on top of it. She leaned forward and said, “My husband’s seeing you, isn’t he?”

  “What leads you to believe that, Mrs. Morgan?”

  She leaned back and laughed, then waved the hand with the cigarette. “Just like Eliza.”

  “The computer program that mimics a therapist?”

  “Answer a question with a question. It must be a stitch when a bunch of you shrinks get together.” Caleb waited. “That tactic won’t work with me. I want a straight answer.”

  “I repeat, what leads you to believe Mr. Morgan is seeing me?”

  “It’s Dr. Morgan. I found your card in his wallet.”

  “I see. Well, if you are a doctor’s wife, you know that confidentiality concerns would prevent me from telling you even if your husband were my patient.”

  She laughed and started to put the cigarette back in its package. “Were? So he’s not your patient. What’s your business with him?”

  “I think you better ask him.”

  “As if he’d tell me.”

  Caleb stood up. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. If there’s nothing else…”

  She didn’t budge. “What if I wanted to—what’s the word—hire you?”

  “I’m not taking on any additional patients at this time, but if you’d like a referral…”

  She stood up and said, “Forget it,” then shoved the cigarette pack into her purse. “I’m not the one who can’t get it up.”

  Forty

  The patient was a woman in her early forties. She was wearing wire-rimmed glasses; gold Laurel Birch earrings; a man’s white shirt—open at the neck—with a World Wildlife Fund tie featuring big cats; black slacks; and black leather shoes. She had silver rings on all but her left ring finger and on both thumbs. “Do you realize,” she said, “how hard it is to concentrate when you’re in love?”

  It took Caleb a full ten seconds to notice it wasn’t a rhetorical question, and another ten to process the question. He looked down at his notepad where he’d inscribed the name “Martin” and enclosed it with a heart. He felt himself blush.

  “I’m manic,” the woman continued. “I can’t sit still. I feel like turning cartwheels, but I’d probably break my neck. I can’t think of anything but him. When I’m with him, I babble. When I’m not with him, I’m lost in space.”

  “The technical term for it is infatuation, and I’m afraid it’s incurable. I can’t even offer any symptomatic relief. Fortunately, it’s self-limiting.”

  “Meaning?”

  “An emotional state neither the mind nor the body can sustain indefinitely. You’ll get over it.”

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “I’ll bet you can answer that yourself.”

  “Take it slow. And be sure he’s not married, or a psycho or serial killer before I get too involved.” She frowned. “How do I know if he’s what he seems?”

  “What’s your gut feeling?”

  She twisted the ring around on her right middle finger. “All my feelings are centered lower than that these days.”

  She slid the ring up and down. No ambiguity there. Caleb smiled.

  “It’s catch-22,” she said. “If he doesn’t try to get in your pants by the second or third date, you think he’s gay or something’s wrong with him. But if he does offer to jump in the sack, he probably never heard of safe sex. You have any idea? No, you’re probably happily married…”

  Caleb laughed, ignoring the invitation for self-disclosure.

  “…And even if he doesn’t jump your bones the first date, how many are enough? How do you know when you know?”

  “Those may be the central questions of the human comedy. But we’ll have to work on them next time…”

  After he’d seen the patient out, Caleb dialed his attorney. “I’d like you to make some discreet inquiries,” he told him, “about a Dr. Martin Morgan.”

  “What is this?” Harrison asked when Caleb had given him Martin’s basic statistics.

  “He’s hinted at a future partnership. He seems too good to be true.”

  “He probably is if you don’t trust him.”

  “No. It’s more my own objectivity I don’t trust. I like Dr. Morgan very much.”

  “Okay. How deep do you want me to dig?”

  “I need to know if he has any dangerous vices and whether he’s been unfaithful to his wife.”

  Caleb’s last phone call was to an internist he knew who practiced at Evanston hospital, Dr. Athens.

  “Do you know Dr. Martin Morgan?” he asked him.

  “Family practitioner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure, why?”

  “I was thinking of using him for referrals.”

  “You could use me for referrals.”

  “The man who recently complained he didn’t have time to speed-dial his broker?”

  “Touché.” Caleb waited. “I’ve never heard anything bad about him. His patients seem devoted.”

  “But?”

  “He doesn’t play golf.”

  “Unquestionably a character defect.”

  Athens laughed.

  “So what does he do with his spare time if he doesn’t play golf?”

  Athens had lost interest. “Oh, I don’t know. You can’t shut him up about his kids if he gets started so maybe he’s one of those cheerleader dads who goes to all the Little League games and recitals. Or maybe he actually spends time with his wife.”

  Having met the wife, Caleb really doubted that.

  Forty-One

  They checked out Michael Wellman before they went to see him. On paper at least, he didn’t seem like the type who had to torch buildings for folding money. And it didn’t make sense that a man with so much would commit murder—though he might not think of hiring a torch to “clear” valuable real estate that way—just to get property he could afford to buy at ten times the price. At any rate, there were none of the usual flags—no outstanding debts or judgments, no upcoming divorce, no record of compulsive gambling or heavy drug use. The only odd thing they found out about him was that he’d never had a driver’s license. He had an office suite in the Sears Tower.

  The marble, glass, and chrome reception area was standard and pretty much a variation on the main lobby off Franklin—plush carpet, decorator art, designer receptionist. Wellman’s personal office was like a kid’s playground, complete with big-screen TV and a telescope trained on the lake front. He also had a Habitrail populated by gerbils, a pinball machine, and a pool table with the model of a development project set up on it. The walls that weren’t glass were decorated with posters of Michael Jordan, Walter Payton, and Ryne Sandberg—autographed—and The Grateful Dead. The Gateway, fax machine, and copier sported rows of dancing teddy bears, and the shredder had a rose-and-skull decal.

  Wellman was as tall as Thinnes with thick, graying black hair, hazel eyes, and an extensive tan.

  The chairs he offered them were office variety, just like the one he took on the other side of the conference-size table he was using for a desk. It was piled with papers and blueprints, as well as a remote for the TV and a Chicago Monopoly game in progress.

  He sat back in his chair, which rocked and swiveled, and laced his fingers together behind his head. “What can I do for you guys?” Before they could answer, he straightened up and said, “Would you like something to drink? Ice tea or pop or something?”

  Oster shook his head; Thinnes said, “No, thanks.”

  “Then what can I do for you?” Wellman crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his
knee, and jiggled his foot.

  “We’re investigating an arson fire in the neighborhood where we’ve been informed you own property. We’d like to know how you came to buy the Ronzani place and get some history on the area and the situation there.”

  Wellman leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head as he thought about it. “Sure thing.” He rocked back and forth, jiggling his foot. He didn’t seem nervous as much as hyperactive. “I tried to buy it while the old man was alive, but he wasn’t interested. Afterward, a realtor who knew I was interested contacted me.”

  “How important was that property to your project?” Thinnes asked.

  Wellman got up to pace back and forth along his side of the table. “It’s not really a project yet. It’s like the west side was a while ago. There’s still some viable housing stock that could be rehabbed, as well as plenty of vacant lots and buildings that are beyond hope. What’s going to happen hasn’t quite sorted itself out yet, but when it does, I’ll be in a position to move on it.”

  “Has anybody come to you with an offer to expedite the process?” Oster asked.

  “No. And I’d certainly send him packing if he did.”

  “How’s that?” Thinnes asked.

  “It would encourage the wrong element to take an interest.”

  “But it would speed things up,” Oster said.

  Wellman laughed. “As if that were needed. Advance planning in this game, Detective, is twenty or thirty years. I have enough projects on the front burner to keep me busy for ten. By that time, this region will be…” He shrugged. “The question will be settled, and I’ll be on top of it, whichever way it goes. I don’t need to cut anyone in or share the profits.”

  “What can you tell us about the realtor who handled the Ronzani property?” Thinnes asked. “What’s his name?”

  “Cox. He’s been in the area forever and has a good reputation. And he had the property I wanted at a price that wasn’t out of line with my long-range projections. I probably could’ve gotten it for less by holding out, but it doesn’t hurt to let the locals make something as well. And there was a hint that someone else was interested, so it seemed prudent to move on it.”