by Greg Dinallo
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Early the next morning, wisps of gray smoke were still spiraling upward from the burned-out bungalow. The stucco was blackened and cracked. Whole sections of the tile roof had collapsed. And almost every window had been blown out. Merrick’s Blazer was at the curb along with a fire truck, Logan’s ATF van, and a coroner’s wagon. Several firemen were patrolling the grounds with extinguishers, knocking down hot spots.
Marge and Lilah Graham were standing on the lawn amid the scorched and charred items the firemen had removed from the house. Lilah had spent the night in a local hospital, where she was treated for minor bums and smoke inhalation. Her mother had spent it with neighbors after being treated at the scene. They were staring at the aftermath in stunned silence when a gurney with Doug Graham’s sheet-wrapped body was rolled from the house. Marge recoiled at the sight; then, tears streaming down her face, she pulled Lilah into a crushing embrace as two women in blue jumpsuits wheeled the gurney down the walkway and into the rear of a black van.
“You okay?” Marge asked as she disengaged.
Lilah nodded stiffly.
“Well, as I always say . . . ” She saw the look in her daughter’s eyes and let it trail off. “I guess the good Lord decided to take him sooner than later.”
Lilah nodded again.
“And you won’t be calling and asking, ‘Is Daddy there?’ anymore, will you?” Marge prompted, her voice trembling with emotion.
“No, and . . . and I won’t be parking behind your car anymore, either,” Lilah said with a trace of bitterness.
Her mother responded with a soft, puzzled smile. “I’m glad to hear it, Lilah, but what does that have to do with this?”
“Come on, Mom.”
“Come on, Mom, what?”
“You really expect me to believe you don’t know?”
Marge shrugged and splayed her hands.
“It was because I didn’t want you to leave, Mom. Because I was afraid to be alone with him.”
“Afraid?” Marge wondered, clearly baffled. “Afraid of your father? Why? He never laid a hand on you. Never struck you. Your father loved you, Lilah.”
“I loved him too.”
“Of course, everyone did. He was a fine, decent man. Respected by his coworkers, his friends, his fellow churchgoers. There wasn’t a person who didn’t have something good to say about Daddy. Why, just the other day in the market when I was buying flowers—”
“Forget it, Mom,” Lilah interrupted. “That’s not going to work anymore.”
“What’s not going to work? You’re always making these . . . these ambiguous remarks. How am I supposed to know what you’re talking about if you don’t—”
“Mom? Mom!” Lilah interrupted. “For once in your life, just shut up and listen, will you? I’m talking about your mindless chatter. Your—your endless prattling. The way you—”
“Mindless chatter?”
“Yes, it’s a defense. It’s how you keep people from saying things you don’t want to hear.”
“You have something to say to me, Lilah, say it.”
Lilah’s eyes hardened like gemstones and locked on to her mother’s. Then, in a steady, unemotional tone that belied her anger, she replied, “He raped me.”
Marge Graham shuddered as if struck by Lightning and emitted a feeble cry. Thirty years of denial had been stripped away in less than thirty seconds. The wound was raw. The pain excruciating.
“He touched me,” Lilah went on evenly. “And he made me touch him, and—and taste him. He forced me to have sex with him over and over. Whenever he was home and you weren’t. Every chance he got until I went away to college.”
The first blow had caught Marge Graham off guard. Her reaction was genuine and deeply felt, but decades of conditioning had trained and toughened her; and she quickly recovered, steeling herself to the onslaught that followed.
By the time Lilah finished, Marge’s eyes had taken on the blank, emotionally deadened stare of a corpse. “I have to go now,” she said, as if they’d been talking about shopping. “I’m expected back at the Whites’ for coffee. I don’t suppose you want to come along.” It was a statement, not a question, and she began walking toward a neighbor’s home before Lilah could reply.
Inside the burned-out bungalow, Merrick was munching some Turns and washing them down with coffee while sorting through the debris scattered around the remains of Doug Graham’s recliner. The old fellow had lived in it, violated his daughter in it, and died in it. Last night he’d heard the fire bomb explode, heard his wife’s screams, and, upon awakening to blinding smoke and raging fire, tried to get out of the recliner; but his lungs filled with the deadly fumes and, in his frail and weakened condition, he passed out before he could get to his feet.
Logan began taking photographs of the blackened chair at Merrick’s direction. The flash of the strobe, always startling in the sooty darkness of a fire scene, got Fletcher’s attention immediately.
The young A.I. was in the entry hall where the fire bomb had erupted, digging through the debris. He paused briefly, wondering why they were photographing the recliner, then resumed his excavating. Nothing of the corrugated box or its deadly contents remained, but beneath the chunks of charred framing and plaster strewn across the floor, Fletcher unearthed a craggy rectangular depression. It had burned completely through the fused synthetic carpeting and “crocodiled” the hardwood below. “We have us a flash point here,” he called out.
Merrick drifted over and took a few moments to examine it. “Flash point? How do you figure that?”
“The bum pattern,” Fletcher replied, plucking a roll of crime scene tape from his field kit. “It’s just like the other two. Same size. Same shape. Same explosive distribution of accelerant.”
“Possible,” Merrick mused, seemingly unmoved. “On the other hand, it could’ve been made by some piece of highly flammable debris.”
“Like what?”
“Like a plastic picture frame,” Merrick replied. “That wall was covered with ’em. One could’ve easily blown off and landed here. Those ethylene-based polymers burn real hot.”
“Get serious,” Fletcher said, tying the yellow tape to a piece of charred framing. “We’re talking a fire bomb in a box, Dan. You know why I’m so sure? Because I’ve got the best damned teacher in the business. He taught me to call ’em as I see ’em, and that’s what I’m doing.”
“He’d be pretty pissed off if you didn’t,” Merrick countered smartly. “But he also taught you that things aren’t always what they seem, right off.”
Fletcher’s face twisted with confusion. “I don’t get it,” he said, toying with the roll of crime scene tape. “You saying this wasn’t an arson fire?”
“I’m saying to consider the possibility.”
“Why? We found the flash point. It’s the same M.O. as the other two. And we know it was the doc.”
Merrick stared at the young A.I. for a long moment, then nodded. “One of her.”
Fletcher looked at Merrick like he was crazy.
“She’s two people, Billy,” Merrick explained in a confidential tone. “Thanks to this"—he gestured to the burned-out recliner shell—"the one who sent the incendiaries is gone. The one out there is a victim.”
“A victim . . .”Fletcher echoed sardonically.
Merrick nodded. “You are the guy who lectured me about standing up for them, aren’t you? Well, that’s what a victim who’s been through hell looks like.”
“Bullshit,” Fletcher erupted. “The pile of burned flesh they put on that gurney is what a—”
Merrick’s lips tightened into a thin, angry line. “Bastard had it coming,” he interrupted. “He abused her, Billy. He sexually abused her.”
Fletcher cringed and turned pale. “Aw, for God’s sakes,” he finally moaned. “Makes you want to throw up.”
“Makes you want to give the lady a break.”
“The abuse excuse?” Fletcher prompted, referring to his me
ntor’s hard-line stance. “We’re still talking homicide here, Dan. It’s not our job to be judge and jury. I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Then don’t,” Merrick retorted sharply. “I need you to work with me on this, Billy. It’s important to me. Really important.”
“Important enough to put our careers on the line?”
“I’m not asking you to do that. I’m the senior A.I. here. I sign the report. I take the rap if it goes wrong.”
Fletcher looked puzzled. “Why? Why take the chance? I mean, even if you did, how do we account for those goodies in her garage?”
“You mean the fertilizer, mothballs, charcoal lighter—that stuff?”
Fletcher nodded.
“Nothing that other people don’t have in theirs.”
“And the beepers?”
“Most commonly used model in L.A. All registered to her mother. And we know it wasn’t her.”
“There’s still the printing on the blackboard.”
“Probably been erased by now.”
“But that med student saw it. You can’t erase the memory of a witness.”
“I can blur it a little. I mean, soon as he hears about her old man, he’s going to swear there’s no way he could testify it was the same printing as the box.”
Fletcher sighed, wrestling with the dilemma. “A man died here, Dan. There’s no getting around that. What do we put in the report?”
“He fell asleep smoking. More domestic fires start that way than all others combined, right?” Merrick pointed to the charred recliner without waiting for a reply. “Put an evidence tag on that and take it downtown.”
“I don’t know,” Fletcher said. “I’m still—”
“I do, dammit!” Logan interrupted, his voice ringing with impatience and authority. Arms folded across his chest, the old-timer had stood quietly aside throughout, like a wise parent, letting scrapping siblings go at it for a while before stepping in. “You two finished?”
Merrick and Fletcher were taken aback by his outburst, and nodded curiously.
“Good,” Logan growled. “Now that you got that out of your systems, I’m going to tell you what’s really going to happen with this lady.”
“Be wasting your breath, Pete,” Merrick said.
“Maybe, but it’s my right and I’m older than you.”
“Shoot,” Fletcher said, anticipating support.
Merrick cocked his head challengingly, then nodded.
A short time later Lilah was standing alone amid the burned and blackened items on the lawn when Fletcher and Logan emerged with the recliner and set it down next to her. Lilah shuddered at the sight of it.
The wooden frame had been turned into a charred skeleton, and most of the slipcover and upholstery had been incinerated, exposing the blackened springs—all except the areas that had been beneath Doug Graham’s body and were still intact. The loose pieces of the slipcover had fused to his warm-up suit and went with him onto the gurney. Lilah was staring at what was left of the original fabric, the fabric in which she buried her face as a child when her father decided to show her how much he loved her, the fabric she glimpsed the day her mother unzipped the slipcover, the fabric with the yellow, white, and purple flowers exploding against a jungle-green background of twisting foliage and vines—the fabric of her nightmare.
Logan backed the ATF van into the driveway. Merrick helped Fletcher load the recliner into the rear. He waited until his colleagues had driven off before crossing to Lilah. “Whenever you’re ready, Doc.”
Lilah watched the van and its unnerving cargo turn the corner, then nodded resignedly. “Could I have a few minutes to look around inside first?”
“Sure, take all the time you like.”
“That’s not funny, Lieutenant,” Lilah said, twisting a length of hair around her finger. The flame-red waves had been severely singed by the fire and hung around her face lifelessly. “We both know what happened and what’s going to happen next.”
Merrick nodded grimly. “Yeah, me and the guys were just kicking that around. You know any good criminal defense attorneys?”
“No,” Lilah sighed glumly, “but I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding one.”
“Yeah, soon as you do, you’ll be taken downtown and formally charged. That’ll be followed by a bail hearing at which the arson investigator’s report and recommendations are filed. Don’t ask me why, but I got this weird feeling that you’re going to be released on your own recognizance.”
Lilah was awestruck. She tried to speak but could only mouth the word, Released?
Merrick nodded matter-of-factly and resumed. “Then, sometime in the next couple of weeks, you, and I, and your counsel are going to sit down with an assistant district attorney and a judge and go over the whole story. Chances are you ‘II end up pleading no contest to a mutually acceptable charge, and cut a deal for community service and maybe some sort of a fine.”
Lilah stared at him in utter disbelief. It seemed as if an eternity passed before she heard herself saying, “I’m still not sure I understand.”
“I think it has to do with whether or not a person does something by choice,” Merrick explained. “You know, of their own free will?”
Lilah was stunned and delighted and afraid to accept what he was suggesting. “I thought you’d dismissed that theory out of hand?”
“Totally. I couldn’t function if I played by those rules; but I know an exception when I see one.”
“Does that mean you don’t think I was responsible for what I did?”
“For what who did?” Merrick replied. “That’s the question as I understand it.”
“I’d say it’s a very fine line in this case.”
“Not according to your buddy, Schaefer.”
“You talked to Paul about this?”
Merrick nodded uncomfortably. “He helped me figure out what was going on with you and . . . and your father.”
Lilah looked away for a moment, and bit her lip. “You think he was responsible?”
“That’s in your bailiwick, isn’t it? You think he had a choice?”
Lilah nodded sadly. “Yes, I’m afraid he did.”
“Well,” Merrick said, suggesting she’d answered her own question, “it’s over. Get on with your life.”
Lilah stared at him for a long moment. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
Merrick shrugged in his shaggy way and broke into an affectionate smile. Lilah sensed the meaning—at least she thought she did, hoped to God she did—and returned it. They were standing there, looking into each other’s eyes longingly, when his phone twittered. “Dammit,” Merrick growled, knowing what it meant. “Yeah, Gonzo—yeah, just wrapping it up. What’s doing?”
“For openers,” Gonzalez replied, “a witness to the Laguna burn saw a dark green van in the area.”
“No kidding? Sounds like we’re talking the same pyro as Las Flores.”
“It gets better. The crew sifting the flash point found a matchbook igniter and an empty cigarette pack.”
‘Way to go. Have ’em run it for prints and—”
“Already did,” Gonzalez replied with a suspense-filled pause. “Yours are all over it.”
Merrick’s jaw slackened. He knew all staff prints were routinely computer-compared to those lifted from evidence to eliminate any that, despite precautions, might have been left by field crews or lab workers. He also knew he hadn’t worked on the Laguna investigation. “Mine?” he exclaimed, clearly baffled.
“Uh-huh, your brand too. When was the last time you were up there?”
“Laguna Canyon? Gotta be years. I mean"—Merrick stopped as if thunderstruck, then blurted—"My brand?! Son of a bitch, it’s Rene!”
“Who?”
“Homeless lady. Name’s Rene . . . Rene Rogers. I gave her a pack of smokes. Run her DMV. I’ll hold.”
“Two out of two pyros of the female persuasion? Sure gonna skew the hell out of the stats, if you’re right.”
�
��Naw, we’re way overdue. Besides, the doc doesn’t count. Now, run me that DMV, pronto.” Merrick sensed Lilah’s curiosity, and explained, “Looks like we came up with a prime in the wildfires—a lady.”
“Got her,” Gonzalez said when he came back on the line moments later. “ ’Seventy-nine Econoline van, dark green. Registration hasn’t been renewed since ‘ninety-four—but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been driving it.”
“Yeah, and ten to one she’s up there right now admiring her handiwork. Thanks, Gonzo, I’m rolling.”
“You have to go?” Lilah asked, unable to hide her disappointment.
Merrick shrugged resignedly. “Take care, Doc. I’ll be in touch.”
“Lilah,” she corrected gently, not wanting him to leave. “I’d really like it if you called me Lilah.”
Merrick nodded and took a step back, but their eyes refused to disengage. She reached out and touched his fire-reddened face with endearing tenderness. He took her hand in his, then, drawing her closer, kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then brushed her lips with his. Suddenly all the pent-up tension and emotional barriers gave way at once and they lunged into each other’s arms in a surging release of empathy and passion that Lilah hoped would never end.
“Lilah? Lilah, I’ve got to go,” Merrick finally said as their lips parted. “I’ve got to.”
“No, I won’t let you,” Lilah whispered hungrily as they stumbled toward the Blazer, clinging to each other, not wanting the moment to end. “I won’t.”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“I’ll be knocking on your door bright and early with coffee if you don’t.”
Merrick laughed and pulled open the door, then he paused—as if something of staggering importance had suddenly dawned on him. He slipped the phone from its sheath and thumbed a prestored number. “Gonzo . . . Yeah, it’s me. Do me a favor. Fletcher and Logan are on their way in. Bring ’em up to speed on Rene Rogers, and have ’em search that damned canyon till they find her . . . No, I won’t ... ’cause I’m not finished with the doc, that’s why . . . The rest of the day. Maybe tomorrow . . . Yeah, keep me posted.” Merrick tossed the phone on the seat, then turned to Lilah and embraced her.