“He a student?” I said.
“Yeah,” Chad said.
“I have to go now,” Chelsea said. She stood up. She looked at Chad. He stood up as well. They hadn’t touched their pop.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said.
“I wish you wouldn’t have called me,” Chelsea said, and she walked off.
As a trained observer, I couldn’t help but notice that Chad’s attempt to take her hand as they walked past the Sloopy’s cash register was not met with success.
I also observed that Chad, but not Chelsea, had picked up my business card from the table.
11
There are only a handful of farms left inside Columbus proper. Mostly a few acres of dairy cows here and there whose owners won’t sell. In another year or so one of those farms, tucked into a corner next to the interstate on the west side, was going to disappear, replaced by a new county jail and morgue. Until that happened, the coroner’s office was still in Victorian Village, tucked between the university medical center and Battelle Memorial Institute, the Goliath of local research labs to the David of Pendergrass, the employer of the late Kim McDowell. Whose killer Karen Feinberg was now representing. Inside the nondescript brick coroner’s office George Huntington seated me at a conference room table, a thick file before me.
“All yours, champ,” he said. “Usual warning—it’s not pretty.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Your case,” the coroner’s investigator said. “Seems like a stretch. What I know of Custer.”
“You may be right.”
After he left I glanced at the skeleton some wiseacre had propped behind a podium in a corner of the room, then got to work. Huntington was right about one thing: it wasn’t pretty. But not because the morgue photos were any more graphic than others I’d seen. It was the pathos of seeing the bodies of three such promising kids.
Under normal conditions fire is not a selective killer. But it’s partial to the young, the old, and in the case of Matt Cummings, the very drunk. His blood alcohol was 0.14. Not the highest I’d ever seen, not by a long shot. But seriously inebriated. Hard to blame him, being his birthday and all. He must have heard or smelled something, because he’d at least made it out of bed. But he hadn’t gone much farther than that before collapsing and succumbing to the thick smoke steadily filling the upstairs. The second victim, Tina Montgomery, had a slightly higher level, which meant that, as she was a woman, she was probably much drunker. She was found just outside her upstairs bedroom, overcome, like Matt, by the smoke and fumes.
The puzzle, if you could call it that, was Jacob Dunning. He’d suffered actual burns in addition to smoke inhalation, and was found downstairs, not far from the door. Had he been on the verge of escaping? Had he heard something? Or someone? The Haslett sisters claimed there’d been shouting before the fire. Had Jacob had a fight with the killer? His toxicology turned up alcohol and marijuana, and the combination had obviously taken its toll. It still didn’t explain what he was doing downstairs, though.
“OK,” I said to George as I walked into his office a few minutes later and placed the file on his desk. “Uncle.”
“Tried to warn you,” he said. He shifted his considerable weight in his chair and rubbed a neatly trimmed goatee. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not sure.” I told him my questions about Jacob.
“Think you’ve got the bases covered. Burns suggest he might have been downstairs when the gasoline ignited, and got engulfed in flames.”
“But the burns didn’t kill him.”
“Smoke inhalation, like the other two. But they kept him from getting outside, which might have saved him.”
“But no way to tell.”
“Only person who knows is dead,” Huntington said.
“Unless the killer saw what happened.”
“You mean Custer?”
“I mean the killer. Whoever it was.”
12
“I was hoping to never see you again,” Henry Fielding said to me.
“I’ve missed you as well,” I said.
The next day, Tuesday, late morning. Sitting at a table in the café on the second floor of Columbus police headquarters with Fielding, a homicide detective I had the pleasure of meeting the year before. Across from him was Joe Whitestone, the city’s lead arson investigator. Both men looked as if they’d rather be anywhere, up to and including home with dysentery, than speaking with me. Though Fielding had agreed to the meeting, we were doing it on his turf. No chummy tête-à-tête at one of the numerous coffee shops within a five-minute walk of headquarters or up near Whitestone’s office at the station on North Fourth Street. No, we would do it in a way that every cop in the building could come by for a look at Andy “Woody” Hayes if he or she chose. And to judge by the number of people who lined up for coffee while I sat there, pretty much everyone did. Message received.
“A prison inmate tells Custer he’s innocent, then offs himself,” Fielding said. “It’s original, I’ll give you that.”
“Points for creativity?” I offered.
“Points for nothing. This is a wild goose chase, except the goose is in prison. Where he belongs.”
“Baseball cap?”
“Puts Custer at the scene,” Fielding said, as I knew he would.
“New information, though. Wasn’t in any of the reports.”
“Even assuming it’s true, who cares?” Fielding said. “The brand of jeans he was wearing isn’t in there either. Doesn’t mean he’s not 110 percent guilty.”
Whitestone cleared his throat. “It’s like the drug shit with Dunning.”
I turned to him. Whitestone had silver hair and the kind of full, Omar Sharif mustache you don’t see much anymore in the age of the goatee. It was hard not to contrast him with Fielding and the detective’s hairless, boiled-egg noggin. I knew Fielding’s nickname around the shop was Voldemort, and I also knew Fielding knew I knew this, which might have been the one and only advantage I had over him.
“Shit with Dunning,” I said.
“Dunning got arrested his sophomore year for possession. Had a whopping three ounces of marijuana in his coat. I’m assuming you already knew that.”
“I know he had marijuana in his system when he died.”
“Good for you,” Whitestone said.
“What’s it have to do with him and the fire?” I said. “Probably lots of kids there that night had smoked pot.”
“Along the way he admitted he sold a little from time to time. That was enough for wannabe CSI types out there to make him the ‘drug dealer.’”
“Three ounces of marijuana is a long way from kingpin status.”
“Not in cyberspace, it’s not. Plus, his uncle, or more precisely, his mother’s sister’s husband, is a firefighter.”
“Columbus?”
“Cleveland.”
“So?”
“So people drew lines between him and some kind of drug deal gone bad, and us ignoring it to protect our own.”
“Idea being he was the target.”
“Something like that.”
“Was he?”
“Yes,” Whitestone said. “He was the target of a drunken arsonist named Aaron Custer, just like Matt Cummings and Tina Montgomery and Helen Chen.”
“You know what I mean.”
“There was no ‘drug deal gone bad,’” Fielding said. “Our drug dealers have more on their minds than three ounces of pot.”
I thought about Suzanne’s recent reports on Channel 7, on the pipeline of black tar heroin coming into town, on rumored cartel connections, on an epidemic of fatal overdoses, more than two a day across the state. I nodded. By comparison, Dunning was small potatoes.
I said, conciliatorily, “So the CSI types aren’t swayed by the fact everything points to Custer?”
“Who cares, on Twitter?” Whitestone said. “The same people still think 9/11 was a government conspiracy. And Justin Bieber was framed.”
“A
ny of this make the news?”
Whitestone shook his head. “Suzanne Gregory over at Channel 7 is the only one who even caught onto it, but there was nothing there to report.”
Well, well, I thought.
I said, “So what about it?” Directing the question at Whitestone.
“About what?”
“About Aaron Custer.”
“You know everything there is to know. Firebug. Threatened to kill everyone. Surveillance video at the gas station. Print on the lighter. Pleaded guilty. Lucky to be alive. Otherwise, case closed.”
“Lucky to be alive.”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you. What’s it mean?”
“Means what it means. Leading cause of death among arsonists is the fires they try to set. Lot of times they pour out the gasoline, then wait too long to light it. Vapors build and everything goes up when they light the match, including them. See it all the time. Just our luck the one thing Custer can’t get right.”
“Vapors,” I said.
“That’s right. It’s called chemistry.”
“So firebugs aren’t always smart.”
“They’re smart enough. Lot of times they’re the ones that call the fire in. Be the hero.”
“OK,” I said. “Other than all that, what about him?”
“Case closed,” he repeated. “Nothing else to say.”
“The beating? Afterward?”
“Kid was a street punk,” Fielding said. “Street punk looking for trouble. Shit happens.”
“Connected to the fire, maybe?” I said. “Someone from the house? Someone chased him?”
“Who knows? Doesn’t matter,” Fielding said. “Lot of people say whoever it was should have finished the job.”
“How about you? What do you say?”
“I say Aaron Custer was guilty of a fatal arson fire caused by dousing the front of a house with gasoline, then lighting it.”
I changed tactics. “Motive?”
“Again—doesn’t matter,” Fielding said.
“You must have a theory.”
“One or two. Starting with, he was a vindictive firebug, and ending with, he was a vindictive firebug.”
“He was supposedly arguing with Tina Montgomery about Jacob Dunning.”
“That’s right.”
“But Tina didn’t know Jacob. Until that night.”
“Right again,” Fielding said.
“So why would Custer be mad at Tina over somebody she’d just met?”
“Listen, Woody,” Fielding said. “Maybe it’s been a while since you were in the dating game. But I’ve got a hot tip for you. People meet people at parties. They chat. They flirt. Sometimes they trade numbers and go their merry way, and sometimes they sneak into the bathroom and stick their tongues down each other’s throats. And sometimes that pisses off other people they’ve swapped spit with in the past. It’s not perfect, but it’s life.”
“You saying that’s what happened with Tina and Jacob? They got it on and Aaron got mad?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Fielding said. “Maybe Jacob Dunning had a hard-on for Tina Montgomery, and maybe that explains why he was still there in the middle of the night instead of going back to his place. Or not. It doesn’t matter. We know who killed them.”
I said, “You’re saying Dorothy Custer’s wasting her time.”
Fielding leaned forward. His jaw had tightened a little. “She’s wasting her money. You’re wasting her time. And mine.”
“Any chance I could look at the files? On Aaron’s case?”
“No.”
“I could make an open records request.”
“Be my guest.”
“But be faster if I could just get them.”
“Probably.”
“So what about it?”
He shook his head. I looked at Whitestone, but all he did was look at Fielding. The records weren’t his to give, even if he had them.
“Speaking of Suzanne Gregory,” Fielding said, out of the blue. “Why don’t you ask her? She was all over this case. And you guys go way back, I hear.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, my voice neutral.
“Just a thought,” he said.
13
I had optimistically put two hours on the Front Street meter before walking into police headquarters. Most of it was left when I walked out. About all I’d gotten out of the meeting was an appetite. I put two and two together and walked up to Broad, crossed over, and went into Danny’s Deli. I was early for lunch, and the restaurant was only partially full. I ordered a corned beef sandwich and iced tea. While I waited I thought about Jacob Dunning and the fact Suzanne had known about the marijuana possession but never reported it. On a lark, after the waitress brought my drink, I dialed the station.
“Tell her who’s calling?” said the young man on the news desk.
I gave him my name. After a long minute he came back on the phone, his voice uneasy. “She, ah, isn’t available right now.”
“What did she say?”
“Like I said, she isn’t available.”
“Really say, I mean.”
He told me.
“Sorry you had to hear that. Tell her it’s about Jacob Dunning.”
“Dunning?”
“That’s right. Just tell her.”
After another minute I heard a click on the line, and then her voice.
“I told you not to contact me.”
“I’m curious what you know about Dunning and his arrest for marijuana possession.”
“You’ve been talking to Fielding or Whitestone.”
I acknowledged it.
“So you know as much as I do. And you know, if you’ve got half a brain, which I doubt, there’s nothing to it.”
“You never reported it.”
“There was no news.”
“According to Whitestone, the Twitterverse said he might have been the real target.”
“Now you’re Woody Fucking Hayes, social media expert?”
“Just a question.”
“Actually, it was a statement. Like this one: stop calling me.”
And with that she hung up.
But two minutes later my phone rang.
“I just thought you should know,” Suzanne said.
“What?”
“After your little prank at Lindey’s the other night? I got an e-mail the next day. Somebody’d snapped a picture of us sitting there. Sent it anonymously.”
“OK.”
“Wanna guess what it said?”
“Not really.”
“It said, ‘Such a cute couple, but I was hoping for ROOF: the sequel.’”
“I’m sorry that happened.”
“Know what else? Glen got the same e-mail. From like ten different people. It is a fucking miracle he hasn’t walked out on me yet. Which would be completely thanks to you if he did.”
The line went quiet, but stayed connected, and because I couldn’t think of anything else she’d want to hear from me, I said, “Bad time to ask if I could look at your copy of the Orton Avenue file?”
This time the line went good and truly dead.
Even I couldn’t finish an entire Danny’s corned beef sandwich, though I gave it my best shot. But eventually, packaged leftovers in hand, I walked out of the restaurant and headed back to my van. And I would have made it there without incident, had I not looked across the street at that moment and happened to see a couple of women I judged to be good-looking strolling south on Front. Their dark suits said attorneys, which meant they were probably headed to the Supreme Court a block down. I followed their progress for the few seconds I allot myself for such boorishness. Which was why I happened to be looking to the left when a black SUV—Explorer, or maybe a Jeep—pulled up in front of the hotel a block down on my side of the street. The Neil House Inn. As I watched, the driver got out and walked around to the passenger side. I stepped back, fumbled in my pocket for my sunglasses, put them on. Speak
of the devil. Even from that distance, I recognized him immediately: Glen Murphy, Suzanne’s newest boyfriend. The receiver of ten e-mails of her and me at the bar at Lindey’s. The first guy who’s stayed with me longer than a month. It is a fucking miracle he hasn’t walked out on me yet. As I watched, he opened the passenger door, reached out a hand, then helped a woman get out of the SUV. Another blonde. Not Suzanne caliber, but even at this distance I could tell she was a close second. Murphy put his arm around her. They headed for the door, stopping just long enough for Murphy to say something to the bell cap, then hand him his keys, before they disappeared into the lobby.
14
Back home, I processed what I’d seen. It was lousy for Suzanne. But I also knew I’d take the blame regardless of how long it had actually been going on. My trip to Lindey’s guaranteed it.
Rousing myself for the task at hand, I considered trying the families of Matt, Jacob, and Tina again but thought better of it. They either weren’t talking or were deciding how to respond. I could afford to give them time. I still didn’t have a number for Helen Chen, and it was clear I wouldn’t be getting it from Suzanne. I called the state about the report on Eddie Miller’s suicide. Then, because it was the only other thing I could think to do, I looked up the number for the Environmental Geology Department at Ohio State. When I reached a secretary I asked for Tanner Gridley, the professor who cowrote the earthquake article with Matt Cummings.
“He’s got office hours right now,” she said. “You can try to reach him, but he usually doesn’t pick up.”
“How long do office hours last?”
“One to four,” she said. “Are you a student?”
“A student of life,” I said, and thanked her before I hung up.
Gridley’s office was on the third floor of Northstar Hall, a science building on south campus, a postwar limestone- and-brick pile with what looked like a 1990s-era wing bolted onto the side. There was a poster for a movie called Gasland on the partially open door at his office, and three different political cartoons about fracking, including one with the “See no evil, hear no evil” chimps wearing State of Ohio badges as they were jostled by an apparent earthquake.
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