Murder on the Lake of Fire

by Mikel J. Wilson

  “You can’t be in here.”

  Startled by the voice, Emory saw that the deputy he had yet to meet was now off the phone and standing in the doorway with his right hand glued to the knob. Blonde with a farm-boy face, he had a thin but sturdy body, just under six-feet tall.

  Emory read his gold name badge and gave him a courteous smile. “Deputy Harris, I’m looking for Sheriff Rome.”

  “The sheriff is in the interrogation room and can’t be disturbed.”

  Emory figured his father, as angry as he was, wanted to talk to Dan Claymon alone, so he didn’t bother asking to join him in the interrogation room. “Okay. I’ll just wait.”

  “You need to wait out here.”

  Emory stretched his lips into an awkward frown. He walked out of the office, and the deputy shut the door behind him. Joining Wayne on the bench, Emory watched the deputy return to his desk. “Dad will be with us in a few minutes.” His partner grunted before crossing his arms and closing his eyes.

  Emory took the opportunity to flip through crime scene pictures on his cell phone. Before he reached the third picture, the front door opened, and Scot Trousdale entered with a five-gallon bottle of Algarotti water riding on his left shoulder. What’s he doing here?

  When Scot noticed Emory, he pushed up his glasses and greeted him. “Agent Emory.”

  “You make deliveries too?”

  “No, but sometimes I’ll take care of the sheriff’s station myself so I can clean the cooler and make sure everything’s working properly – as a courtesy for our local law enforcement. It’s on my way home, so it’s not any trouble.”

  Scot pulled his phone out of his pocket and read something on it. Since Emory didn’t hear any notification, he assumed the phone was on vibrate. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to come back to service it. I have to run.”

  Emory nodded. “See you later.”

  Scot walked to the hallway entrance and unloaded the bottle onto the floor next to the water cooler and an empty bottle before leaving.

  Once Scot exited, Wayne asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Victor Algarotti’s assistant.”

  “He’s a secretary?” Wayne snickered. “He doesn’t look like a sissy.”

  Annoyed by his partner’s statement, Emory popped out of his seat. “I need some water.”

  “I could use some myself.”

  Emory didn’t wait for him, but the older man caught up to him at the water cooler. He pulled a cup from the dispenser and filled it.

  Wayne followed suit and pointed to the hallway past the cooler. “What’s down there?”

  Emory glanced at Deputy Harris, whose eyes were focused on his computer. “I’ll show you.” Three steps later, they were out of view of the deputies and approaching a white door with a square shatterproof window. Emory looked inside to see a room empty except for a commode in one corner and a folded blanket, some pillows and a six-foot mat on the floor.

  Wayne peeked inside. “What’s this room?”

  “It’s the holding room.”

  “Holding room?” Wayne laughed as if Emory weren’t serious. “You mean this is the jail?”

  “That’s it.” Emory walked a little further down the hall to a small, unlocked cabinet built into the wall. “Dad doesn’t think that they need to spend money on a jail.” He opened the cabinet and pulled out a key on a souvenir keychain from the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and returned to Wayne. “People are only here for a night or two before being released or sent to Knox County.”

  “But anyone could knock this door down with a swift kick.”

  “Not really.” Emory unlocked the door so Wayne could see inside. “He had the wall and door reinforced, and there’s a double-key deadbolt.” He pointed at the lock and at the twelve-by-eight-inch window in the opposing wall. “The window’s way too tiny for anyone to squeeze out, so the only way in or out is with the key.”

  They could hear a door squeak open. “I think that’s the interrogation room. Dad must be finished with Dan.” Emory relocked the holding room and returned the key. The two agents hurried back to the deputy room in time to see the sheriff holding open the front door as Dan Claymon left the building. Wayne and Emory exchanged confused glances. “Dad, we wanted to talk to him.”

  The sheriff shook his head. “After the way you two embarrassed him today, I didn’t think that would be a good idea.”

  Wayne’s eyebrows reached for his former hairline. “That’s not your call to make, all due respect.”

  Emory grabbed Wayne’s arm. “Dad, what did you find out from him?”

  “We just talked but not about the case. He did offer up that he only ran because he panicked.”

  “Jesus!” Wayne chopped the air like a preacher giving a hell-fire sermon. “We already knew that was his excuse.”

  The sheriff brandished a look of disapproval. “He got ahold of his mom, and she didn’t give permission for us to talk to him about Britt’s murder.”

  Wayne threw up his hands. “So that’s it?”

  “Until you have more to go on. Look here, Dan’s a decent kid. He’s had a few problems with us, but nothing too serious.”

  “Could I see what you have on him?” Wayne asked.

  Sheriff Rome hesitated. “Sure. I guess I can let you see his file.”

  Emory seized the opportunity to dump his partner for a while. “Wayne, while you’re doing that, I’m going to talk to Britt’s skating coach.”

  “You told me we’re not splitting up today.”

  “I’ll be back in a half an hour, max.”

  “Fine,” Wayne responded, although his tone suggested he was anything but.

  CHAPTER 10

  JEFF WOODARD FOLLOWED his phone’s directions to Rick Roberts’ house, which was less than five miles from the lake where Britt Algarotti had died. The neighborhood consisted of small ranch-style homes and occasional trailers. Maybe half of the homes had fenced-in backyards, and the house of Britt’s former coach was one of them. Jeff parked on the road next to an embankment of black snow and proceeded up the shoveled walkway to the front door. Four breaths after knocking, a man in a V-neck T-shirt and jeans answered the door. His full black hair and fit body gave him the look of someone in his forties, but Jeff figured he was closer to mid-fifties.

  “Mr. Roberts?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Jeff Woodard. I’m investigating—”

  Rick sighed. “Oh, thank god you’re here. From the reaction I got on the phone, I didn’t think the sheriff would be sending anyone out.”

  Jeff almost corrected Rick’s assumption that he was with the sheriff’s department, but he figured the misplaced authority would make the man more forthcoming with information than if he knew he were there on behalf of the man who had fired him. “We’re always happy when people want to help us out with a murder investigation.”

  “Good!” Rick’s ruddy cheeks tensed. “I want that murdering bitch put in jail for what she’s done!”

  Could he know who killed Britt? Jeff asked himself. “Who do you mean?”

  “My damn soon-to-be ex-wife,” Rick growled.

  “You think your ex murdered Britt?”

  “Britt?” Rick wiped the anger from his tone. “No, I’m so sorry. I thought you were here about my dog. Please, come on in out of the cold.”

  Jeff stepped inside to see an utter mess of a living room – clothes strewn over the couch, several pairs of old gym shoes kicked off in random spots on the floor and mail sticking to dirty plates on the coffee table. Under his breath, Jeff muttered, “Nice decorator. Rorschach?”

  “Can we talk in the kitchen? I was just getting some tea.” Rick started walking, as if presuming the answer before Jeff vocalized it. “I’m sorry for my confusion. I’m a little out of it from everything that’s happened. I couldn’t even go to work today.”

  The kitchen was in better shape, with only a few dishes in the sink and clutter-free counters, except for a glass with ice in it. I mu
st’ve interrupted his yearly cleaning. Jeff’s eyes moved to the oven mitts resting on the grease-spattered stovetop.

  Rick opened the refrigerator and retrieved a full pitcher of tea. “Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t drink tea.”

  “I have some water in here too. Grape-flavored. That’s all Britt would drink.”

  Jeff saw something crawl out of one of the oven mitts. Roach! “Uh, I’m fine.”

  Rick closed the door and filled his glass. “I tell you, I’m still in shock over Britt. Do you have any idea who would’ve done this?”

  “We’re following a few leads.” Jeff checked the floor and the tops of his shoes. Don’t want to take home any hitchhikers. I need to get out of here. “Rick, tell me why Victor fired you.”

  Rick took a gulp of his tea and shook his head. “I trained that girl for six years – looked out for her when we’d travel to competitions. I took my responsibilities seriously.” His lips quivered before he took another gulp of tea. “Three weeks ago, we were at a competition in Nashville, and right before she went on the ice, I noticed she was acting funny.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was kind of giggly, which she never is except maybe after a competition. When she started to skate, I knew something was definitely wrong. It was like she was drunk.” Rick dropped his shoulders and sighed. “She couldn’t even complete her routine, which she knew backwards and forwards, literally. We left the rink right away – didn’t even wait for her results – and I took her straight to the hospital. When the bloodwork came back, they said she tested positive for MMA—”

  “MDMA?”

  Rick darted the air with his index finger. “That’s it. And they had another name for it.”

  “Ecstasy. Had she used that before?”

  “No, and she didn’t do it then either. We figured someone spiked her water, but we already threw the bottle away, so we couldn’t find out for sure.”

  Jeff squinted and raised a questioning hand. “Why would someone do that at a skating rink?”

  Rick huffed at the question. “Competition. It had to be someone who didn’t want her to win.”

  “So Victor fired you for that?”

  Rick drank some more tea and nodded. “I was supposed to look out for her. Victor blamed me for not watching her closely enough and said I couldn’t be trusted anymore.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. I loved her like a daughter.”

  “Do you think any of these competitors would’ve gone further than spiking her drink?

  Rick scowled at him. “You mean…kill her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Competition is fierce, Deputy Woodard, but it’s not deadly. Of course, some people think that whole family’s just cursed – Fate’s way of equalizing the advantaged.”

  Jeff was seeking a more grounded explanation. “Is it possible one of the other girls you train drugged her?”

  Rick looked confused. “I don’t train anyone else.”

  Now Jeff was confused. “You mentioned work earlier.”

  “Ah. Victor insisted that my focus be on Britt alone as far as skating was concerned, but he didn’t pay me enough to make anywhere near a decent living. I had to keep my teaching job. Fortunately, the school is understanding when I have to go…had to go on the road with Britt.” Rick looked to the floor and shook his head. “What the hell is going on? First Britt dies, and then I came home this morning to find my dog killed.”

  Jeff’s next question was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

  “I’ll be right back.” Rick left to answer the door, and a moment later, he returned to the kitchen with Emory following him.

  Jeff greeted him with a purposeful smile. “Emory.”

  “Jeff? I swear, you’re like a reverse shadow.”

  Rick looked from Emory to Jeff. “Are you two partners?”

  “No,” they responded in sync.

  “I’m with the TBI. He’s a—”

  Jeff jumped in before Emory could blow his cover. “The sheriff’s department is working in conjunction with the TBI and the family to bring Britt’s killer to justice. No need to retread. I’ll fill Special Agent Rome in later on what we’ve discussed so far. Now, you were talking about your dog.” While Rick wasn’t looking, Jeff mouthed, “Be cool,” to Emory.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, since I got fired, I picked up a night shift at the convenience store on Highway 33. It’s a bit of a drive, but I need the money until I get another skater. When I got home this morning, I called to Lex because he didn’t greet me at the door like he normally does. I almost didn’t go looking for him since I only had a few minutes to get ready for school, but I just had a sense of dread. I went out to the backyard and found him near the gate.”

  Jeff tapped Emory on the arm and pointed out the doggy door in the kitchen door, leading to the backyard.

  “Someone shot him…in the head. I know my wife is behind it. If she didn’t do it, she put her new boyfriend up to it. Either way, she’s guilty. She never did like…” Rick started crying. “Who could do that to a dog?”

  Jeff patted his back. “I’m so sorry.”

  To Jeff’s surprise, Rick hugged him and held the embrace as he continued recounting the details of that morning. “I just piled some snow on him to keep him fresh until I could think of what to do.”

  Rick stopped talking to let a burp erupt from his throat, prompting Jeff to turn his face away and mouth, “Can you believe he just did that on me?” to Emory.

  Emory’s eyes were instead focused on a faint wisp of smoke rising over Jeff’s head.

  Rick finally released Jeff. “I don’t feel so good.” He clutched his stomach with both hands and burped again, spitting out an undeniable cloud of smoke. He started screaming as flames erupted from his stomach and ate their way up his body!

  Jeff yelled, “Oh my god!”

  “Get him on the floor!” Emory ordered.

  Rick’s upper body was now engulfed in flames, but he was still standing – screaming and writhing.

  Jeff grabbed the oven mitts from the stove and pushed Rick to the floor. He tried to roll the burning man to put out the fire, but he could no longer get close enough to touch him.

  Emory turned on the faucet and shot water from the sprayer onto the flames.

  Their efforts were too late.

  Rick was no longer moving, no longer screaming.

  As the flames subsided, Rick’s legs remained unfazed. From the belt up, however, was nothing but a charred, tortured torso with blackened arms frozen in a defensive pose in front of the still-smoking skull.

  Emory clenched his fists. “What the hell just happened here?!”

  Jeff shook his head. “Spontaneous human combustion?”

  CHAPTER 11

  WHILE EMORY TALKED to his dad on the phone, Jeff vomited in the kitchen sink. The room reeked of the sickly scent of burned rotting meat and hair. Jeff splashed his face with water and dried it with a paper towel. “God, that smell,” he exclaimed with wretched vehemence.

  Emory hung up his phone. “They’re on the way. Are you okay?”

  Jeff threw the wet towel into the sink. “I’m fine. I’ve just never smelled burning flesh before. Shaking his head in disbelief, he pointed at Rick Roberts’ body. “That right there is without a doubt the freakiest shit I have ever seen in my life!”

  “I agree.”

  “Why aren’t you freaking out about this?”

  Emory squatted to take another look at the charred torso. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  Jeff shrugged. “I guess what you’re doing.” He squatted beside him and covered his nose with his forearm.

  Emory pointed to just above Rick’s melted belt. “I first saw the fire there. It just exploded out of his stomach like in Alien.”

  “Yeah, at the stomach. Do you think it’s something he ate?”

  They both turned to the glass of ice tea on the counter
. Emory rose and pointed his palms to opposite sides of the room. “I need to get a sample of everything in this kitchen.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No, I have to maintain chain of custody. You’re not authorized to handle evidence.”

  Jeff’s eyes sprung wide open, and he pointed an accusing finger at a small slash of red on Emory’s jawline. “Oh my god, I think you got some Rick on you.”

  “What?” Emory touched it and realized it wasn’t tissue from the victim. “It’s just a cut. I probably got it when I tackled Britt’s ex-boyfriend at the high school earlier.”

  “You tackled him?”

  “He was running.”

  “From what?”

  Fearing he was just fishing for information, Emory decided not to elaborate further. He held his hands over Rick’s body. “Let’s stick to the situation at hand.”

  “Fine.”

  “I need to take pictures of the body before my dad gets here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Long story.” Emory started snapping photos with his phone. He then flapped his jacket to get some air to his body. “Man, it’s hot in here.”

  Jeff gasped. “You’re not going to flame up on me, are you?”

  “Don’t even kid about that. Listen, when Wayne gets here—”

  “The dog,” Jeff blurted out as if he were the first to answer an unasked question.

  “What about it?” Emory asked before realizing the direction Jeff was heading with the statement. “Someone shot the dog to break in here and poisoned something Rick ate or drank.”

  Jeff pointed at the kitchen door. “Wouldn’t really have to break in. Whoever it was probably crawled through that doggy door.”

  Emory inspected the door. “It would have to be someone kind of small.”