Fireproof

by Alex Kava

  “What can I get for you two?” A waitress appeared and slammed down two glasses of water. The one she set in front of Jeffery splashed over the rim.

  Jeffery stared at the puddle like it was toxic waste while he held the menu, his elbow planted on the table not far from the spill. Immediately Sam’s jaw started to clench. She had witnessed him blow up at a waiter for bringing him a salad fork when he had asked specifically for a dinner fork.

  “I’ll have a bowl of the cream of asparagus soup,” Sam said quickly, in an attempt to distract Jeffery.

  “Oh honey, we don’t have the asparagus. It’s chicken and rice today.”

  “I just told my colleague how delicious the cream of asparagus is, Rita.” Jeffery read the waitress’s nameplate with what Sam recognized as his best fake smile, the calm before the storm. “You sure your cook can’t whip some up for us?”

  “Asparagus is on Mondays, sweetie. I can bring you a couple bowls of chicken and rice.”

  “You know what, I bet the chicken and rice is just as delicious,” Sam said. “I’ll have that. And a grilled cheese.”

  She closed the menu and slapped it down, hoping to distract Jeffery. She tried not to wince, tried not to look at him. It was never pretty. First, he’d tell the waitress that she obviously had no idea who she was waiting on. Then he’d ask to speak to the cook. Once in a Miami restaurant he made Sam translate his complaints into Spanish along with instructions on how his entrée should be cooked and served.

  Sam looked away, glancing out the window to avoid watching the education of Rita. She didn’t even see the stream of smoke until Jeffery’s arm shot out across the table, pointing it out.

  “What the hell is that?” He was already on his feet and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 40

  “One body doesn’t mean it’s a serial killer,” Maggie told Ganza. “And thankfully the Edmund Kempers of the world are still a rare breed.”

  He nodded and took a bite of lasagna.

  “I just can’t figure out how the arsons play into the murders,” Maggie said. “Kunze wants Tully and me to profile this arsonist, but so far he blows away—no pun intended—all the typical motives.”

  “ATF’s ruled out insurance fraud, from what I’ve been told,” Ganza said.

  “Did they bring you evidence from last week’s fires?”

  He shook his head. “Kunze asked me to take a look at these two. Said no one could connect these warehouses. Told me to see what I could do.”

  “All of the warehouses are owned by different companies, so revenge seems unlikely. They’ve all happened in the middle of the night and in the same vicinity. Racine said the cops have canvassed that whole area and have come up empty-handed.”

  “Nobody’s seen anything?”

  “Or they’re not willing to talk about it.”

  “Looked like a homeless district.”

  “It is. But if he’s targeting the homeless why dump the body of a victim from somewhere else? Someone who’s not homeless? And then not burn the body?”

  “You’re sure she wasn’t homeless?”

  “Shaved legs, manicure, pedicure.”

  “He could have picked her up somewhere on a road trip.”

  “Racine said it looked like road-trip food in the woman’s stomach. Are you thinking she may have gotten stranded?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if she could have been a prostitute.”

  “Somewhere along the highway?”

  “I believe they call them love lizards … Wait, that’s not correct.” He held up his empty fork like an orchestra conductor, as though the gesture helped conjure up the correct term. “Lot lizards. It’s a whole subculture at interstate rest areas and truck stops. They say it’s impossible for a regular traveler to detect them but if you’re a trucker with a CB radio there are certain channels you can go to and order up prostitutes, drugs, whatever you want, wherever you want it, and any time of the day or night.”

  He proceeded to fork off another piece of lasagna and stuff it into his mouth.

  “And you know all this because?”

  “I read about it in USA Today.” Ganza smiled as he continued to chew. “Actually I’m working with ViCAP on the Highway Serial Killings Initiative.”

  The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program and its database had become a national repository for violent crimes. Law enforcement officials from across the country could access it to find or submit similar patterns.

  The Highway Initiative had been created in 2009 in response to more than five hundred murder victims dumped along or near highways, rest areas, and truck stops. Maggie knew about it only from what she had read, despite it being an FBI-driven program.

  “I’m surprised Kunze doesn’t have you working on that task force,” Ganza said. “Seems like the perfect matrix—impossible to solve, impossible to profile—just the type of assignment he loves to send you on.”

  It didn’t please Maggie that so many of her colleagues saw what Kunze was doing. That reminded her. She glanced at her watch. She needed to get back to the District for Kunze’s mandatory psychological evaluation.

  “You seem convinced he picked the victim up somewhere along the interstate in the Midwest.”

  Ganza scratched his long, narrow jaw. “Maybe along the interstate system. I have the breakdown of the gasoline. Remember I told you that gas chromatography reveals the chemical composition of the hydrocarbons?”

  “Right. Like a blueprint.”

  “In this case, almost a fingerprint.”

  “What are you saying? That you can tell us what company made it?”

  “Better. I can tell you the gas station where he bought it.”

  “And let me guess. It’s one along the interstate?”

  Ganza nodded just as Maggie’s cell phone rang. It was Racine. She couldn’t possibly have the victim’s ID yet.

  “Are you still at Quantico?” asked Racine.

  “Just finishing.”

  “Looks like he’s moved across the river.”

  “It’s the middle of the day.”

  “Off Interstate 66 on Fort Myers. You’ll probably see the smoke. They said it’s slowing down traffic.”

  “Any chance this one isn’t related to our guy?”

  “Two separate fires, three blocks apart and within about thirty minutes.”

  “Sounds like our guy,” Maggie agreed.

  “One difference. No warehouses this time. And there might be casualties.”

  “What did he set on fire this time?”

  “Two churches.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Tully had Abe Nadira print a photo of the last frame before the man with the red backpack dropped out of sight. He also got a print of the man’s face. The zoom had reduced his features to shadowed pixels. A short beard and shaggy hair were the only decipherable characteristics. Eyes, mouth, and nose were blurs of gray and black.

  Several fire investigators and crime scene technicians, along with their equipment, were still processing the rubble. Yellow police tape had been stretched around a wide perimeter to cordon off the area, but less than forty-eight hours later a couple of the homeless already had crawled under the barrier, taking up residence in the shelter of new Dumpsters and equipment that had been brought in.

  It wasn’t the alley or the Dumpster that drew Tully back to the scene. He found and planted himself in the same spot where Samantha Ramirez had been when she shot the footage of the photo he had in his hand. Broken glass glittered on the ground. Most of the debris—the big pieces—had been raked and sifted. Small piles littered the cordoned-off sidewalk where investigators used the concrete as a flat, hard place to sort.

  Tully held up the eight-by-ten photo Nadira had given him. He tried to match the photo’s background to what remained. Ramirez had shot this footage before the second blast, so the scene in the photo looked different from what surrounded him now.

  He lined up street signs and corners of existing buildings until
he was certain he had the correct angle. Then he paced out measured steps toward the area where the man was last seen.

  Tully kept the photo in front of him while he walked slowly, step by step, examining the surroundings. He glanced at the grass, then the curb and street, focusing only on what was directly in his path.

  After a few minutes he thought he had gone too far and started to backtrack. He stopped to study the photo. He pushed up the bridge of his glasses. In the photo, right behind the man’s right shoulder, was a light post with a flyer taped to it. Tully couldn’t make out the details on the flyer but he could see that someone had used thick swatches of duct tape to attach it to the post.

  He looked around him and saw what had to be the same post. The flyer and tape were still attached but both had been pelted with debris. He stepped onto the curb and positioned himself in the exact spot where he believed the man had been standing. He checked over his shoulder to make sure the street sign was where it was in the photo. Then Tully took a deep breath.

  Okay, where the hell did you go, mister?

  He began a slow circle, taking in everything from door wells to fire escapes on the buildings. In the photo there were no vehicles close by for the man to duck under or hide behind. Tully made a full circle before he saw it.

  Three feet to his left, steam puffed out from a manhole cover.

  CHAPTER 42

  Everything Cornell Stamoran had left in the world was in that red backpack. Why the hell did he toss it at that guy?

  Instinct had taken over—fight or flight—and of all the things he had done or been in his life Cornell was not a fighter. But he was good at running away.

  Since the fire, all he had thought about was running. He maneuvered his way through the underbelly of the city, back and forth, memorizing pipes and valves while wading through crappy water. He didn’t mind the smell. You couldn’t live on the streets if you couldn’t stand the smell. Even his body odor no longer repulsed him.

  What bothered Cornell were the noises. The echoes freaked him out. So did the clanks, the drips and hisses, the whines and hums. He couldn’t tell what the hell was happening around him, if he heard footsteps chasing him or if it was just his imagination. Except he was fairly certain that someone was following him.

  At first he worried it was the man he’d seen pouring gasoline in the alley. He couldn’t forget the look on that guy’s face when he saw Cornell slipping and rolling in the trail of fuel. That twisted grin when he lit the match. If Cornell hadn’t scrambled and found the manhole when he did, he would have been toast.

  But that wasn’t the man following him.

  Then Cornell thought it might be a coincidence. He saw the same man in different places, and only at a distance, but the guy was always watching him. Cornell had no clue why the man would bother to follow him.

  That’s when he started to vary his exits and entrances to the underground. From below he could look up through the grates or holes and almost always determine when it was safe to come up. Ironically it was best at the busiest times and at some of the most crowded intersections, where people hurried by and couldn’t be bothered with someone crawling out of a manhole.

  Of course, it helped that Cornell had found an abandoned city maintenance vest and hard hat—both fluorescent orange. Instead of attracting attention they seemed to make him invisible. The vest and hard hat quickly became his most valuable possessions. They not only gained him unfettered access to the city’s underworld but also bought him a surprising amount of leverage and respect on the streets. When he finally remembered he had more than thirty dollars in his buttoned cargo pocket he treated himself to a bowl of soup and a sandwich at the same diner where he’d eaten the night of the fire.

  The same waitress took his order. She was the one who had looked at him suspiciously the other night and then grudgingly given him change back as he requested, in one-dollar bills. Only this time she smiled when she set his plate in front of him. Refilled his coffee. Even asked, “How’s it going?”

  And he knew he smelled worse today than he had that first time he’d been in. Although he had tried to clean his jacket and the vomit and gasoline fumes had finally aired out a bit, he knew he couldn’t travel through the sewer and not have the stink cling to him.

  But put on a fluorescent orange vest and hard hat and it all became acceptable.

  He ate at the diner’s counter again and watched out the window. He still couldn’t believe he had tossed his backpack. He had gone back to the alley to see if he could retrieve anything from his Maytag box. He thought all the cops had left. At least the alley. Once the body was gone he had seen the remaining investigators pack up and then either leave or focus on the rubble inside.

  He should have waited longer. Even after he tossed his backpack and took out the tall guy, that broad had kept coming after him. He couldn’t shake her, couldn’t outrun her. But he knew how to drop out of sight. That threw her off but it didn’t lose the bastard who kept finding him.

  If he wasn’t the man who started the fire, who the hell was this guy?

  He didn’t think he looked like a cop or a fed. He wore blue jeans, a nice pair of work boots, a ball cap, and brown suede jacket. Hell, he looked pretty ordinary, nothing menacing about him except that he was always there. Cornell would see him leaning against a lamppost or sitting on a bench. Once at a Metro bus stop. Buses came and went but the guy stayed. Sometimes he saw the man downtown, but then hours later he’d see him walking back by the same warehouses where the fires had been. There was no reason that he could think of for this guy to be in these two very different places in the city unless he was following Cornell.

  A couple of times when Cornell traveled underground he could swear he’d seen the shadow of someone behind him. Lighting was crap down there. Long stretches were pitch black. He tried to avoid those. Even the best stretches were limited to a bare lightbulb tucked into the maze of pipes.

  The first time he noticed the man was right before he tossed his backpack. Though he didn’t look like a cop, Cornell had thought maybe he was part of the investigating team, but only because the guy was inside the barrier of yellow tape. He had been leaning against one of the vehicles, watching and smoking a cigarette.

  Maybe he knew the dead woman. A shiver slid down Cornell’s back and a sudden bout of nausea made him put down his spoon. He sipped his water, waited for it to pass. He didn’t like thinking about the dead woman. Didn’t like remembering that battered face, pounded and ripped like ground beef.

  Cornell grabbed the little package of saltine crackers. His fingers shook and he struggled to tear the plastic, suddenly desperate to get at them. He crunched a piece out and quickly put it in his mouth, holding it on his tongue and sucking off the salt, waiting for the nausea to pass. It didn’t seem to be working.

  He stuck another piece in his mouth. Weren’t saltines supposed to help? Probably not if you had wrestled a dead body with your bare hands. He still couldn’t believe he’d touched it.

  When Cornell looked back up, the man in the brown suede jacket was standing just outside the diner window. And he was staring directly at Cornell.

  CHAPTER 43

  By the time Maggie arrived, the cross at the top of the steeple blazed against a smoke-filled sky. She could see a second black plume several blocks away.

  She showed her badge at the first barricade, a half block from the fire. The uniformed officer lifted the yellow tape for her and pointed out Detective Racine. Here across the river, Racine would be out of her jurisdiction. That was the only reason she stood back and tolerated the man beside her. Maggie recognized Brad Ivan, the ATF fire investigator.

  “Were there any church services being held?” Maggie asked as she joined them. There were three ambulances parked at odd angles. One had driven onto the church lawn.

  “No services,” Racine told her, “but there was an altar society meeting in the basement of this one.”

  “Fatalities?”

  Rac
ine didn’t answer, looked instead to Ivan. Technically ATF would be the point agency now that the fires had moved out of the District.

  “We don’t know yet. They’re still inside,” Ivan said as he hitched his trousers up, then stopped almost abruptly and kept the belt just below his waist.

  Maggie guessed the gesture was an old habit but that a new paunch still surprised him. Ivan looked like a man who had kept himself in shape until recently. Maybe a change of schedule or, Maggie speculated, a change in living routine, perhaps a separation or divorce. Curious to prove her theory, she glanced at his left hand and saw a subtle streak of lighter skin where a ring had been.

  Maggie waited for Ivan to continue filling her in, but there was nothing after the pants hitch. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored aviator sunglasses. Odd that he’d need sunglasses, since the smoke blocked out the sun.

  “The middle of the afternoon goes against his MO,” she said. “How do we know this is the same guy?”

  “It would be nice if we had some kind of a profile.”

  His sarcasm surprised Maggie. She didn’t think the man had it in him to muster up something as complex as sarcasm. Racine raised an eyebrow. Looked like he’d surprised her as well.

  “The murders at the last scene throw off any typical profile of a serial arsonist.” Maggie told him this as a matter of fact. “If you remove the two victims from the equation, he becomes a repeat nuisance offender.”

  “Yeah, under twenty-five, male, white, history of family dysfunction, father abusive or absent, blue-collar job if he has a job, low self-esteem, low IQ, social misfit, yadda yadda. I’ve seen these profiles before. They don’t tell us jack-shit.”

  “Sounds like you already have your own profile,” Racine said, but Maggie could see Racine’s sarcasm was lost on Ivan. She even thought she saw the detective take a step forward as if in Maggie’s defense. Maybe she could hear the throbbing in Maggie’s head. It had started as soon as she’d left Ganza.