by Todd Borg
The door opened at the end of the hall. A cop walked in followed by Arthur Jones Middleton.
“Lawrence!” he boomed in his big voice as he trotted down the hallway. “My God, are you okay?” he said as he got to the jail cell. Arthur looked at Mallory. “Officer, my name is Arthur Middleton. Lawrence is my friend. You can release him to me.”
“He ain’t going nowhere until the FBI gets here. Then he’s going with them.”
“But he’s done nothing. The fire was an accident.”
“Art,” I said. “Lawrence is going to be dealing with the cops for a time. They’re just following rules.”
“Yeah,” Mallory said. “Rules about starting fires, carrying a fraudulent ID, resisting arrest, evading a police officer. Gosh, we’re strict. We got rules about everything.”
“But I’ll post his bail.”
“Bail won’t be set for some time,” Mallory said.
“Well, can I at least talk to him?” Art said. “Mr. McKenna, can you reason with this man?”
I looked at Captain Mallory.
“Sure.” Mallory finally said. He turned toward the cop who had escorted Art in. “Sergeant, stay with Mr. Middleton. Give him five minutes with the prisoner.” Mallory unlocked the cell door. As we were stepping out, Art tried to walk in. Mallory put out his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Middleton.” Mallory locked the cell door behind us. “He stays inside and you stay outside.”
Art stepped to the jail bars and reached through them to Lawrence Raphael. They embraced silently as we walked away.
“What do you think?” Mallory said when we were back in his office.
“He’s not our man,” I said.
“You got some logic behind that thought or is this a gut thing?”
“Gut. His story about staying at Embassy Suites because he was working up to turning himself in, it’s too goofy. If he were lying, he’d be sure to sound more reasonable.”
Mallory chewed on the inside of his cheek as he looked at me.
“I wouldn’t let anyone in the department think you’ve got the arsonist. Keep them all alert.”
“You got any more advice?” Mallory said, his eyes narrow. I could tell he didn’t like my input. Especially when he thought I might be right about Lawrence Raphael.
“Yeah. Although the fire could come anywhere, I would keep a focus on the Kingsbury area and work on your evacuation plan. My guess is that Winton Berger is still the real arsonist.
THIRTY-NINE
I was driving out of the police station when the weather report came on. In a grave voice, the announcer repeated much of what I’d heard early in the morning including admonitions about the extreme fire danger. He then said that the low pressure system that had been lingering to the north of Tahoe and generating the strong southwest wind was finally moving. The wind was expected to shift to out of the northwest. However, due to an unusually hot high pressure system moving into Northern California, the wind would not bring any cooling trend at all. If anything, the wind was expected to increase in velocity and temperature.
I thought of Frederick’s wind analysis.
Would the Kingsbury area be at even more of a risk? Should I start driving the neighborhoods, looking for something that could alert me to Street?
Thinking I would ask him, I turned and drove to the Forest Service.
The receptionist said that Frederick was out.
“Will he be back soon?”
“I don’t know. He left about an hour ago. He had one of our inspection clipboards and was in a big hurry.”
“What is an inspection clipboard?”
“Just like a regular clipboard. We use them out in the field for doing dead tree counts and such.”
“How about Francisco?”
“Sure, he’s in. I’ll buzz him.”
Francisco came out in a few seconds.
“Hello, Mr. McKenna, what can I do for you?”
“Actually, I wanted to speak to Frederick, but I’m told he is out. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“Do you know where I might find him?”
“No. Maybe he took a break and went to the Tahoe Keys club. He works out a lot. I’ll call him at home and see if he might be there.” Francisco stepped into the conference room, picked up the phone and dialed. After a minute he hung up. “I guess he’s gone. Let me try his cell phone.” He dialed again, then left a quick message asking Frederick to call him. “He must have it turned off.”
“Where else would he go?”
“Besides home or the club? I don’t know.”
“If you hear from him, have him call me, okay?”
“Sure.”
As I walked out of the Forest Service I thought about Frederick and Francisco. Were either of them possible arsonists? Frederick certainly knew as much or more about forest fires as anyone else. If anyone could burn a set number of houses, it would be him. And for all I knew, Francisco might know fire science as well as Frederick.
Of course, we had a mountain of evidence pointing toward Winton Berger. There was the homicidal trinity to begin with. He played with fire, wet the bed and, possibly, tortured animals, shooting Pussy Cat with his .22. In addition, he had motive with Jake, stole the man’s pickup, and as a foster child had possibly been placed with both of the other victims, Joanie Dove and Linda Saronna.
Even so, I wanted to check on Frederick and Francisco. Like Terry Drier, they were too close to the action to ignore. But unlike Terry, both Frederick and Francisco were reasonably close to the age of Tommy, the boy orphaned in the Freel Peak fire, the boy who, I was convinced, had changed his identity before becoming the arsonist and kidnapper.
I went back into the Forest Service building and asked to speak to Sheila. I was shown to her office in a moment.
“Yes, Owen,” Sheila said. “Please have a seat.” She pointed to the chairs in front of her desk.
“May I shut your office door?”
Sheila raised her eyebrows. “Of course,” she said.
I shut the door and sat down. “I’m wondering how well you know Frederick and Francisco.”
“Just in the way we all know each other here. I talk to them at work and at occasional Forest Service functions. You know how it is. But I don’t go to parties much, so there may be others who know them better. What is it you’re wondering?”
“I’m wondering if either of them could be the arsonist.”
Sheila’s eyes grew wide. “You must be kidding.”
“Please understand that I’m just trying to be thorough. I have to rule out all possibilities.”
“Well, I’m certain you can rule out both of them. They are good, decent hard-working boys. I can’t imagine either of them burning down the forest. They respect the forest far too much. Besides, didn’t you say you thought that Tommy, the foster child Linda raised, was your main suspect?”
“Yes. You met Tommy as a boy. You don’t think either Frederick or Francisco could be a grown up version of Tommy?”
“Heavens, no. Francisco is Latino. His skin is way too dark. And Frederick doesn’t look anything like Tommy. Tommy was a scrawny, slovenly kid, the opposite of Frederick.”
“What about their childhoods? Could either of them have been foster kids?”
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” Sheila said.
“Like I said, I have to be certain.”
“Neither of them were foster kids. Their parents are alive and well.”
“You know them?”
“Not to speak of, but I’ve met Francisco’s parents when they visited him a year or so ago. Very nice people from the Bay Area. Francisco brought them to work one day to show them around.”
“And Frederick?”
“He is from Bakersfield. His parents retired to Costa Rica. I haven’t met them in person. But I know of them. Frederick gets phone calls from them here at work now and then. I spoke to his father once on the phone. And once, when Frederick had just mo
ved, they didn’t have his new address. So they mailed a postcard to him here at work. I remember that it was a beautiful picture of tropical birds with the beach and ocean in the background. Frederick seems to have a good relationship with them. He’s visited them in Costa Rica two or three times since he’s worked here.”
I spoke to Sheila some more, then thanked her and left. She’d said enough that I was back to concentrating on Winton Berger.
Back in the Jeep, I pet the dogs and pondered my next move.
Although it appeared that the shifting wind would place the greatest fire danger on the South Shore and hence that would suggest that Street was captive on the South Shore, I had no idea where to look. I kept thinking that something Winton had said or done would hint at the location of his next fire. But as I went over everything I knew, I couldn’t see any clue. The FBI had already searched his cabin and his workplace. Until we found Jake’s pickup, there was little else to go on.
But how thorough was the FBI? It occurred to me that after they found the rubber sheets and the fire maps, evidence solid enough for an easy conviction, they may have given up searching for anything else. At best, they’d be less meticulous. Was there anything else to learn from his cabin?
Despite the fire danger on the South Shore, I decided it was worth heading to the North Shore to do my own search.
I drove up the west side of the lake, past the fire-scorched forest where Linda had died, around Emerald Bay and on up to Tahoe City. At the Tahoe City stoplight, I took a right to follow the shoreline and continued on another fifteen minutes to Winton’s cabin.
The sightlines from the cabin to the highway are wide and open, so I parked some distance away behind a group of trees. It would seem stupid for Winton to go back to his cabin now that the FBI had searched it, but even brilliant psychopaths sometimes do stupid things. If he was inside, I didn’t want him to see me coming.
Of course, Agent Ramos would have put a sentry out in the woods to watch for Winton’s return. The same man would see me and report back to Ramos, but I didn’t care. The FBI would follow the law which meant they had to wait to see if Winton would lead them to Street. Whereas I was going to make him tell me.
As every K9 handler knows, a dog is more intimidating than any cop with a gun. I opened the back door and let Spot out, leaving Natasha inside with a worried look on her face. Even though she could do wonders in a search and rescue, I knew that she wasn’t trained as a police dog. Of course, Spot wasn’t the greatest police dog either, but he’d been trained in the basics and, as always, what he lacked in skills he made up for with his size and enthusiasm.
Spot and I walked into the forest and approached Winton’s cabin from the side that had no windows.
As I got closer, I saw a curl of steam from the gas vent pipe. It didn’t seem cool enough that the heater would be on. Did that suggest that he was inside, using hot water so that the water heater would have turned on?
I stopped behind a large tree and held Spot’s collar so that he was somewhat concealed. No sound or movement came from the cabin. But the steam continued to issue from the vent.
Maybe he was in the shower.
I wanted to give him as little warning as possible, so I decided to go in fast.
FORTY
I went in low so I’d be under his gunfire. As my foot hit the door near the deadbolt, I was nearly horizontal and moving fast. The door exploded inward with a loud, cracking boom. Wood splinters filled the air as I slid across an oily carpet.
“Spot,” I yelled. “Find the suspect!”
Spot bounded in after me, his ears quivering with excitement, his eyes intense.
I spun around. The main room was empty.
To one side a bedroom door stood open. Spot ignored it, which meant it was empty. He ran to another open door. The bathroom. He sniffed then turned back. There was no more intensity in his manner. Which meant only one thing.
We were alone in Winton’s cabin.
It took a minute for my adrenaline surge to quiet down and my heavy breathing to subside as I checked the bathroom, the bedroom and the bedroom closet. Back in the main room, I slowed down and took a closer look at the contents.
In one corner were a stovetop, refrigerator, and sink with a warped chipboard counter attached to its side. On the counter were three boxes of ammunition. Two were .22 caliber. One was 30.06.
In another corner there was a small desk and an old file cabinet next to it. On top of the file was a coil of white cotton rope.
The rope that tied Linda Saronna?
To the other side, a tall, narrow bookcase was filled with clothes, some folded, most just stuffed in. On the bottom shelf there were just two books. One was a large hardbound volume titled ‘Fire Science.’ Next to it was ‘The Arsonist’s Mind: An Examination of the Psycho-Sexual Deviance of Firestarters.’ I flipped through the volumes. They were impressively complex. Winton was surprising me. Written sideways on the inside covers were Winton Berger’s initials, the W.B. formed awkwardly the way a child might make them and retraced so that they were virtually engraved into the paper.
I wondered why the FBI’s sentry hadn’t already appeared. Had he called in reinforcements? Was a carload of suits about to arrest me? Either that, or the man on watch had broken the rules and taken a lunch break. I went back to my search.
Next to the bookcase was a narrow desk. From the top of the desk sprouted a lamp on long metal arms supported by springs. The lamp was turned to shine on the main feature of the room.
Maps.
Six topographic maps had been matched edge to edge to form a huge picture of the Tahoe Basin. I turned on the desk lamp. The wash of light was bright on the maps and I scanned them for any marks that would refer to the fires.
The first thing that caught my eye was an X written in pencil. Next to it were penciled notations and arrows. It was on the East Shore, near the highway below my cabin, almost exactly on the spot where Jake Pooler had burned to death.
Looking elsewhere, I saw another X in the area near the South Shore neighborhood of Tallac Properties where Joanie Dove had perished from smoke inhalation.
A third X marked Windsor Shores on the West Shore where Linda Saronna had died tied to the bed posts. From each X were penciled arrows. To the best of my memory, it appeared they showed the direction the fires had burned.
Near each fire were carefully penciled notes explaining the wind direction, the burn patterns, the type of trees predominant, the percentage of dead and downed trees and the tree density.
I went over the maps slowly, from left to right, top to bottom. There was no fourth X.
Turning from the map wall, I went through the rest of the room. In one corner was a rolled-up sleeping bag, foam pad, cookstove and a water filter pump. Next to it on the floor was a boom box. A pile of cassette tapes spilled behind it. Not far away was a plastic crate that held cross-country ski boots with Goretex gators stuffed inside them.
After I’d gone through all the furnishings, I looked for other places where Winton might hide anything that could provide a clue to the location where he held Street captive. I looked in the file cabinet, refrigerator and in the cupboards. Nothing.
I searched the bedroom and bathroom. The result was the same.
Sitting on Winton’s desk chair, I tried to think like him. If he had a notebook or a pad of paper where he detailed his future plans, where would he keep it? In Jake’s pickup? But the fires started before he stole it.
I leaned back and noticed a trapdoor in the ceiling.
Bringing Winton’s chair over, I climbed up, slid the panel aside and stuck my head up in the attic. It was dark and musty.
I got down and found an extension cord that went to a window fan. I unplugged the fan, plugged in the desk lamp and held it up into the attic opening. Shining it around, it was easy to see a thick layer of dust all around the trapdoor opening. The dust hadn’t been disturbed in years.
Again, I sat in Winton’s chair and though
t it through. If I wanted to hide something, the obvious thing would be to put it where no one would think to look. Yet, as I looked about the cabin, it seemed I’d looked in every place.
Then I realized his strategy.
He wouldn’t hide something where no one would think to look. He’d hide it where no one wanted to look.
I went back into the bedroom and pulled the covers off the bed. The stink of old urine filled the room, burning my nose like ammonia.
The sheets were as Agent Ramos described them. There were towels under the sheets. And under the towels was a rubber liner. As I lifted them off, I could see where the FBI, turned back by the disgusting stench, had just lifted the corners.
Under the rubber liner was the mattress, an old, lumpy pad printed with blue pinstripes. It appeared soiled but dry. I felt around the fabric and found a slit cut along one of the printed lines. Reaching inside and under the padding, I found a notebook.
It was an antique book of maps. Old topographic maps.
I set it on Winton’s desk and paged through it. There was a master map that showed the Tahoe Basin and surrounding parts of north-eastern California and western Nevada. It was divided into a grid with each section numbered. The numbers corresponded to the maps within the book.
I quickly paged through several of the maps.
Just as on the wall map, near each of the three fire locations were red Xs with arrows showing how each fire had burned. Again, I didn’t see any fourth X that would tell me where the next fire would be.
Flipping back to the master key map, I noted that there were twelve maps covering all of the Lake Tahoe Basin. I bent forward and studied each map up close. I let my eyes wander over the mountains that circle Lake Tahoe, remembering from countless hikes the lay of the land, interpreting the elevation lines to determine how steep the slopes were and how far the various cliffs plunged.
At first, nothing unusual caught my eye. The maps were similar to modern topographic maps with curving lines that showed contours of equal elevation. Various areas were in green, depicting forest. Other places were in white which designated areas above the treeline or rocky enough that no forest would grow.