Cause to Hide

by Blake Pierce

  George Lutz was still painstakingly working on the same set of suspenders when Avery pulled her car away from the curb and pulled up directions for the closest crematorium.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  The ash and burn smears were cleaned away and his chamber was clean again. Something had gone wrong with the last one and he’d had to extinguish the fire before the body had been completely burned. He wasn’t sure if it had to do with the ventilation of the chamber or something he had done wrong while starting the fire. Whatever it had been, the end result had been grisly and gruesome. He wasn’t about to let that happen again.

  He had installed an additional layer of mineral wool behind the panels. He had also created several mats of wicker, which he had discovered several years ago was one of the most highly combustible household materials available that would go undetected in lab tests. That’s why he tended to stay away from liquid accelerants. He always used a bit of propane to get things started, preferring it over gasoline because it was harder to detect in tests. Sometimes he’d use a standard tin of lighter fluid, something he usually kept on hand at the edge of his desk.

  He held the tin now, as he stared into the chamber. With the chamber ready to go, he peered into the box of materials he had prepared for the next body. He thought he’d had the process perfect until that last body had been so terribly uncooperative. He assumed most people thought there was nothing to burning a body. Set a fire to it and be done with it.

  But there was much more to it than that. There was a process—an art to it.

  He looked into his box and counted out his materials for the sixth time. There was extra wicker and several sheets of foam insulation. The insulation was one of the most hazardous household accelerants…so much so that he had seen research where people selling home insurance had actually referred to it as “solid gasoline” and required other fail-safes for construction in order to offer affordable insurance rates.

  With an itch of anticipation, he plucked one of the folded sheets of insulation from the box and carried it into the chamber. He laid it in the center of the chamber and then went to his small desk and retrieved a single Post-it note and a lighter. He folded the Post-it in quarters, spritzed it with a bit of lighter fluid from the can, and set it aflame with the lighter.

  He carried the Post-it carefully to the chamber. When the little flames licked at his fingers he smiled. Yes, it stung…but it was a pleasant sting. He was giggling to himself as he finally reached the chamber.

  He carefully plucked the burning Post-it into the chamber and quickly closed the door. By the time he had it bolted securely, he could hear the whisperlike whoosh of flame being born on the other side. He placed his hands against the door and imagined he could feel the heat already, the power of it trying to eat its way out.

  He smiled as he listened to the growing flame and ran his hands sensually along the door. He waited for fifteen minutes, standing perfectly motionless against the door. He then carefully opened the door, reveling in the wave of heat that rushed out at him.

  As he expected, the foam had been burned down to little more than dust. A few tufts of its original form remained but he knew they would also crumble to dust when he swept them out.

  He had twenty-five more sheets of the foam, several handmade sheets of wicker, and an oil-based accelerant he had created himself that he would splash onto the victim. He had worked very hard before beginning his work to create a starter accelerant that was virtually untraceable. He wondered, perhaps, if he had been too lenient with the oil on the last victim; perhaps that was why she had not burned completely.

  Whatever the reason, he had failed. And he had lived his life in a constant state of fear of failure. It was, he supposed, what had driven him to this point.

  He took the single broom from the small closet on the right side of the room and swept the meager burnt offerings from the foam out of his chamber. He was meticulous, making sure he did not leave the slightest bit of ash.

  When it was clean again, he stared into the chamber and wondered for an agonizing moment what it might be like to be inside while the fire was reaching its maximum strength. He peered into that empty and waiting space, wondering what it might be like to burn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Avery was sitting in the waiting area of Wallace Funeral Home and Crematorium, doing her best not to feel too unsettled by the funeral parlor atmosphere. Due to her line of work, the fact and reality of death did not bother her. But ever since childhood, something about the idea of a place that was built only for the housing of the dead and their mourners had seemed eerie. It was a feeling that still haunted her even now.

  With the way the day had gone, she was starting to feel almost like a tourist or a kid on some sort of morbid field trip. First a tour of a recycling and trash-burning center and now this. A few quick calls had bought her some time with the owner of Wallace Funeral Home and Crematorium. She had not spoken with him directly but a receptionist had set it all up.

  Everything seemed to be happening quite fast now, as the door to the back of the building opened up. A man dressed in a tasteful gray suit entered the waiting room and gave her an uncertain smile.

  “Detective Black?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sawyer Wallace. I heard there was some pressing business I can help you with?”

  Avery took a moment to go over the more minor details of the case, treading carefully as she was not sure what he had already seen on the news.

  “I’m tracking down a suspect that is kidnapping his victims—all women, to this point—and burning them. He is burning them in a way that makes me think he really knows what he is doing. He’s going right down to the bone in most cases. At each scene so far, there have been fragments of what looked to be broken urns.”

  With each detail she spilled, Wallace seemed to sit a little more upright in his seat. By the time Avery was done, he was as straight as a board and his eyes were wide with terror.

  “That’s absolutely horrible,” Wallace said.

  “Yes, it is. I was wondering what you could tell me about the cremation process…perhaps even show me the process in action.”

  “Well, it would take some paperwork for me to show you the process up close and personal,” Wallace said. “But I can answer any questions you have.”

  He remained in the chair opposite her, a non-verbal way of letting her know that she would not be getting any further inside the building than the waiting room. And as far as Avery was concerned, that was fine with her. She was starting to feel almost as unsettled as Wallace looked.

  “Well, I’d like to know if it would be at all possible for someone to burn a body quite efficiently somewhere other than a crematorium. I’m talking all the way down to nothing but ash and bone.”

  “Well,” Wallace said, doing his best to act as if the news she had shared with him had not taken him off guard, “with cremations, of course, everything is reduced to ash. Bones and teeth are ground down to nothing more than powder. So if there is bone remaining in these remains, the killer is not achieving the same temperatures we are. The bones would at least get weaker and slightly broken down before we crush them. If he is not doing that or does not even have the option, I’d guess he is almost certainly not burning them for as long as a typical cremation, or at the same temperatures.”

  “But hypothetically, could it be done?”

  Wallace thought about it for a moment before answering: “Yes, I suppose so. You’d need some sort of designated room, though. It would have to be built quite well and extremely fire resistant. And even then…it would almost have to be some sort of industrial building. If it wasn’t, there’s no way the structure would last very long.”

  “And how about chemicals?” Avery asked. “Are there any chemicals involved in the cremation process? We’ve caught a faint smell from the ash but nothing solid is coming up when we test it.”

  “No chemicals, just na
tural gases. Some crematoriums use a special kind of oil, but we don’t do that here.”

  “But the process is basically the same at all crematoriums?”

  “Yes, in America. Of course when you get overseas and into Eastern religions, there are a variety of practices.”

  “Well, I’d think we’re looking for someone who has a strong interest in the process of burning things or starting fires—not an arsonist exactly, but someone who respects fire and maybe even is using it symbolically. So please forgive me for asking, but I was wondering if there was anyone in the crematorium’s past that might have been a cause for concern. Anyone that was maybe fired or corrected for unusual behavior?”

  “Fortunately, no,” Wallace said. “Not here. But three years ago, there was a very troubling incident at one of the other crematoriums.”

  Now it was Avery’s turn to sit up straight and take notice. Here we go…

  “What sort of incident?” Avery asked.

  Wallace shifted uncomfortably in his seat and eyed Avery uneasily. “I don’t know that it would be proper for me to tell someone else’s business,” Wallace said.

  “I respect that, but time is of the essence,” Avery said. “Anything you can tell me will speed up the process while we seek out the employees of the other crematorium.” What she left out was the fact that someone working for that crematorium might downplay the extremity of the event to save face.

  Clearly uncomfortable, Wallace nodded. “There was a man working at the Peaceful Hills Crematorium that was not only released, but spent some time in a psych ward from what I understand. It started out when he was found sleeping on the graves of people that his parlor buried. That was more than enough reason for them to fire him—and they did. But after the fact, it was also discovered that he was secretly making videos of the cremations on his iPhone. Later, when the police looked through his computer, they found videos of war crimes where people were being burned. Close-up, gruesome stuff.”

  “Do you know the man’s name?”

  Wallace was still clearly not comfortable with sharing the information, but when he leaned forward in a secretive way, Avery knew that he was going to tell what he knew.

  “Phillip Bailey. He worked for them for nearly four years before anyone caught on to his issues.”

  “And is he still being treated? Is he at a home of some kind?”

  “No. He’s living in town. And the only way I know this for sure is because he applied for a position here several months ago. I reported it to the authorities and I think he was basically given a little slap on the wrist and nothing more.”

  “He applied here?” Avery asked. “So you’d have his address on file?”

  “I could have HR pull it, yes.”

  “It would be a huge help.”

  Wallace sighed and got to his feet. “One moment,” he said, exiting back through the same door he had entered through.

  When he was gone, Avery took out her phone. Before placing her call, she checked the time and saw that it had somehow come to be 3:10. It had been one of those days where she had somehow forgotten to grab lunch and was running on pure adrenaline (and a little bit of anger from having been technically removed from the case).

  She then pulled up Ramirez’s name and pressed CALL. She understood that there was some sort of irony to her calling him for help given the way she had been treating him over the last day or so—but they had both learned to put work ahead of their relationship and she figured this was no different.

  As if to confirm this, he answered on the second ring. “Hey, Avery. Hard at work?”

  “You know me too well.”

  “You’re probably further ahead of the curve than I am right now. I’m getting nothing.”

  “Well, let me give you a little something then,” she said. “I’ve been doing some digging and I’m about to get the contact information for what looks like a promising lead. Do you think you can meet up with me without O’Malley finding out?”

  “Probably,” Ramirez said. “I’m behind a desk right now. I’m pretty sure he’d like to see me moving around instead of just sitting here. And our buddy Agent Duggan skipped out about an hour ago, heading back to his office in Chelsea.”

  “Has O’Malley cooled down at all yet?” Avery asked.

  “A little. Just stressed. This latest body is really getting to him. If the media had has seen the state of it…”

  “Yeah, I know. Look, can you meet me in an hour?”

  “Just tell me where.”

  She did, giving him a rendezvous point a few blocks away. When they ended the call, things felt almost the way they had before they had slept together three nights ago. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, though. It felt like a good thing but there was also something a little sad about it.

  Seconds later, Wallace walked back out. He held out a piece of paper to her and Avery saw that it was a photocopy of Phillip Bailey’s application.

  “I do hope you can catch and stop whoever is doing this. But if it comes down to it and it is Phillip Bailey, I’d much rather you leave my name out of it.”

  “Of course,” Avery said. “And thank you for your help.”

  Wallace gave her a quick handshake and then once again returned through the door and out of the waiting area. Avery checked the application for an address and found that it would be about a twenty-minute drive from where she currently was. She toyed with the idea of calling Ramirez again and simply giving him the address to meet her there.

  But if she was flying under the radar, trying to stay out of O’Malley’s way, she needed to play it safe. She pocketed the application and headed back out to her car. She again found herself thinking of fire, of how it was the perfect way to get rid of something—of anything, really. And, beyond that, she thought of the sort of person that would be depraved enough to use it as a way to end a human life and was rather glad she had decided to call Ramirez.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  It was 4:47 when Avery and Ramirez pulled up to the residence of Phillip Bailey. As Avery parked the car, Ramirez was getting off the phone with someone from records at the A1. When he ended the call, he looked out to the house on their right and nodded his head.

  “Well, his record sure as hell checks out. This guy is a creep, all right. According to the reports, there was one thing that Wallace left out of the story about Bailey sleeping on those graves.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He was mostly naked and when they found him, he was…well, he was aroused.”

  “Well, if this guy isn’t the one we’re looking for, it seems like he’s certainly worth looking into,” Avery said. “Especially if he is actively trying to get jobs at crematoriums.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to call this in?” Ramirez asked. “This guy is straight up spooky if you ask me.”

  “No, not until we know for sure. If I’m wrong on this, it could be my ass.”

  With a shared look that was filled with far too much emotion and anxiousness to make sense of, Avery and Ramirez opened their doors and stepped out onto the street. Bailey’s house was a modest-looking home, complete with a rickety porch swing hanging from old chains.

  They came up to the front door quietly, seeing that the door was open, leaving the house protected by only a flimsy screen door. As they approached, Avery could hear the slight murmur of a television from inside. Elsewhere, very faintly, she could hear muted tapping noises. It sounded almost as if someone was hammering something from within the house.

  Avery knocked on the screen door and waited for a response but all there was to hear was the TV. It sounded like it was tuned to a late-afternoon talk show. Then, after ten seconds or so, the tapping noise sounded again. This time, it was louder. Almost violent.

  Avery knocked once more, louder this time. The screen door rattled, drowning out the television. “Phillip Bailey?” she called through the screen door.

  Almost immediately, the tapping sound
stopped.

  “Was that hammering?” Ramirez asked quietly.

  Avery shrugged and then called through the door. “I’m looking for Phillip Bailey. This is a police matter.”

  There was still no response. Avery thought things out and wondered if perhaps she should have remained quiet. She looked to Ramirez and said, “Head around back to see if there’s a back door or cellar he could leave through. If I don’t see you in twenty seconds, I’m going to assume there is a back way and you’re standing by it. At that point, I’m going in.”

  Ramirez gave a nod, hurried down the stairs, and sprinted around the side of the house. Avery turned her attention back to the screen door and started counting. As she did, she peered into the house through the screen door.

  The place was a bit of a mess. A small coffee table was littered with papers and magazines. A laptop sat on a small couch that was cluttered with more paper, a plate with half of a sandwich, and several crumpled paper towels. Further back, she could see part of a hallway, but little else.

  When she reached twenty seconds in her head, she knocked once more, waited, and then opened the screen door. She stepped in and saw that the TV was indeed tuned to an afternoon talk show. She went to the laptop on the couch and saw what looked to be a resume in progress. At the bottom of the screen, along the task bar, she saw the Google Chrome icon. She pulled it up and saw that whoever had been using it was logged into a career website.

  She stepped away from it and started toward the hallway.

  That’s when the smell hit her.

  It was ghastly, like being slapped in the face with the carcass of an animal that had been rotting on the side of the road. It was so powerful that Avery took a step back and held her breath. Making a conscious effort to breathe through her mouth, Avery continued down the hallway. To her right, a small kitchen opened up to reveal a surprisingly clean counter and sink. A bowl of fruit sat decoratively on a tiny kitchen table.