The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4)

by T Patrick Phelps

  “That pumper was really working hard last night, huh?” The other deputy, whose name was Ken, asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Bo said.

  “Serious, Bo? You’re not being serious.”

  Bo said as a look of confusion and worry danced across his face, “I am being serious. What happened last night?”

  “Damn, Bo,” Kevin said, “where the hell were you last night?”

  “Got into some drinking out at Route Sixty-Nine,” Bo replied. “What the hell happened that the pumper was toned out?”

  “Structure fire up on Morris Road. You serious about not knowing what happened?”

  “Which house? Not Brian Mack’s?”Ken said, “Wow Bo, I’m thought you knew. It was Mack’s house. He and his mother didn’t make it out. I can’t believe you weren’t there or that someone didn’t at least call you a hundred times to tell you.”

  “I lost my phone, or left it somewhere. Holy shit. Mack and his mom were killed?

  “Mack never made it out of his bedroom,” Kevin said. “His mom, bless her heart, was found a few feet from the kitchen door. Looks like she was trying to get out when the smoke took her. Jesus, Bo, how drunk did you have to be to not know anything happened?”

  Bo said, “Drunk enough, I guess.”

  Bo joined the Ravenswood Fire Department on his eighteenth birthday. Back then, it was an all-volunteer department but as the Ravenswood community grew, so, too, did the demands it placed on the fire department. What began in 1953 as a single-truck all-volunteer department, had grown into a half-volunteer, half-paid fire department with two fire stations. Each station had an EMS Rescue truck, a Sutphen-made ariel ladder truck and a Pierce custom-made pumper.

  Holding the position of Line Captain, Bo Randall was still considered a volunteer, meaning he received a stipend of seven thousand dollars per year, was obligated to respond to only fifteen percent of all emergency calls, and had no supervisory status over the fifteen paid fire fighters.

  Until the tones went off.

  During an emergency response, Bo, the three other captains, four lieutenants, two assistant chiefs, one deputy chief and the fire department chief, were fully in charge of all responding personnel. The ranking officer on-scene was in charge of command, whether the responding members were paid or volunteers. When Bo was the in-charge officer, emergency scenes were flawlessly executed. Each responding member knew their assigned task, knew which squad they were assigned to, which attack team or scene support team they would be a part of, and all knew who was calling the shots.

  It was surprising to some of the longer term members when Bo was promoted to captain. He had only been in the department for nine years, and while he completed the New York State Firefighter I, II, and Advanced Rescue Training courses, he was still, in the minds of some of the members, too young to be a captain. So when Bo’s name was floated around the station as the potential next chief, more discussions about his readiness were spawned.

  It was no secret that Bo enjoyed drinking and there were some rumors about him using drugs, but neither the alcohol or the suspected drug use ever came into play when Bo was on-scene.

  Becoming either chief or deputy chief demanded a full-time status. The total compensation for the chief’s position rolled up to a total of sixty-two thousand, four hundred dollars per year, about what Bo was earning in his sales position for a local copier company. But for Bo it meant a lot more. It meant he’d be able to retire in twenty-five years at the age of fifty-five. It would mean he’d receive free health benefits, deferred comp, a pension of sixty percent of his ending salary and a work schedule that was as flexible as he could make it while still responding to at least fifty percent of all emergency calls. But most important to Bo was going to full-time status, as the chief no less, meant he’d go to work most days doing what he loved to do.

  Unlike many in the department, there was no one in Bo’s family that was a firefighter; he was the first in his family to become one. His father, a high-powered lawyer, never understood why his only son would risk life and limb to save someone’s wedding album or collection of “worthless crap” stored in their attics or basements.

  “Bo,” his father had said the day Bo graduated high school and announced he was attending a community college in Syracuse and majoring in Emergency Services, “you’re wasting your talents. My God, son, go to law school, pass the bar exam and your name will be right up next to mine in the law firm’s name.”

  “Dad,” Bo had said back, a confident smile playing across his face, “no offense, but the idea of wearing a suit, kissing the ass of some judge out on a golf course and pandering to people who think if they wear a neck brace for a few weeks that their settlement will hit a million bucks, sounds more like a death sentence than a career to me.”

  “So instead,” his father replied without missing a beat, “you think running into burning buildings, pulling some drunk out of his crashed car or thumping on some degenerate’s chest is a better way to spend your life? Come on, Bo. You can get into any university you want, get a real diploma, one that means something. Instead, you want to go to a community college in Syracuse, New York of all places, and hope you get a job earning fifty grand a year for some fire department? Seriously, Bo?”

  Bo was serious and despite his father’s continued and repeated admonishments, he moved to Ravenswood New York (where a friend of his had moved the previous year), enrolled at Onondaga Community College and volunteered with the Ravenswood Fire Department. Though his father threatened to not support him, Bo received a monthly check to cover living expenses. He recorded each check his father sent, promising himself that every last cent would be paid back.

  After graduation and being unable to get hired with any paid fire departments in the area, Bo took a job selling Canon copiers with a local business in Ravenswood. He hated the job but he was good at it. His movie-star looks coupled with his calm, confident personality and his strong work ethic, served him well in his sales position. After only four years hitting the streets and knocking on doors, Bo was promoted to sales manager and earned enough money to start paying down the debt he felt he owed to his father.

  Though his income was much higher than what he might have earned had he been hired as a fire fighter, the work was mindless for Bo. Eight to five, Monday through Friday of the same, droning crap. Sales meetings in the morning, conference calls with vendors in the late morning, lunch with high profile customers, followed by one-on-one meetings with his reps or showing the newbies the finer art of cold calling. He often regretted not heeding his father’s advice, not going to law school and seeing his last name etched in fancy font on a crisp, white, heavy-stock business card.

  But when the fire department tones went off, his regrets were scattered as if the blaring wail of the siren had an invisible ability to press a restart button in his mind. It was the siren’s cry that called to Bo, the notification that someone, somewhere in the town of Ravenswood was struggling and that he, along with his fellow members, could help ease that person’s pain.

  Brian Mack was the chief when Bo first became a member and continued serving as chief until the department grew into a half-volunteer, half-paid department. Mack put in thirty-five years with the department, the last eighteen of them as chief. When the town voted in favor of the proposed changes to the department in 2009, Mack professionally and amicably stepped down from the chief’s position and retired from the department.

  Now Mack was dead; burned to death as he slept in his own bed. His mother, who had celebrated her ninetieth birthday last month—a party Bo had attended—died a few feet away from the kitchen door and fresh, clean air.

  “Holy shit,” Bo said. “How the hell did I not hear about the fire?’

  “Did you have your pager on at the bar?” Kevin asked. “Your phone?”

  “I told you already, I lost my phone,” Bo snapped. “And no, I never take my pager when I’m drinking. Don’t want the temptation of responding when I h
ave booze in my system.”

  “And no one stopped over this morning to tell you what happened? Ken said.

  “Shit if I know. I was passed out till a few minutes before I sat on that knife. Damn, I can’t believe Mack is dead. They know what caused it? County must have double-timed their investigation to find the cause considering whose house it was. You hear anything yet?”

  “Bo, man, you really are out of the loop with this thing,” Ken said. “Pretty sure it was arson. They found three flares in the basement. County fire inspector’s report stated the origin of the fire was in the basement, right around where they found the flares.”

  “Isn’t unusual for Mack to have them in his basement. Shit, the guy practically hoarded the damn things. Loved them to start campfires them.”

  Ken walked closer the couch, snapped a few more pictures of the knife and the duct tape. As he was snapping the pictures, he said, “May not be unusual for Mack to have flares in his basement, but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have kept them right next to three five gallon cans of jet fuel.”

  “Jet fuel?” Bo asked. “There was jet fuel in Mack’s basement?”

  Ken said, “Not sure if it was jet fuel or just high octane gas. Either way, probably burned hot and fast.”

  Ken finished taking pictures and walked over next to Bo and Kevin. “County fire investigator thought Mack had the fuel for his snowmobiles but turns out his sleds didn’t use that type of fuel. Someone put the jet fuel in his basement, lit the flares and placed them right up close to the cans. It was arson, no one doubts that at all.”

  “They have any leads on the asshole who did it?” Bo asked.

  “Not yet,” Kevin said. “Two of the flares were nothing but ashes, but the third somehow didn’t burn up all the way. Our forensics team sent the flare out for fingerprinting. We’re waiting to hear back.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Bo said, then plowed his hands through his hair and paced around his living room. “Alright, what the hell do you need to do about his whole knife thing? I need to get down to the station. And I need to find out if Mack’s son out in Oregon heard the news yet. Son of a bitch!”

  Ken said, “Bo, get your shit done. When you’re fully sober and can think, give me a call. You must have had someone over here last night.”

  Bo’s mind raced to the note he found tucked between the knife and the seat cushion of the couch. “Wait a minute. I found a note the asshole left.” Bo limped over into the kitchen, retrieved the note he had placed on the counter and handed it to Kevin. Kevin read the note, handed it to Ken, then said, “We’ll need to take this. See if we can lift any prints from it.”

  Ken said, “You have any enemies, Bo? Like maybe some husband of some chick you banged recently?”

  “I have morals, you know. No married chicks and no one under twenty-one. I ain’t a pervert, you know. So as far as enemies go, none that I know of.”

  “You think anyone down at the department would rather you not run for chief? Anyone you think wants that position over you?” Kevin asked.

  “No one who would stick a knife in my couch. None of the guys down there are like that.”

  “Any of the female members?” Ken asked.

  “None of the guys or the girls would stick a knife in my couch. That could have killed me if I had laid down on it. Shit, this should be an attempted homicide investigation.”

  Kevin said, “Slow down, Bo. I know you’re pissed but it seems more likely that someone was sending you a message, not trying to kill you. We’ll grab the knife, tape and the note, run them all through forensics and see what we can find. In the meantime, get yourself cleaned up, go to the station and be with your department. They are probably wondering why the hell you’re not there already. Wouldn’t want your absence to hurt your chance in the election. We’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bo and ten members of the Ravenswood Fire Department walked into the Route 69 Bar and Grill at precisely eighteen hundred hours. The owner of the Bar and Grill, Lance Mahoney, had called Bo after he heard the news.

  “Bo, you bring as many of your team as you can gather up here tonight. Drinks and food are on me. Mack was a good guy, he didn’t deserve what he got. You bring as many guys as you want.”

  The eleven members of the Ravenswood Fire Department sat at the stretch of tables Lance had arranged. He estimated that twenty members would show up, so when Bo told him that he didn’t expect any more to show, Lance pulled one of the end tables apart from the rest, and prepared it for other diners, hungry for Route 69’s “World Famous” steak burgers and thirsty for any one of the twenty-nine beers Lance kept on tap.

  “Listen boys,” Lance said to the group, “I knew Brian Mack for over forty years. He was a good friend and a great man. I know his son will make arrangements for his dad, but us being here together is what Mack would’ve wanted more than to be put on public display in some stuffy funeral home.”

  “He won’t be on display,” one of the members said. “He was pretty burned up. Wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone to see him how he is now.”

  No one said a word in comment.

  Lance said after several seconds of quiet, “Well, all the better, I suppose. Here’s to Mack.” He raised a glass full of some brown liquid, and slammed the liquid down his throat. Every member did the same with whatever drink they had ordered.

  Bo had just ordered his fifth beer when deputies walked into Route 69 Bar and Grill. They looked around the place for a few seconds before seeing the person they were looking for. One of the deputies reached over and grabbed the radio transmitter off his left shoulder, spoke a few words into the transmitter, then looked at his partner. His partner nodded then glanced back towards the entrance. Within a few seconds, three more uniformed deputies walked in. The deputy who did the talking into the transmitter nodded towards the stretch of tables where Bo and the other fire department members were finishing their meals and, by the looks of them, moving quickly to states of inebriation. Together, the deputies walked over to the group.

  “Bo Randall?” the lead deputy asked. “We need to speak with you about the death of Brian Mack and his mother, Claire Mack.”

  Bo, looking up from his beer, said, “Then sit down, order a drink and we’ll tell you everything we know. You don’t need to be so formal. Where’s Kevin and Ken? Thought they’d show up and have a few with us tonight.”

  The lead deputy, who Bo had met only once or twice, put his hands on his hips, leaned closer to Bo and said, “We need to speak with you down at the station. Now, this can go one of two ways: Either you come with us on your own, or any one of my partners here will be glad to assist you. Let’s go, now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Bo said, loud enough to capture the attention of everyone at the table. “You think I know something about Mack’s death?”

  “Down at the station, Bo. Let’s go.” The deputy placed his hand on Bo’s shoulder, something Bo was not a fan of. He jerked his body away, nearly causing him in his current state of inebriation to fall to the floor. Before Bo could regain his balance, three uniforms grabbed him and shoved him to the floor while one of the deputies angrily slapped cuffs on Bo.

  “What the fuck?” Bo yelled. “Is this some kind of sick joke? What the hell are you doing?”

  The lead deputy said, “It didn’t have to go down like this, Bo. I did give you an option.”

  Bo was pulled off the ground by two deputies, then hurried towards the exit door. The remaining ten members of the fire department, many of whom had stood up when Bo was pushed to the ground, were left with clueless expressions on their faces. They heard the lead deputy reading the Miranda warning to Bo, their captain and odds on favorite in the upcoming chief’s election, as Bo and the team of deputies disappeared out the door.

  ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

  “I don’t need a lawyer. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Bo was rubbing his wrists, trying to dull the pain caused by the handcuffs, whe
n the sheriff’s department’s lead homicide investigator, Ken McCallion, reminded Bo that he was free to contact a lawyer.

  “Suit yourself,” Ken said. Ken stood around five-ten and weighed a slender hundred and fifty-five pounds. His salt and pepper hair, crows feet wrinkles framing his eyes and smoker’s lines etched around his mouth, gave him the look that most would associate with a chain smoking accountant. He had been with the sheriff’s department for nearly twenty-two years, the last nine of which were spent in homicide. “You do understand you’re facing some serious charges, right Bo? Arson is the least of your worries. You’re looking at no less than double manslaughter. If you’re lucky and plea out, maybe arson and depraved indifference. No matter which way this turns, you’re looking at spending a long time under the watchful eyes of New York’s finest correctional officers.”

  “I’m not looking at anything because I had nothing to do with Mack’s death, starting any fire or depraved anything. Now either tell me what the hell this is all about, or let me go back and finish my beer.”

  Ken McCallion, always one for the dramatic cliche, dropped a thin manilla folder onto the table, then, slowly and deliberately, pushed the folder in front of Bo. “Go ahead,” he said, “open it up. See your handy work.”

  Bo flipped open the folder, then slammed it shut. “Why are you showing me this? Was that Mack? Jesus Christ, that was a picture of Mack, wasn’t it?” The four by six-inch photograph showed an image of a man, burned well beyond recognition.

  “You need to see what you did to him. Don’t you want see how he died?”

  “You’re a sick fuck,” Bo snapped. “Mack was my friend. Why the hell would I burn his house down and kill him? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I have no idea why you did it, but let me tell you how we know you did it. First, we pulled the remnants of a flare out of Mr. Mack’s basement. There were three flares used in conjunction with fifteen gallons of high octane fuel used to start the fire. Most of the fuel was spilled across the basement floor and the gas cans they were in were sealed tight, each still holding enough fuel to create a nice explosion when the temperature got high enough. Thankfully, and luckily for us, one of the flares wasn’t reduced to ashes. It had a single fingerprint on its stem. Care to guess whose fingerprints we matched it to? Here’s a hint, it’s one of the two people in this room right now and the print wasn’t mine.”