The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller

by Richard Brown

  A few of the reporters bustled toward the car clutching microphones and followed by cameramen.

  “What should we say?” Simmons asked.

  “Nothing. Don’t say a word to any idiot with a camera.”

  The two detectives sprung from the car and headed toward the front door of the Ackerman house. The black, burly cameras followed closely on their heels.

  “Detectives, do you have any information on how the fire was started?” A female reporter asked. She was a fairly attractive brunette, maybe in her mid-thirties, dressed in one of those bright colored, sharply trimmed women’s suits that have become all too trendy these days.

  Neither of the detectives responded and continued up the cement walkway.

  “Do you know if any negligence on the part of the girl’s parents had anything to do with her death?” A different reporter asked, this one a man.

  What do you think we’re here to find out?

  Isaac opened the door and allowed Simmons to go in ahead of him, then turned toward the crowd of reporters gathered in the front lawn.

  “There will be no comment at this time,” he said, trying to project his voice over the crowd. “Now back up. I don’t want to see anyone without a badge within fifteen feet of the house.”

  He turned to go inside when the pretty brunette spoke again.

  “How long will it be before an autopsy is performed on the young girl’s body?”

  Autopsy? Sorry, but not even the most prestigious pathologist could perform an autopsy under these circumstances.

  Isaac turned back around and stared the brunette reporter right in her bright, anxious eyes. “I said no comment at this time. How hard is that to understand?”

  From the first step inside the house, Isaac could smell a strange odor unlike anything he had ever smelled before, and he’d been witness to many awkward scents over the years with the Elmwood P.D. The scent was fresh, almost sweet, and it crawled all over his skin.

  A half dozen policemen roamed about the house, going upstairs, back down, and then back up again like working ants revolving in a steady circle. Simmons chatted with one of the blue and white uniformed officers in the kitchen. Isaac headed over, but before he could take two steps from the front door, another policeman snuck up from behind him.

  “Sir,” said the officer. “I’m assuming you’re Detective Winters.”

  Isaac turned around and faced the policeman; a young kid, maybe twenty-five, probably new to the force. He had a big black cowboy hat on his head.

  “We’ve been waiting for you. Would you like me to lead you upstairs?”

  Isaac glanced up the staircase and saw the open doorway with the yellow police ribbon around it. “No, I think I can find my way.”

  He walked past the officer then turned back at the foot of the stairs.

  “Hey, what’s your name?”

  “Deputy Christopher Howers.”

  Isaac nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  The officer nodded back.

  “Simmons, come."

  Isaac peeled back the yellow police tape and stepped underneath. Simmons followed behind. The sweet scent Isaac had first smelled when he entered the house had grown tenfold. He could feel it tickling at the back of his throat, making him want to sneeze, or cough up his lungs, whichever would make the tingling sensation go away quickest.

  He stood in the doorway of the room and peered over at what used to be a little girl and her bed. The scene looked far worse than the pictures could have ever shown. As he inched closer to the bed, he noticed the foot, hanging lonesome, about to fall into the black hole in the mattress. When he looked into the hole, he saw the other foot, the left one, smothered amongst the black ash.

  “There’s number two.”

  Isaac walked around the side of the bed and began examining the surrounding objects in the room. Simmons couldn’t take his eyes off the ash and the lonesome feet. His eyes told the tale of a man who knew he was way out of his league. In his short time as a detective, he had never come across anything even remotely as horrifying as this. The worst he had seen was a man killed from multiple gunshot wounds in the chest, nothing in comparison to this dread.

  “Honestly,” Simmons said, not letting his eyes drift from the bed of ash. “Have you ever seen anything like this before?”

  Isaac looked over. “Well." He paused to let his mind wander off, searching through hell’s database. “No,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Not like this.” He turned toward the open window and looked outside at the house next door. “I wonder,” he said, running his hand across the windowsill. “I wonder if this window was open all night. And if not, when was it opened, and who opened it?”

  “You think somebody could have come in through the window?” Simmons asked.

  Isaac thought to himself, random, jumbled thoughts that led nowhere, and finally said: “We need to talk to the neighbors.”

  He turned from the window and leaned down next to the bed. If he sneezed now the ashes would scatter all over the room, and his face. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a latex glove. Then he snapped the glove on his hand and touched a small pile of the ash with his index finger. The black ash collapsed smoothly from within and ran down the sides of the hill. He picked up some of the ash and ran it through his fingers.

  “The ash is really fine.”

  “Huh.”

  Isaac picked up another hand full and repeated the process. “You see how easily it breaks apart.”

  Simmons nodded.

  “The particles are very fine and compact. Not like your average fire where the ash tends to be clumpy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Isaac stood up. “Just means this isn’t your average fire. But I guess we already knew that, right?” He pressed his hand against the wall next to the open window, a grimy soot slide between his fingers. He removed a line of the grease with his index finger. “Care to write your name in it?”

  The detectives circled the room looking closely for anything else that looked unusual. They both turned back to the bed, if by instinct.

  “I don’t see how a fire could burn so steadily in one place for a long enough time to char through bones. How could any fire do this kind of damage in such little time?”

  “You don’t believe it’s possible?” Simmons asked.

  “With a little help, anything’s possible.”

  “The parents?”

  “Maybe. But we won’t know until we talk to them.”

  Isaac ran his hand across the top of the dresser, and then searched the floor around it.

  “Wait a minute.”

  “What is it?”

  Isaac peered down the crack behind the dresser, scanning the two-inch floor space separating the back of the dresser from the wall. Nothing but a little ash lay there, probably scattered by the wind from the open window. “Something’s missing.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” He pulled open each of the four drawers and rummaged through them. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go out to the car and bring me the photos. I need to see something.”

  Simmons carefully butted through the mass of media, ignoring any questions on his way to the car. He opened the passenger door and snatched the manila folder lying on the back seat.

  Upstairs, Isaac stood at the side of the small bed, examined the fine gray ash below, and tried hard to shake the intoxicating perfume from his senses.

  A small portion of the ash (not more than two or three spoonfuls) was already in the hands of forensics for analysis and would be placed under a number of tests, the most effective test being Gas Chromatography, which could detect even small amounts of accelerants present in the ash. First the sample would be heated in a glass vial to vaporize any accelerants. A special syringe is then used to extract a small sum of air from the vial. The air is then injected into the gas chromatograph, and by comparing that graph to the graph of known
substances, such as gasoline, paraffin, or fuel oil, the examiner could determine which accelerant may be attributed to the fire. These sorts of tests could go a long way in discovering whether the fire was accidental or intentional, thus making Isaac’s job of finger pointing a little easier.

  As Simmons charged back up the stairs with the manila folder, Isaac’s cell rang. He removed it from his belt and glanced down at the incoming number. It was Chief Stevens.

  Simmons ducked under the police tape and stormed into the room with folder in hand. “I got the photos,” he said, holding the folder out in front of him.

  Isaac had his phone up to his ear, listening.

  Simmons opened up the folder and looked through the photos again, searching for any minor differences in the room. He found none. Everything looked the same as in the photographs.

  “We’ll head right over,” said Isaac, and hung up the phone.

  He snatched the manila folder from Simmons and flipped through the photos until he came to the one he had been searching for. In this particular photograph, most of the horror was not apparent, but what it did show was a clear view of the windowsill and the dresser.

  Simmons stepped closer as Isaac pointed to a small object lying on top of the dresser.

  “What in the hell is that?”

  Simmons narrowed his eyes. “It looks like some kind of small figurine.”

  Isaac turned and pointed at the dresser. “How come it’s not here now?”

  Simmons was amazed that Isaac could remember something that small was missing from the room, so small he had overlooked it just moments before.

  “Maybe somebody moved it.”

  “Moved it?”

  Simmons said nothing.

  “Well, it’s probably not important anyway. We’ve got to go. There’s been an incident.”

  Simmons raised his eyebrows. “An incident?”

  “Yeah, with the parents,” said Isaac, placing the photographs back into the folder. “At the motel.”

  3

  A couple of fire trucks were in the parking lot of the Goodnight Motel on the corner of Harbor and Fairway when the detectives arrived. The motel was only a single story and had sixty rooms in total. One of the cheapest lodgings in town, and it showed. Parts of the roof looked to be falling inward, gutters hung loosely at the lip, and the piss yellow paint had blotches of green fungus growing up the wall along the walkway. Unless you were incredibly impoverished, dealing drugs, doing drugs, or banging a hooker behind your wife’s back, you’d be better off staying away from the Goodnight Motel.

  Isaac pulled into the lot and parked the Charger near the motel offi . . . well, I guess you could call it an office. The office consisted of a small booth enclosed by a double layer of glass and two filthy green plastic chairs sitting outside the door. A sticky note was taped to the front glass with words scribbled on it in black marker: Knock hard, if asleep. What a nice place to throw your feet up, read a dirty magazine, and check in the drunken scumbags.

  Isaac walked over to one of the firemen standing just outside room number 38. With Isaac’s permission, Simmons headed into the musky room.

  “By the time we got here there was no fire left to put out,” said the fireman.

  Isaac watched Simmons carefully walk into the room like he was afraid of stepping in an ant bed. “So, how bad is it?”

  The fireman shook his head. “Pretty bad.”

  He didn’t look proud to say it either.

  “I figured. Any idea on what may have started the fire?”

  “Haven’t a clue. We didn’t find any gasoline or matches. And neither the man nor his wife smoke.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because that’s what Mr. Ackerman told us.”

  “Mr. Ackerman? And where is he now?”

  “He left.”

  “What do you mean he left?” It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement.

  "He said he had to go and get his daughter."

  "No. His daughter's dead. Did you happen to notice what kind of car he was driving?"

  "I believe it was a blue Escort."

  "Thank you."

  When Isaac entered the hotel room, he was quickly reminded of the sweet, fresh smell from back at the Ackerman house. The smell was even stronger here, given the small size of the motel room. Simmons hovered over the silhouette of ash spread out under the floor to ceiling window. The charred body of Carol Ackerman was almost identical to that of her daughter’s, except for in this case the legs were only burned down to the calves, instead of the feet. The air conditioning unit on the floor next to the window looked like it had started to melt at some point during the fire. The black knobs that used to adjust the temperature of the room had melted completely and formed one large black plastic pancake. Isaac placed his hand over the vent and felt a light amount of cold air blow out.

  “Well.” Simmons paused to catch his breath. “Do you think it was him?”

  Isaac smirked. “It had to be, but right now we have zero evidence to charge him of shit. We need to look harder. I feel like we’re missing something, like we’re gazing too hard at what’s on top and forgetting to look at what’s underneath. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” Simmons said, not looking like he did.

  Isaac headed to the bathroom. Once inside, he ran his palm across the counter and then held his hand up to the light looking for any drug residue. After searching the cabinets and sorting out the one-cup coffee packets from the hot cocoa, he left the bathroom.

  “Okay, listen. We need to find Mr. Ackerman. He may be driving a blue Escort. It's not much to go on, but call it in anyway. I want you to stay here and wrap things up while I shoot back to the Ackerman house.”

  “Why? You don’t think he would go back there, do you?”

  “No. There should still be officers at the house. He can't be far though. I want to talk with the next-door neighbor. You have your cell phone on you, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, I might need to call you.”

  Isaac dashed to the Charger.

  Simmons watched the car loop out of the motel parking lot just as several television news vans were pulling in. “Christ, they got here fast,” he said, forgetting that most were only minutes away.

  4

  Isaac parked the Charger out in front of the Ackerman's house. All of the news vans were gone, and all but a few police cruisers remained. He stepped out of the car and looked over at the neighbor’s house on the left. An older woman, probably in her mid-sixties, was standing on the front porch, hands on her hips, eyes focused on the Ackerman house.

  “Excuse me,” said Isaac, flashing his badge, well aware that from this distance she would never be able to see it. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  The woman turned her head Isaac's direction, but didn’t answer.

  “It’s important.”

  “Sure,” she finally said.

  Isaac strolled up the lawn still holding the badge in his hand. Once he reached the front porch, he realized the woman was probably closer to seventy-five. She had the faraway look. The farther away you get, the better she looked.

  "You with the police?"

  "Yes ma'am. I'm a detective."

  “Would you like to come inside?”

  "Thanks. I'd love to."

  Isaac entered the house and sat down on a light brown love seat. He stretched out his legs. The woman sat down in a recliner across from him.

  “My name is Brenda Mills."

  “Isaac Winters.”

  “I guess you’re here because of the fire next door.”

  “Yes, ma’am. How well did you know the little girl?”

  "Lori. I knew her pretty well. She was such a sweet girl. I watched her sometimes after school. She helped me plant some beautiful flowers out front. Did you see them?”

  Isaac nodded. He really hadn’t. Admiring the old woman’s gardening skills was the last thing on his mind walking
up. “How well would you say you knew her parents?”

  “I’d say we had your typical neighborly relationship. We talked now and then.”

  “About?” Isaac inquired.

  “Carol used to talk about her job a lot.”

  “Where did she work?”

  “She works at the public library a few blocks down Fairway. Actually, I think she just volunteers. But I check out a lot of books so I would see her there helping out.”

  “And where does James work?”

  “James works at a used car lot in town. Franks, I believe.”

  “How often did you talk with him?”

  “Not quite as much as Carol. He worked a lot and wasn’t home often. But we chatted sometimes. He’s a real nice man and was a good father to Lori.”

  Yeah, he was just terrific. Burned his little girl to death, the standard for which all good fathers should be judged.

  “Has anyone come and talked with you yet?”

  “No. You’re the first one.”

  “Do you have a husband?”

  “I did. He passed away last year.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Isaac paused for a minute to catch his breath. “Did you notice anything strange or unusual yesterday evening?”

  “Strange? No, not really. I was supposed to watch Lori after school but she never came by. I figured there must have been a change of plans.”

  “You didn’t hear anything later that night? Shouting? Crying?”

  Mrs. Mills shook her head. “No, I went to bed early. Probably around nine. Then I woke around twelve thirty when the fire trucks arrived. I watched from my porch as the firefighters ran into the house and I got really worried.”

  “Could you see the fire?”

  “No, I never saw the fire. I never even saw any smoke."

  “So how did you hear about Lori’s death?”

  “This morning on the local news. I had stayed up the rest of the night. I couldn't get back to sleep. It's so sad. I mean, like I said, she was such a sweet girl.”