Erin nodded. "This is a pretty small town and everyone here knows Gunther from way back. He can be a cantankerous old bastard, but he didn't strike me as someone capable of such calculated cruelty toward another person. I guess you never can tell."
"Sounds like he knew Gina's routine and it was easy for him to take advantage. He must have been watching her."
Erin nodded again. "Just like someone was watching Dolores Johnson and knew her routine."
"And someone likes fire." He knitted his brows in concentration. "Hey, wasn't there a fire by the cemetery recently?"
"Could Gunther have done all this?"
"Ryan and Mark were on that call. They said some witness thought it was kids. It's possible that it's not even related."
"Well, there sure are a lot of fires around here lately," she said. "That can't be all coincidence."
"I'm not sure it's wise to connect the dots just yet, but it sure feels tempting to link all these together. Is it reasonable to assume that an old guy like Gunther is traipsing about the bush at night, drinking beer in the swamp behind a widow's house?" He lingered at a stop sign long enough to punch an inquiry into the computer. A second later he looked up. "Gunther is squeaky clean. Not even a parking ticket in the system."
"Don't forget that he used to be an outdoors guide. He knows this area like nobody else. I'm sure he still remembers all the bush trails between his place, the bog, and the Stop 'N Go. It takes a while to drive all the way around by car, but it's probably quite efficient if you know the short cuts through the bush by heart."
"What about motive?" he asked. He tapped two fingers on the steering wheel for emphasis. "What could possibly be the motive for Gunther to go after Dolores, or Gina?"
"I'm still puzzling that out. Gunther served with Gina's grandfather in Vietnam. She said her family owed him. There might be something he's holding onto from the past."
"What about Dolores?" he countered. "Why would he want to hurt her?"
"Like I said, I'm working on it."
The fire investigator's unmarked car and the forensic van were parked out front when they reached the Stop 'N Go. The infamous fish sign lay crashed on its side in the parking lot and police tape was strung from corner to charred corner of the building's remains. Kathy was outfitted in a white suit, glowing like a Christmas ornament against the soot covered wreckage of the building. Camera in hand, she photographed the scene. The fire investigator followed her, nodding occasionally while she spoke. He held a metal canister and stooped to pick up a sample and place it inside.
They parked in the alley at the rear and left Fiona to pace in the backseat.
Erin walked around and stood in front, Zimmerman standing behind her in silent support. Where there were doors, now there was broken glass, twisted metal and half of the front wall caved inward. She closed her eyes and remembered the shrieks of fire devouring combustibles and the noxious smoke filling her lungs. She remembered the sickening feeling of Gina's skin scraping against concrete when she dragged her outside. She remembered struggling to breathe, staring at the sky, and watching smoke and sparks swirl against the stars. She remembered Kathy's halo, and finally waking up in hospital with an oxygen mask on.
"I didn't think you'd be able to keep away from here," Kathy said, her voice sounding muffled inside an N95 particulate mask. She had loomed up before Erin registered it, and stood right in front of her, white mask matching her white protective suit and booties. The only splash of color came from her electric blue nitrile gloves. She pinched the mask from her mouth and nose. She was smiling. Kathy was always most happy in her element.
Behind her, the fire investigator used a flat trowel to clear debris from the floor where the store's front counter used to be. He carefully scraped back layers and viewed each as he eliminated it. When he reached bare floor, he set the shovel aside and made notes. He picked up another burnt sample and placed it in a metal can.
"I knew you'd be itching to get here." Kathy wagged a finger at Erin. "So I asked Chris to pick you up." She smiled at Zimmerman. Kathy was the only one, besides his mom, who called him by his real name, and he shuffled his oversize feet like a schoolboy.
"I only wanted a look," Erin said sheepishly.
"A chronology of this incident might be useful," Kathy said. "Why don't you walk me through it?"
Erin took a step forward but Kathy blocked her way.
"Metaphorically speaking, of course. I don't want your shoes in my crime scene. Just verbally walk me through the sequence of events."
Erin told her the story, as best she could remember, pointing here or there to describe where she stood, or where she crawled. Kathy nodded and took notes. While she talked, Erin noticed something catch Zimmerman's eye and he followed it over into the ditch on the far side of the road. Soon, he was poking in the moist earth with a stick. He returned a few minutes later, clutching a dirt-filled plastic Ziplock bag. Erin raised her eyebrows in query but he merely shrugged. When she was finished describing the events of the fire, Kathy picked up a cardboard box marked Evidence and showed Erin the contents.
"What is it?" She peeped inside but the reddish melted plastic was unrecognizable.
"It used to be a red plastic jerry can," Kathy told her. "Ring a bell?"
"Nope."
"Gina's uncle Darryl said they kept one by the back door, for customer emergencies. She'd lend it to people who'd run out of gas or he'd use it to fill the lawnmower tank once a week. Do you remember seeing it?"
A memory sparked. "There were fumes when I first came into the store. I can't be positive but it sure smelled like gasoline."
"We're investigating the probability that an accelerant was used here. The fire investigator has debris samples and we'll send them off for confirmation. Unfortunately the plastic on this container is so melted that we won't get a print off it."
"What about the fire extinguisher?" Erin asked.
"I already seized that as evidence," Kathy told her, "but same story. There isn't a whole lot we can do to retrieve fingerprints when heat like this vaporizes everything. We might find other trace evidence."
"It sounds like a whole lot of bad news."
"Not all bad news. Dave was working last night and he seized a fairly large quantity of duct tape that was used on Gina. There's an excellent chance of developing prints from that using Gentian Violet."
Erin's face was blank, so Kathy explained. "It's basically a dye we use because it reveals latent fingerprints on the sticky side of tape."
"Oh," Erin said. "What you and Dave do is pretty much alchemy to me, but I sure appreciate the results."
"You know how Dave is," Kathy continued. "He's not in a hurry for anything, so I'll check up on him later and maybe I can motivate him to get it done." She stopped. "Speaking of getting things done, I did see a possibility on that thing you talked to me about at the lab."
"You don't need to speak cryptically," Erin told her. "Z-man knows. He feels the same way I do."
"Well, then," Kathy said. "Those two Budweiser cans were a sweaty, smeary mess but I did get a partial print off the unopened one. Do you have a suspect? It could save time."
Erin almost blurted her latest theory. She bit her tongue. Kathy would think that suspecting such an old man was a wildly ridiculous notion.
"No. No one yet," Erin said, and Zimmerman's face involuntarily twitched at the omission.
"Okay," said Kathy slowly, narrowing her eyes slightly. "I'll send them off to NCIC as soon as I have a batch. It'll be easier to slip them in unnoticed that way."
Erin's expectations sank to a new low. What were the chances that sweaty, smeary, partial fingerprints could be matched by the FBI's National Database? The person's prints would already have to be on file related to a criminal conviction. It was doubtful that Gunther was in the system.
Kathy took in Erin's burnt face, bandaged arms, and sizzled hair, her gaze penetrating and a little bit uncomfortable. "You look like you've been staked out in the hot des
ert for a week. You need to go home now." She turned back to her investigation, leaving Erin to Officer Zimmerman.
"You heard the lady, Cinder Princess," he said. "Let's get you back home and tucked in. If you want, I'll set you up a little old lady command post like I did for my mama." He guffawed and slapped his knee at precisely the same moment Erin cuffed him on the shoulder.
"So, what's in the bag, Zeee? You find evidence across the road?"
His Adam's apple bobbed before he answered. "Bugs. I found a few nice fat mealworms in the ditch." He patted the plastic bag in his breast pocket. "I thought my little buddies might appreciate a treat."
"So, Picasso is the speckled frog and Merlin is—" she teased.
"No," he interrupted impatiently. "Merlin is my veiled chameleon and Picasso is a leopard gecko." He looked at her, suddenly realizing she was teasing. "I guess you knew that. They're very hungry," he added in his defense.
He dropped Erin off at home and she headed up to the front door, Fiona happily following as if she'd actually gone for a walk. It was after noon and she had only a few hours left to make good on her promise to Allie. She thumbed the screen on her iPhone as soon as the door closed.
"Hello, Children's Services. How can I help you?" The voice on the phone sounded bored and not eager to help at all. Erin decided to sound business-like and see if she could wheedle a few snippets of information out of professional courtesy. To her surprise she was soon chatting to the supervisor. Joan Watson said she was a distant relative, and how was her mother? Go figure. Erin knew her family was big, but she had never bothered to keep track of who begat who. She should pay more attention. There might be vast untapped investigative resources to which she was oblivious.
Joan turned out to be quite a nice lady, but a terrible gossip, which pleased Erin. During the half hour conversation, she learned that a number of social workers had been out to Gunther Schmidt's house over the last two years after Lily's mom ran off. At first, they had considered placing the child up for adoption, but Gunther had stepped forward. As her grandfather, he'd committed to raising her himself and nine-year old Lily wanted to stay. He only had his pension to live on, so they arranged a monthly stipend to help with costs, provided the social worker checked up on her from time to time.
He was testy about the whole situation but tolerated it for about a year. After that, he became increasingly paranoid. He said he was tired of social workers going through his stuff all the time, and told them he didn't want their money after all. The stipend stopped and since then, no one had officially been allowed on his property.
That's when the Lutheran Ladies took up the cause. They delivered baked goods weekly under the guise of doing their Christian duty for the old widower. He ate their pies and their cakes and their Nanaimo bars until one day, they suggested his place wasn't good enough for Lily. They told him Lily needed a mother and would be better off in a God-fearing Lutheran home.
The ladies later reported to Children's Services that Gunther went nuts. He yelled that they could all burn in hell and chased them off his property. The story varies about whether or not he had his shotgun, but the Lutheran Ladies never returned.
Joan said she had gone to the school to check on Lily herself, but the girl told her she was fine. Said she liked living with her grandpa. Her school attendance was satisfactory so there really was nothing else they could do.
Erin made notes while Joan talked. When they finished, she sat back and read through them again. She underlined the word paranoid and then she underlined Lutheran Ladies. She was pretty sure Dolores Johnson belonged to that group. She wrote a $ sign and circled it. Where was Gunther getting the money? A senior's pension was not enough to pay for beer and raise a young girl. Is that why he took it from Gina's store? Why would he want to hurt her if she didn't make him pay? What secrets did he keep?
Erin closed her notebook. She needed to talk to Gina.
CHAPTER TEN
I walk straight in through the main doors and nobody notices me at all. I'm not sure why I came. I don't even have a plan. They were making such a big deal on the news yesterday, and I guess I'm curious.
The people that I pass look through me like I am invisible, or like I belong, which are really the same thing. I must be here to visit a relative. Everyone is going somewhere and they just can't get there fast enough. A red-faced nurse brushes past me, her attention on an old man who's making his big getaway in a wheelchair.
"Mr. Stevenson! Mr. Stevenson," she calls. "No, dear. You can't go that way." In a few hurried strides, she catches up to him and takes hold of the handles. He sits there like a potato. Suddenly he flaps his arms around.
"No! I have to get on the train!"
The nurse dodges his poorly aimed punch. Unfazed, she briskly pivots the chair around. She doesn't even glance toward me. Not once.
It would suck to be a nurse chasing forgetful old guys around in your multicolored cartoon character pajamas all day long. She's telling him he can get on the train tomorrow, but now it's time for his medicine. He's still pissed and is grumbling loudly, but he can't do anything about it. Stupid old man. I'd kill myself before I ever let that happen to me. As they pass, I turn to closely examine a poster on the wall about hand washing. I wait until the nurse has wheeled him away and avoid the elevator to take the stairs up.
Halfway down the hall on the second floor I slip inside a little kitchen when no one is around. There is a sink and a coffee maker with a stack of insulated cups beside it. There is also an ice maker and a fridge. I open it, of course, and see the shelves lined with juice boxes, cans of ginger ale, and plastic wrapped sandwiches. I take a random sandwich and pocket it. I swipe a ginger ale too, popping the top right away. It's nice and cold.
I am starting to enjoy my visit. All the activity and the smells, and so many people to watch. Downstairs, the visitors are agitated. There is lots of pacing and checking the clock and tense faces. Up here, they are relaxed, sitting around in the patient lounge watching TV or staring out the window. It's like the worst has already happened and there is nothing more they can do but wait it out.
I pause by a laundry cart in the hallway and consider stealing a lab coat or something but I decide there is no need. No one has noticed me. I walk past and keep going. Lots of people hate the smell of hospitals but I don't mind at all. It smells like antiseptic and cleaning products, and who doesn't like that?
Finally, I see Gina's name on the whiteboard by the nurse's station and walk down to Room 34B. Outside, I stop for moment with my hand on the door, and almost change my mind. I take another sip of my ginger ale and swallow slowly. My heart pounds quicker when I think about what I might find inside. That's more like it.
In case she has a visitor, I open the door real slow. She is alone. There she is, lying on the bed. She looks dead to me. Her hair is squashed all flat under white gauze dressing that wraps around her head, but short choppy hairs are poking out the sides. She has one tube in her vein, one in her nose, and her face is swollen up like a jack 'o lantern. I hold my hand out in front of her mouth and remember how she looked with the duct tape. I rise up on my toes and my body begins to vibrate. I realize I am feeling a little intoxicated thinking about it. Maybe I should have brought more tape.
I grin and bend close to her for a better look. She doesn't smell like shampoo any more. She looks like shit and smells like hospital. I can't believe I accomplished all that with one tap from the fire extinguisher and a half roll of duct tape. It was so easy, and so worth it.
Her eyelids are shut tight but they start twitching and I wonder what she is dreaming about. Dying? I back out and quietly close the door behind me.
* * *
Erin tentatively entered room 34B. Gina was asleep. Her eyes were swollen and she would have a couple of shiners to show for a while. The small basket of flowers Erin had purchased at the hospital's gift shop seemed so inadequate. Erin slid her offering onto the tray table and sat in the plastic visitor's chair, tapping on
e foot.
She watched Gina's vital signs displayed on the monitor, heart rate steady at seventy-five and blood pressure one-twenty-four over seventy-two. That, at least, was completely normal. The occasional bleep of medical equipment, the ticking of the clock and the whisper of the oxygen feed were the only sounds in the room. She fidgeted in the veritable vacuum of activity. Acutely aware of the large-faced analog clock grinding away each minute as it passed, she straightened the flower basket on the table. Then she aligned it with one edge. She straightened it once more before she was satisfied.
Someone had carelessly dropped a magazine beside the bed, so she picked it up and rifled through. She was pretty sure it wasn't being read for the articles about motorcycles. The object of interest was probably the cover image of a scantily clad blonde astride a shiny Harley. Nearly half the pages also featured young women wearing bikinis. Erin placed it onto the table and straightened it too. Then she jumped to her feet to pace. Sitting still was not something she enjoyed.
Twenty minutes later, she sat down in the plastic chair and reconsidered the merit of the motorcycle magazine. She had already fetched a plastic tumbler of ice water, placed atop a carefully arranged napkin on the side table. The straw had been bent to a perfect ninety-degree angle. Erin thumbed halfway through the magazine and then returned to page twenty-three. That dark haired girl with the tool belt had amazing abs.
"You like my motoporn mag?" Gina tore the oxygen tubes from her nostrils and rolled over, grunting in the process.
She stood up so quickly she almost toppled the table. Like a kid caught snooping through adult TV channels, she hastily closed the magazine and put it back. "I was just reading—" Erin cut short the clichéd lie.
One corner of Gina's cracked lips pulled upward and she focused a pair of amused but bloodshot eyes on her. Lying in stiff wrinkled sheets, swathed in gauze bandages, Gina looked unfamiliar, for the first time truly vulnerable. Erin was unsure of how to proceed. She held the straw in the glass of ice water while Gina drank.
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