by Andrew Grant
“The weird.” Agent Irvin had switched to a dark navy suit, and looked as if she’d startled herself by jumping on the question so fast.
“Let me start with the good.” Young smiled. “Inglenook School, where the incident occurred last night? It had the new kind of sprinkler system. Remember I was telling you about those? So the damage was fairly minor. The blaze was controlled, and we were able to extinguish it pretty easily once we got on-site. Which we did very fast. It also meant there was more evidence left for us to collect. And we were able to take it to the lab right away for analysis.”
“That is good news.” Hale shifted her chair slightly to avoid the sunlight that was streaming in through the broken blind on the end window.
“Now for the weird.” Young winked at Irvin. “Pop quiz time. What do you get if you mix Styrofoam, gasoline, and benzene? Or soap?”
“A very clean kind of bomb?” Garretty’s attempt at humor fell flat.
“Not even close.” Young’s smile faded away. “The right answer? Napalm.”
“Seriously?” Hale put down her cup. “Napalm? That’s…insane.”
“Insane.” Young nodded. “But true. It makes a version of napalm, anyway. The military’s kind is more sophisticated, of course. But the home-brew variety will still do a number on anything it comes in contact with. Or anyone. Believe me.”
“And someone’s attacking our schools with it?” Hale sighed. “Wait till the press gets hold of this.”
“School.” Young held up his hand. “Inglenook. That’s the only one we can be sure about right now. Jones Valley, we’re still waiting on one more test. Should be done by this afternoon.”
“But the odds of it being different?” Hale raised her eyebrows.
“Not for me to say.” Young crossed his arms.
“Assuming there is only one torch artist in play here, I guess your old school buddy’s off the hook.” Garretty nudged Devereaux’s arm. “Confession or no confession.”
“Right.” Devereaux peeled a loose strand of laminate that had been bugging him off the tabletop and dropped it on the floor. “We’re going to have words about that, him and me. But if he’s out of the picture, the real question has to be, why napalm? What’s wrong with a bottle of gas, a rag, and a match?”
“Good point.” Irvin leaned forward. “The choice of napalm is very important here. It tells us something critical about the perp. What he’s doing is demonstrating a degree of technical proficiency that far outweighs the demands of the crime. It’s an assertion of intellect. Of competence. A gesture, if you like, driven by the feeling of being undervalued in everyday life. By someone who feels they’re being continually disrespected. Or that they’re not getting the credit they believe they deserve for the work they do. Or did.”
“So you think it plays into the revenge angle?” Devereaux removed another annoying laminate strip from the tabletop.
“Right.” Irvin nodded. “It has to be someone reasonably intelligent, to figure out how to make the napalm. Someone organized, to source the ingredients. And with sufficient self-control to wait until they can strike at a time of minimum risk. It could be a teacher. Current. Or retired. I’ll see if any of them worked at both schools. It could be someone at the Board of Ed. Or a former student. I’ll get updated, prioritized lists to you by lunchtime.”
“Interesting insight.” Hale steepled her fingers. “I like it. But tell me one other thing. This sense of being undervalued, or disrespected. Does that have to come from a personal perspective? Or could the perp be feeling it on behalf of someone else? Even multiple someone elses?”
“A kind of vicarious version?” Irvin pulled a deep frown. “Yes. There have been documented cases. But they’re much less common. Why?”
“Come on.” Hale pulled a laptop out of her briefcase, sending a slew of papers cascading onto the floor. “Gather round. There’s something I want to show you all.” She set the computer on the table in front of her, waited for the others to take up places where they could see, then clicked on the track pad. “Tell me what you think of this.”
A video clip began to play on the screen. The picture was grainy and dark, and showed a group of men at a meeting. It was shot from the second row of the audience, apparently covertly, and focused on a heavyset man in jeans and a denim shirt who was addressing the crowd from the front of the room. The audio was muffled, but it was still possible to make out what he was saying:
“And I tell you brothers—no more!” The guy was striding from one side of the room to the other, and jabbing the air with his index finger to drive home his points. “We’ve been pushed to the limit. To the limit? Beyond the limit! We will accept no more! I will accept no more. Not one more job lost. Not one more of us kicked to the curb. Not one more year of loyal service forgotten. Not one more family ignored. Not one more future destroyed. And why? So that some rich asshole can buy a bigger Mercedes? Or go on a second skiing vacation? Or a third? Hell no. I’ll burn in Hell first. You know what? Scratch that. I’ll burn a school down first! I’ll burn every school down first, before I accept the loss of even one more job!”
The clip ended abruptly, the picture frozen on the speaker’s angry, contorted face.
“Who is that guy?” Devereaux stared at the computer screen. “Does anyone know?”
“He looks familiar.” Garretty slid back into his seat. “I’ve seen his picture before, somewhere. In the paper, maybe. Kevin Russell. That’s his name.”
“Right.” Hale closed the computer. “Russell’s the leader of the public services union that includes school janitors, amongst others. That was a speech he gave. Four weeks ago. And since then, ten more jobs have been cut. One of them was at Jones Valley Middle School. One was at Inglewood.”
“Where did the video footage come from?” Irvin was still on her feet.
“Anonymous tip.” Hale touched the side of her nose. “On a thumb drive. Someone mailed it in.”
“Well, wherever the video came from, it looks like this Russell’s worth a conversation. Let’s find out where’s he at.” Devereaux winked at the lieutenant. “Maybe we can get him to jump ship. Imagine that guy heading up the police union. There’d be no more problems with overtime then.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Monday. Morning.
It had been so much easier when he was a little guy.
There had actually been a time when Daniel liked coming to the newspaper with Diane. When it had been fun. He’d liked pressing the buttons on the security doors. He’d liked the mesmerizing buzz they could feel in the air as they made their way through the office. And he’d liked stopping to chat with Diane’s co-workers, lecturing anyone who’d listen about the latest scientist to catch his imagination. Then, when he’d exhausted his audience, he’d demand a thick pad of paper and a set of colored pens. He’d plant himself in the corner next to Diane’s desk. And amuse himself for hours by sketching out designs for the laboratories he’d be in charge of when he was older, and listing the breakthroughs he’d make on the way to his first Nobel Prize. No wonder the other journalists used to call him The Little Professor.
Diane hadn’t needed to worry about what would happen if Daniel realized they were teasing him, in those days. But that wasn’t all that had changed. Proximity locks had been brought in, which were activated automatically by a chip in the ID card that each staff member was required to wear around their neck on a branded corporate lanyard. They were convenient, but they’d replaced the keypads Daniel had enjoyed so much. Swathes of empty, dusty desks had replaced the ranks of busy, boisterous reporters who used to generate such a lively atmosphere. And anyone who knew Diane had also learned to find something urgent to do, somewhere else in the building, anytime they saw Daniel approaching. As a result, he hated the place.
Normally Diane tried to avoid bringing him, but that morning she’d been caught in a complete jackpot. Daniel had stuck to his threat to quit school. He’d point blank refused to go. And to make a bad mat
ter worse, he’d also refused to stay at the house on his own. He said he’d been abandoned too many times recently. He demanded that Diane stay home with him, like a caring mother would.
Diane did care about Daniel. She cared about him desperately, but staying home simply wasn’t an option. She’d lose her job, for sure. And she simply couldn’t face that. Her sanity was hanging by a thread as it was. Without the Tribune there’d be nothing left between her and the abyss. So summoning all her powers of persuasion, she convinced him that if he wanted to spend the day with her, the newspaper was the only place that could happen.
Pretty much the only practical benefit of the downsizing the industry had suffered through was the couple of private offices that had been left empty. It was no good trying to move into one permanently—a few people had tried but Facilities had busted each of them inside a week, evicting them as if they were trespassing on the White House lawn. Taking over the one near her desk for a single day was another story, though. And keeping Daniel out of circulation was worth a little risk. So, after giving a wide berth to the few people who were already there when they arrived, Diane ushered Daniel all the way across the main floor. She told him the room was the Supervisor’s Office—temporarily vacant due to maternity leave—and made sure he was set up with a stack of science magazines and a power outlet for his laptop before closing the door and checking that it had latched.
For a couple of hours it seemed as though her prayers for a quiet, uneventful day had been answered. She managed to handle all her work via phone or email and avoided taking any bathroom breaks, which saved her from having to leave Daniel’s room unattended. But just as she was setting her sights on an early lunch—and wondering how soon she could get away with leaving after that—Daniel came out.
“This is lame.” He sauntered over close to Diane’s chair and leaned down to read what was on her computer screen. “I’m bored. I want to— Seriously? This is what you work on all day? Who wrote this garbage? Not you?”
“Keep your voice down!” Diane made her own voice into a low hiss, and she quickly closed the document about the school fires that she’d been reviewing. “And don’t be so rude.”
“I’m not the rude one.” Daniel straightened up. “I didn’t drag anyone to this indoor graveyard against their will. And talk about rude? You’re being rude to the entire English language, writing crap like that. And rude to the truth itself. How could you know all those details about what happened at the schools? You’re basically lying. You lie for a living. You’re a—”
“Diane, have you got a minute?” It was Kelly Peterson. Diane’s editor. She was a small, thin, bird-like woman with prematurely gray hair and a famously short temper. She’d come up behind Daniel without Diane noticing. And it was clear from her tone that she wasn’t making a request.
Chapter Twenty-four
Monday. Morning.
“Dave, we know.”
Devereaux leaned back in the unyielding metal chair and stared across the table at Bateman. He was unshaved. What was left of his hair was greasy, and it was sticking out from the sides of his head like an unkempt clown’s. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit that was at least two sizes too large. And yet he looked a million times better than the last time he’d been in that interview room. He seemed calm. Relaxed. Even happy.
“We know.” Devereaux didn’t elaborate. He let the silence build, like a physical presence in the room. He’d learned over the years how much the guilty hate silence. Used properly, it’s like a vacuum that sucks the truth right out of them.
Bateman said nothing.
“Listen to me.” Devereaux leaned forward, finally losing patience. “We know the real story. About what you told us yesterday. It’s all over, Dave.”
Bateman still said nothing. But he did react this time. He smiled. Then the penny dropped for Devereaux. He still thinks we believe him.
“OK, rewind.” Devereaux straightened up. “What we know is that you’re lying. We know you didn’t start that fire. Or put another way, we know you’re full of shit.”
“No.” Bateman shook his head. “I’m not. I told you the truth. I did start the fire. I burned the place down. It was me.”
“No it wasn’t, Dave. Because last night, while you were tucked up snug as a bug in here, do you know what happened? Another school was attacked. Set on fire, just like Jones Valley was.”
“So?” Bateman shrugged.
“So it couldn’t have been you.”
“The second school? Right. I never said it was. Someone else must have set that fire. But Jones Valley, that was me all the way.”
“It wasn’t.” Devereaux crossed his arms. “And you’re missing the point, Dave. The two fires? They were identical. Same method. Same materials. Same person.”
“Why does that make it the same person?” Worry and confusion creased Bateman’s face. “It must be a coincidence. This other guy, he must have used the same kind of container as me. Or bought his gas at the same place. Fire isn’t exactly a recent discovery, you know, Cooper. Everyone knows how to make it. Humans have known since the Stone Age, or whenever.”
“Maybe.” Devereaux leaned forward. “But what about napalm, Dave? Do you know how to make that? Have you ever even heard of it, you dope?”
“Don’t insult me.” Bateman’s shoulders started to sag. “Of course I’ve heard of napalm. I’ve seen Apocalypse Now. But who cares if I know how to make it?”
“I care, Dave.” Devereaux nodded. “I care very much. Because the fires? They were started with homemade napalm. Not gasoline, like you told me yesterday.”
“I knew that.” Bateman raised his chin again. “I just didn’t want to give away my secrets. I was afraid people would copy me. And that’s what must have happened. Word must have gotten out—maybe one of the firefighters blabbed, or maybe a cop—and someone thought it was a cool idea. It’s been in the paper, right? All the details?”
“Name the ingredients in napalm, Dave.”
“Let me think.” Bateman looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “No. I can’t bring them to mind right now. Not all of them. You’re putting me under too much pressure.”
“OK. Name one ingredient.”
“Stop it!” Bateman covered his eyes. “Stop going at me.”
“I’ll stop when you cut the crap.”
“It’s not crap!” Bateman flopped forward on the table with his head on his outstretched arms. “But you’re going at me, and I’m tired, and you won’t stop, and I can’t remember, and I just need a break.”
“You need to tell me why you lied, Dave.” Devereaux lowered his voice. “You could be in a lot of trouble here. You gave a false statement. You obstructed an investigation. And that led to a second school getting destroyed. People could have been hurt. Kids. They could have been killed. Which means you’re looking at jail time, if you don’t start helping yourself.”
Bateman wrapped his arms around his head and let out a long, low moan.
“It’s not too late, Dave.” Devereaux leaned in close. “I can still help you. But you’ve got to play ball. Admit you didn’t set the fire. Then tell me why you lied. Do those things, and I can make the charges go away. But if you don’t get ahead of this before we catch whoever really did it, and we’re very close now, there’ll be nothing I can do. You’ll get locked up for real.”
“I did it.” Bateman’s voice was muffled by his sleeves. “I did. I did. I did.”
“You didn’t.” Devereaux added a little steel to his voice. “You lied about the fire. And that makes me wonder: What else did you lie about? What you said about Principal Oliver? Did any of that really happen?”
“Yes!” Bateman pushed back from the table, arms locked, eyes wide. “Every single thing I told you. Actually, more than that. He…He…”
“OK.” Devereaux held up one hand. “Then consider this. You didn’t like what Oliver did? Then wait till you’re in jail. It won’t be a middle-aged high school teacher doing things to you,
believe me. And it won’t be just one guy. The things you told me about, in the principal’s office? They’ll seem like a picnic in Railroad Park. You’ll be wishing you were back in school.”
Bateman sat in silence for a moment, then his face contorted and he sank down in his seat, his head lolling forward and his arms hanging limply by his sides.
“You didn’t set the fire, did you, Dave?” Devereaux lowered his voice until it was barely audible.
Bateman shook his head.
“Why did you say you did?”
Bateman opened his mouth, then closed it again without saying a word. Another moment passed, then his shoulders twitched in an exhausted shrug.
“Were you covering for someone?” Devereaux tried to catch Bateman’s eye. “Did someone pay you to take the fall? Or threaten you?”
“No.” A small, single tear broke free from the corner of Bateman’s right eye and trickled slowly toward his stubble.
“You sure? You’re not lying to me again?”
Bateman shook his head.
“What about other victims? You said maybe Oliver had picked on some of the other kids at the school. Can you give me their names?”
“No.” A second tear appeared on Bateman’s cheek, and then a third. “I’m useless. I can’t do anything right.”
“All right, cut that out.” Devereaux got to his feet. “You’re not useless. And don’t worry. I’ll sort this out. I’ll get you released. The charges’ll be dropped. You’ll be home before the end of the day. Just promise me one thing.”
“What?” Bateman looked up at Devereaux, wide-eyed, like a kid who was desperate to redeem himself after a scolding.
“Get yourself some help. You’re a mess.”
—
Devereaux sat back down after Bateman had been led away to the cells, and thirty seconds later Agent Irvin tiptoed into the room.
“What do you think?” Devereaux held his hands out as if weighing two similar objects. “Are we in fruitcake territory?”
Irvin sat in the chair Bateman had been using and tried to shift it forward, forgetting that it was bolted to the concrete floor. “Not at all. What he did was perfectly understandable.”