A Flame in the Wind of Death

by Ann Vanderlaan

  “Standing to start.” Matt handed Leigh the blade, then grasped Paul’s shoulders and turned him so they were both facing the same direction. He held up his right hand, his fingers and thumb curved into a rough approximation of the blade, and slipped his hand around the back of Paul’s right knee. “The first strike was like this.” He rotated his hand toward the outside of the leg. “That takes the victim down.”

  He pressed on Paul’s left shoulder, pushing him down to his knees on the tiles, ignoring the muttered I hope this floor is clean. Standing behind his student, he lightly grasped his hair to tip his head back before cupping his hand around the front of his throat, the edge of his hand tipped toward the floor. “See how the ‘knife’ angles down? And assuming the killer is right-handed, he or she would likely keep the knife rotated to the left to give more leverage to the slice.” He jerked his hand to the right, imitating the fatal blow. Paul melodramatically fell forward onto his hands and knees.

  Kiko leaned over to tap him on the shoulder. “You can get up now,” she said dryly.

  Paul climbed to his feet, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

  “That gives us the upward cut to the throat,” Leigh said. “And it explains the slashes and why they don’t just go straight across but seem to bend around the leg and throat.” She held up the bag, peering intently at the blade. “Scorching notwithstanding, this blade looks pretty sharp.”

  “It would have to be,” Rowe said. “It cut through cartilage like it was butter. It also allowed the killer to be fast. The victim could be down and bleeding out within fifteen seconds.”

  Kiko gave a little shudder. “Then he could have still been bleeding out when the fire was set.”

  “Not for long though,” Rowe said. “And he certainly wouldn’t have been aware of what was going on around him.” He turned to Bree. “I attended to the firefighter first thing this morning.”

  Bree stood stiffly, as if braced for impact. “And?”

  “Death was nearly instantaneous. When the steeple collapsed, he sustained a significant blow to the head. He had a comminuted fracture of the parietal and temporal bones.”

  “Meaning . . .” Bree made an impatient gesture with her hand.

  “Bone fragments were driven into the brain. He never knew what happened. There was no smoke inhalation. I’m sorry.”

  Bree turned away for a moment, her head bowed and her hands balling at her sides. Then she whirled on Leigh, a pointed index finger stabbing the air. “You catch this son of a bitch, do you hear me?”

  Leigh jerked back at the unexpected attack. “I hear you just fine. We’re working as fast as we can.”

  “Funny, it doesn’t look like it. Salem FD is putting the fires out and I’m giving you all the data you need. Why aren’t you moving on it? A firefighter is dead and more are at risk.”

  “We are moving on it. We need time to build the case or it will all fall apart and the arsonist will walk.”

  “We know the risks.” Bree went on as if she wasn’t listening, and Matt noticed that she’d subconsciously identified herself as a firefighter. “Our eyes are open every time we walk into a scene. Accidents happen—faulty wiring, lightning strikes, smoking in bed.” Her eyes blazed and she leaned in, nearly spitting her words. “But this is murder. He’s killing my men just as much as his victims.”

  “There’s a team of us working this case. We’re doing everything we can.”

  “I’ll bet you went to bed last night. I spent a good part of last night with the DC, consoling a widow who’s wondering how she’s going to raise two little girls by herself. How she’s going to explain to them that Daddy isn’t coming home after shift. Is never coming home.”

  “Look, I understand what you’re feeling. I’ve—”

  Bree’s fist crashed down on a countertop, rattling instruments on stainless-steel trays. “There’s no fucking way you understand! I worked side by side with Cody when he was a probie. Before I became the fire marshal, I was his lieutenant and I taught him the ropes. I put my life in his hands, just like he put his in mine. And then, just like that, he’s gone? Do your job and fix this. I won’t lose another one, not on my watch.”

  She spun on her heel and marched from the autopsy suite, the door swinging back and forth in her wake.

  Face deathly pale, Leigh started after her, but Matt caught her arm. She vibrated under his touch and tried to yank her arm out from under his grip.

  “Leigh. Leigh!” When she continued to struggle, he jerked her arm, swinging her around to face him. Her right hand curled into a fist, and for a moment Matt thought she was going to hit him. He braced for the punch . . . but it didn’t come. Instead, she stood stiffly under his hand, her breath sawing through gritted teeth. He loosened his hold on her, but didn’t let go. “She’s angry and hurting and sleep-deprived. She’s striking out at the only person who can actually do any good here because she’s feeling helpless. She’s not yelling at you, she’s yelling at the first available punching bag. And that just happened to be you.”

  “Lowell’s right, Abbott.” Rowe stepped forward to clap a hand over her shoulder and give it a squeeze. “I’ve known Gilson for years. I’ve never seen her react like that. She was a damned good firefighter and now she’s a damned good fire marshal. But it’s killing her that she’s relegated to the sidelines on this one. She’s tired and grieving and lashing out. You’re a handy target. Just let it go.”

  Leigh pulled away from both men and turned toward her bag. She took a moment—longer than the task required—to tuck away the boline. When she turned around, her face was schooled into calmer lines. “You’re right. We’re all stressed, but Bree most of all right now. We’ll straighten this out later when we’re both cooler and she’s had some sleep.”

  Too calm, Matt thought. Too controlled.

  Leigh rolled her shoulders before jamming her hands into the pockets of her blazer. “So what’s next?”

  “We’ll finish the autopsy,” Rowe said. “Then I’ll leave Lowell to strip the bones to confirm that knife is our murder weapon.”

  “What about you?” Matt asked.

  “I’m meeting with a Father Thomas from Our Lady of Mercy. He called the unit this morning after seeing this morning’s newspaper article, which is likely the only useful thing to come from it. He said he might have some information for us.”

  “Can he identify the victim?”

  “He thinks he can. Wells included a lot of detail, including the cross on the victim.”

  “Where is Wells getting all this information?” Kiko asked.

  “I think from one of the firefighters. I wanted to discuss it with Bree, but . . .” Her shoulders hunched and she fretted with one of the buttons on her blazer. “Anyway, I’m headed over there now, and I’ll see what I can learn that might lead to victim identification or any possible connection to Moira Simpson.” She started for the door.

  Matt noticed that she didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “Give me a call later and let us know what you found out?”

  “Sure.” She turned briefly to Rowe. “Thanks for making this a priority.”

  “No problem.”

  And without a look at Matt or his students, she was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: UNPROTECTED OPENINGS

  * * *

  Unprotected Openings: openings in floors, walls, or partitions that allow the passage of smoke, flame, and heat between the floors of a building.

  Friday, 3:46 p.m.

  Rectory, Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church

  Salem, Massachusetts

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Father Thomas.” Leigh stepped through the door into the dim, quiet foyer. Constructed over a century earlier, the rectory was built of pale-gray granite blocks that shut out the sounds of the outside world when the heavy oak door swung closed.

  “I want to help in any way I can,” Father Thomas said. He was a young man, still relatively fresh from his vows, Leigh judged. His somber black pants and short-sleeve
d shirt were relieved only by the brief flash of white at his collar.

  “If you’d come into the library . . .” He led the way down a short hallway of dark wood wainscoting. The wide oak floor planks, worn by decades of wear, groaned under each step. Above the chair rail, heavy wood frames enclosed small paintings of priests dressed in ceremonial vestments—a multitude of different faces, all with the same sober expression.

  They entered a room that doubled as both parlor and library. A wide wood table sat near the door, half a dozen books spread open on its surface around a pad of paper covered with notes written in a broad hand. Towering bookshelves jammed tight with books surrounded the table. A stone fireplace, flanked by long windows that let in the last of the afternoon sun in wide swaths over the faded throw rugs, dominated the far end of the room. There wasn’t a speck of dust and the room smelled faintly of lemon oil.

  They settled into wing chairs on opposite sides of the cold fireplace. Father Thomas fiddled anxiously with the wooden crucifix that hung from a simple black cord around his neck. “I hope you’ll excuse my presumption in calling this morning, but when I read this morning’s paper . . .”

  “No need to apologize, Father. You may be our first real lead as to the identity of the victim found in yesterday’s fire.”

  “It was a detail in the article—the metal cross found with the victim. It made me wonder, so I tried calling Father Brian, but I didn’t get any answer. I went to the rectory, but no one answered the door. And that’s when I called the detective unit.”

  “And you think the victim is . . . ?”

  “Father Brian Clarke. He was the pastor at Saint Patrick’s up until the closing and he hopes to be back if the church reopens.” The younger man flushed a ruddy red. “If he’s still alive.”

  “If he’s our victim, we can confirm his identify through dental records.” Leigh pulled a photo out of her messenger bag—a scorched cross made of three intersecting nails on a chain of coarse links. “But this might help as well. Is this familiar to you?”

  She handed Father Thomas the photo. As soon as he took in the image, he closed his eyes, making the sign of the cross as his lips moved in a silent prayer. “That’s Father Brian’s cross.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. It’s unusual on this side of the Atlantic. He bought it at Coventry. It’s a replica of the cross of nails made by one of the vicars using medieval nails from the remnants of old beams after the cathedral was bombed during World War Two. Father Brian was never without it. He said it was the symbol of hope rising from the ashes of despair, lit by the love of God. With that hope, anything was possible. It buoyed his spirits, especially in the last year while Saint Pat’s was threatened with closure. And then later when it actually happened.”

  “Why was it closed?”

  “It was a financial decision made by the Boston Archdiocese as part of its process to reconfigure parishes that were struggling. Father Brian wasn’t only the pastor at Saint Pat’s; he also had fiduciary responsibility at another church, Saint Sebastian’s. When Saint Sebastian’s started to struggle financially, he transferred money from Saint Pat’s in an attempt to keep both parishes afloat. An internal audit discovered the transfer, and since Saint Pat’s was now the one in real financial difficulty, the archdiocese elected to close it instead of Saint Sebastian’s.”

  “How did the parishioners feel about Father Brian after that?”

  The younger man’s head snapped up, a passionate fire blazing in his ice-blue eyes. “You think that someone in the parish was responsible for this?”

  “I’m not saying that,” Leigh soothed. “I’m just trying to get a read on Father Brian. Some of the parishioners must have been unhappy about the situation. After all, it seems Saint Pat’s wasn’t in trouble until Father Brian tried to help the other parish.”

  The priest stood, walking to the window to gaze out over the gardens beyond. Sunlight washed over him, broken only by the grid of the windowpane, one bar slicing darkly over his cheek. “Some were very angry, but most came around. Father Brian was very open and honest about his motives. His parishioners made the official appeal to reopen the church, but Father Brian was doing a lot of the work behind the scenes. Those who were still angry with him forgave him at that point. He’d been at Saint Patrick’s for over thirty years, so he had a lot of history with both the parish and with many of the parishioners.”

  “How do you know so much about this?” Leigh asked.

  “I was the associate priest at Saint Pat’s for nearly two years when this all started. For a full year before the church was closed, rumors circulated and several times the closure date was announced and then canceled. I was transferred from Saint Pat’s to Our Lady of Mercy last January. He never said anything, but I think Father Brian put in a good word for me. He was happy I found a new position, leaving him as the only priest at the end. That was okay with him, because he was hoping to lead the parish once again when the church was reopened.”

  “He was certain it would reopen?”

  “That’s what he always said.” Father Thomas returned to his chair, dropping loosely into it. “Between you and me, I think the chances were small, but I admired his determination. The church closed last March but the appeals process continued and might have gone on for several more years. In the meantime, Father Brian remained in the rectory, so there was someone on the premises to discourage break-ins.” Propping his chin on his hand, he gave an unhappy sigh. “But now, with the destruction of the church, the archdiocese will likely decide that rebuilding is too expensive, even with the insurance. Because of the appeals process, many of the church’s sacred objects were left in place, excepting the most valuable, which were removed to avoid the risk of theft. So nearly everything is lost.”

  Leigh steepled her hands together, her fingers tapping together rhythmically. “That explains it.”

  Father Thomas fixed her with a confused stare. “Explains what?”

  “The fire itself. It struck me last night that it was a vigorous fire for what I thought was an empty church. If everything was still in the church, there would have been lots to burn.”

  The priest nodded. “Altar cloths, paintings, wooden statues, pews, furniture, and hymnals. The parishioners were hoping that they’d get the go-ahead to reopen and they’d literally be able to walk in and pick up their lives within the church.”

  Leigh suddenly froze. “Hold on. Only the valuables were removed. Does that mean that the church records were still on site?”

  “Yes.”

  Leigh’s shoulders sagged in discouragement. “And there goes our best way to connect victims.”

  “You’re talking about the other fire? The ‘Pentacle Killing,’ as the newspaper coined it?”

  “Yes,” Leigh said flatly. She forced herself to swallow the irritation; between Wells and her earlier run-in with Bree, she was off balance today. “Did Father Brian have any dealings with the Witchcraft community?”

  Father Thomas gazed at her steadily, his brow furrowed. “Not directly. We would occasionally come into contact with members of that community through our outreach programs. They’re very active in Salem, working with various charities. So, we might run into them at a Thanksgiving food drive at the food bank, that sort of thing.”

  “Did he ever have any disagreements with any of them?”

  “Never. You think there’s a connection to the Witches because of the pentacle found on the front door of the church?”

  “This is the second fire this week where a pentacle was found at the scene. We’re searching for a connection between the two events.” She extended a second photograph. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  He took the photo, studying it for a long moment. “No, I’ve never seen her before. Who is she?”

  “Moira Simpson. Her body was found in the first pentacle fire. I’m looking for any connection between the two fires.”

  “It’s possible that Father Brian might have known her
. I was only at Saint Pat’s for a few years.”

  “And now we can’t check the parish records,” Leigh said. “What about longtime parishioners? Is there anyone who’s been a member of the church for most of Father Brian’s tenure?”

  Father Thomas’s eyes narrowed unseeingly on something over Leigh’s shoulder. “I’m a little out of touch with the parish as I’ve been gone for nine months. If you can give me a day or two, I’d be happy to look up some members and see if they could help you.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” She handed him one of her cards. “Please feel free to call my cell at any time.”

  The young man stood and took a few steps toward the door before stopping. “Do you mind if I ask how Father Brian died? Was it—” He stopped, cleared his throat and tried again. “Was it the fire? Or did he die of smoke inhalation?”

  “He was murdered before the fire was set.”

  Father Thomas staggered back a step, and he grasped the back of the chair to steady himself. “Murdered? How?”

  “His throat was slit.” She didn’t elaborate on the additional wound.

  “And it was arson?”

  “We think so. But the fire marshal’s office is investigating.”

  “Blessed Mother Mary,” he breathed. “I’ll do what I can to help. Despite what happened between Saint Pat’s and Saint Sebastian’s, he was a good man. He didn’t deserve this.”

  “They never do, Father Thomas.” Turning, Leigh left the sun-warmed parlor, disappearing into the dark once again.

  Friday, 5:38 p.m.

  Boston University, School of Medicine

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Matt knew from the flash of Leigh’s eyes as she came through the lab door that she was tired, hungry and low on patience.

  “Sorry I’ve kept you.” She glanced at her watch. “We can do this another time if it’s getting too late.”

  He motioned her further in to the lab. “It’s fine.”

  Leigh’s shoulders sagged slightly at his words.