Dead Burn

by Jennifer Chase

  Jordan’s mind flooded with thoughts of old cases he had seen at the F.B.I. He quickly read Emily’s notes about the organized and obsessive behavior theory. She indicated that the arsonist’s behavior pattern was progressing and modifying with each victim.

  With renewed energy, Jordan conducted more searches. He began the daunting task to cross-reference suspects associated any way to companies that install heavy security doors, either by employees, subcontractors, various companies that had bought doors recently, or with any other connection that proved too coincidental.

  Jordan’s evening charged into the early morning hours.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Friday 1400 Hours

  The doctor’s examination stool swiveled and then rolled across the floor with fluidity. The man moved effortlessly from table to table, without ever having to get up and walk from one workstation to the next.

  Efficiency was key.

  Each roll pushed him with more determination than the last. The absolute willpower propelled him with the new anticipation of the next chosen sinner. The stool wheels aptly oiled, carefully maintained, which kept everything on track. They worked efficiently, just like everything in his life.

  Take pride in your work.

  The old medical chair from the early seventies was in stark contrast to the rest of the room, which housed high-tech and high-end devices. The walls remained bare of any artwork. One small window with a dark grey shade pulled tightly over it was the only decoration. Three folding tables with metal legs, a corner oak desk, two bookshelves, three lamps, and a twin bed rounded out the impersonal room.

  Everything on the tabletops and bookshelves precisely angled perpendicular to the adjacent surfaces, gave an almost Feng shui symmetry. Tops, sides, and bottoms were exactly two inches from the next object and surface edge. For added effectiveness, an old-fashion wooden ruler rested on the left edge of the desk, two inches from the side, just in case certain items needed verification.

  No rewards for laziness.

  A scientific notebook with a brown leather cover, organized in chronological order by important dates, and cross-referenced by sin order, remained within reach at all times. The victims, described as the walking dead and recorded by sin severity, on a scale of from one through five, supported the carefully written list. Not only were the sinners marked for death, but everyone associated with them had to die too.

  It was a simple equation.

  The man’s slim fingers caressed the hard cover. He then carefully opened to the table of contents listed by a date and a person’s name. With perfect block printing, he gently traced over the names. In the process, he was careful not to crease the cover needlessly. Turning the pages with loving care, the man took his right index finger and slid it down the page, slowing as it passed over the names of Chad Bradford, Timothy Dalton, and Judge Christensen. He pushed the tip of his fingernail to indent a crease underneath their names, savoring the moment of intermission.

  Fondly, he took a breath to bring the vivid images of their deaths back into view again. The pleas, the prayers, the unanswered questions, and the horror engraved on their faces once they knew that their judgment commenced.

  Prepare for the inevitable.

  A block number, followed by a small letter was next to every name in the index, which coded the actual fire event. It was complete with specific references of detailed diagrams and meticulous schematics.

  The man, known in his own perfect world as Angel, took an extra moment to admire his future plans. The staging couldn’t have been easier, or more satisfying. Each judgment stoked his inner fire, cleansing his soul, and gave him new life. It provided a chance for a new beginning as well as a new awakening.

  Childhood thoughts never strayed far from Angel’s mindset. Organization and cleanliness was not anything that Aunt Clara cared about in the home when he turned nine years old. After his parents had died in that fatal car accident, Angel was forced to live in a world of filth and disorder.

  Immorality was everywhere.

  Lack of proper nutrition and loving adult supervision made him smaller, weaker, and an easy target. He became the school joke, much more than the other students in his fourth grade class. Constantly picked on and berated became his usual daily routine, whether it was the beatings at the bus stop from the older boys, or the humiliation in the boy’s bathroom from insecure bullies. Weakness eventually made him stronger, smarter, and faster than everyone else.

  Angel used one of his lightweight laptops for the design schematics rehearsing the fires. It was a prototype software he took pride in designing. It had technically detailed mathematical equations and chemical compounds, in addition to others that were simplistic but effective.

  The method of execution had to fit the sin.

  As in the judge’s demise, a man who easily let criminals back in society rose to the top of the list. He sat and watched his own family’s departure before his own life extinguished.

  The judgment fit the sin.

  A second laptop rested to the right side of the desk, set back, in easy view for convenience, and always remained connected to the Internet. It served as his personal eye on the burn locations. The tiny cameras camouflaged in simple, but brilliant locations, watched the investigations, and on occasion, captured an interesting irregularity.

  It intrigued him.

  Recording movement, Angel’s covert camera at the barn caught someone admiring his work. He watched the image of a beautiful fair-haired woman diligently searching the grounds alone one evening. It intrigued him as she stood alone, sometimes with her eyes closed, and other times quietly surveying the areas. Her approach was soldier-like with the added bonus of determination.

  She was a warrior – a She-Warrior.

  She touched him.

  It stirred something in him.

  The woman She-Warrior struck his soul with beauty. It made his life’s work deemed more important than ever before.

  Angel’s entire life consisted of loneliness and isolation, but he had found solace with his work writing technical manuals for high-tech devices, especially the most unusual and complicated items. He kept his life simple, never needing anything, and his employers never spoke directly to him. Money continued to grow in his personal stash through wire transfers, much more than he actually needed.

  His life proved destined to rid the world of those who sinned.

  With the new findings, Angel’s thoughts shifted. He wasn’t alone. A different feeling warmed his body with a perplexing annotate, but soon dissipated as he worked feverously locating the next sinner. Zig Rodriguez, a private investigator, now targeted for death. Next in line, Assistant District Attorney Joshua Richards and Jury Foreman Anna Sinclair waited in the wings.

  Fire cleansed everything.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Friday 1800 Hours

  Emily tried to ignore the unsettling feeling that someone watched her. She casually found her way to the judge’s estate – or at least where the residence once stood.

  A strange sensation badgered Emily. A shiver spiraled down the back of her neck, down her backbone, with spiny fingertips from the unknown. Tensing her shoulders, and then lengthening her neck, she shrugged off the prickly feeling.

  As usual, she dismissed it as only an occurrence in her suspicious and investigative nature. Sometimes things were just what they were, simple, straightforward, nothing devious, and nothing uncommon.

  Overgrown bushes and large clusters of trees, in desperate need of pruning, worked in Emily’s favor. The neighbors did not see her park the SUV near the property. She hoped that they were enjoying the dinner hour, instead of taking a walk outdoors.

  Originally, she did not intend on stopping, or even slowing down, but she had to take the opportunity to walk around and take a few photos for some type of comparison.

  She needed answers.

  With her gun safely tucked inside her ankle holster, she slipped a digital camera and small flashligh
t into her jacket pocket.

  Emily emerged casually from her vehicle and looked from side to side.

  The private seclusion welcomed her.

  She quickly jogged inside the judge’s estate before someone caught sight of her snooping around without the proper authoritative badge. She didn’t want to see herself filmed from a cell phone sneaking around the property to end up in a video on the Internet.

  The house sustained immense damage. The exposed shell looked catastrophic in appearance. The deepest and darkest fire concentration positioned the destruction on the east side of the sprawling ranch-style estate. It developed in the area of the bedroom wing.

  The arson appeared deliberate with a fair amount of planning to ensure the desired result, whether it was to flame quickly, or entice the victim in another way.

  Was there a killing rating system from the killer’s point of view?

  Many of the beams and structural walls still feebly stood in between the charred hull.

  Emily pondered the approach and the end results between the two crime scenes.

  Official yellow tape crisscrossed over every standing entrance and some of the remaining window openings with an extremely heavy-handed technique.

  Red papers stapled to various parts of the outside structure showed the official notice that stated penal codes for safety and condemned structures.

  The ground still soggy, mixed with water and fire retardant chemicals, squished under Emily’s boots. She slowed her pace, looked down as the extra liquid squirted from underneath her shoes spattering her jeans.

  She frowned.

  She noticed that she made perfectly formed shoe impressions around the property, making a mental note to scuff her footprints before leaving the grounds. Trudging on and making her boot prints undecipherable, she decided to enter one of the doorways that most likely had a double sliding door leading to the patio.

  She spread the tape in two sections just wide enough for her slim frame to squeeze through. She flipped on the flashlight, keeping the beam low not to attract attention.

  Emily directed the beam from one side slowly and then fanned it across to the other. Her mind tried to piece together a logical scenario. The holes and missing walls absorbed the light through a mouth shaped fissure, she felt like the innards of a Halloween pumpkin peering out at the rest of the world.

  Strong pungent odors dominated the air. It absorbed into Emily’s clothing.

  Once she gained her bearings, watching her step, she noticed the house had four distinct areas. She followed the darkened trail to a large open area, and her experience told her that it was where the fire had originated.

  Master bedroom suite?

  Emily took several photos of the rooms, not quite sure if they would be helpful or not, but knew she wouldn’t get another chance to walk through the remains before demolition.

  Watching the digital screen as she pressed the shutter, Emily noticed how odd the area was next to the bedroom. At first, she thought it was a large closet, but images showed a distinct difference between the other rooms. The area in question had more standing walls with heavier construction.

  After taking more close up photos, Emily took a closer inspection. Running her hands along the opening and touching the materials, she realized that the room’s construction withstood more than the rest of the house.

  Why?

  Glass crunched under her boots.

  Emily stopped. She panned the flashlight in a semi-circle around her feet.

  Bits and pieces of glass were everywhere. She picked up several small fragments, comparing them to areas around the windows. They were distinctly different, but using only a naked eye did not give the individualization.

  She pocketed the pieces.

  Taking the flashlight and directing the beam in a circle grid, reflective flashes of light gleamed like that of a mirror.

  Double reinforced construction and a two-way mirror indicated a panic room.

  Was the judge already secured in his panic room?

  Or, did the killer put him in there?

  Emily hurried back through the home, carefully documenting anything that might prove pertinent to the investigation. Once satisfied, she hurried back to the SUV.

  * * * * *

  Detective Duncan sat at his desk scouring police and fire investigation reports, squinting his eyes as he kept pushing up his reading glasses. He preferred the desk lamp to the glaring overhead fluorescent lighting, but it made some paperwork more difficult to read.

  Three large cardboard boxes rested on the floor beside him. The lids removed and report files organized in several stacks. More piles of files sat on his desk next to his working desktop computer.

  He slurped room temperature coffee out of a paper cup that he had bought from a local gas station convenience store more than three hours ago. The microwave was his closest friend at the police station. It was his third cup of java, and it had already made his stomach rumble for food instead of another caffeinated boost.

  He had received the boxes from a delivery service by way of Myers. There were arson cases the detective wanted to cross-reference with homicide cases that involved suspicious fires over the past two years. Everything was located on the computer databases, but Duncan knew that the computer operators missed details, often reference numbers and coinciding forensic analysis reports.

  The detective was old school with handwritten reports that were frequently illegible. He preferred the use of pen and paper, versus laptop and electronic tablet. Many of the younger detectives scoffed at his techniques, but they always showed respect to him as a senior detective. He hated the reference as an old timer. It made it sound like the only other recourse was a retirement home and then death.

  Opening his top drawer, he remembered that he had a candy bar tucked away. Not sure how old it was, but it satisfied his grumbling stomach.

  He scribbled on a steno pad. The top priorities he looked for were cold case homicides involving fire, unsolved arson cases, victims trapped in a location before the fire, and recent construction of a crime scene. He was interested in the victimology of the casualties with backgrounds on occupations, such as in criminal justice system, military, stock market, or anyone associating with any high-power positions. It was a huge undertaking, but the detective hoped it led him in the right direction.

  Most of the arson cases involved young men, often teenagers, and there were the usual earmarks of those crimes involving gasoline and other accelerants. The detective dismissed many cases and eventually ended up with twenty-seven cases of maybes.

  He glanced at his cell phone with a reminder about other people associated with the Devlin case. Duncan couldn’t help but think about the phantom detective and wondered if she was working the case.

  Would she find out the name of the perp?

  There was always hope.

  Either way, it was a race against time.

  Duncan glanced at his watch as it approached 10:00pm. There hadn’t been anyone to go home to in a very long time, but his energy level wasn’t what it used to be in the old days. He decided to call it quits for the night.

  Tomorrow he would branch out to other jurisdictions and surroundings states to see if anything connected the arson cases through linkage.

  CHAPTER FORTY- FOUR

  Saturday 1000 Hours

  The new house wasn’t entirely unpacked, but it seemed sufficient for Emily and Rick’s needs. Even though it was smaller in square footage than what they were used to, it seemed more like home.

  A stack of broken down boxes organized in the corner of the living room made enough room for what was important – the arson cases.

  There were three white boards rolled into the living room adjacent to the dining area. Each panel faced a slightly different angle around the remaining moving boxes. The kitchen table covered with printout of cases and pertinent photographs, laid strewn in a specific order. It was a possible sequence of motives, impulses, and capabilities of the f
ire suspect.

  Two laptops hummed, Internet ready, and waited patiently for input instructions. A third computer communicated to a large screen that temporarily hung on the wall behind the dining table.

  Colored three-inch square sticky notes in yellow, pink and blue were affixed to the glass sliding door, which led to a small backyard. The pieces of paper had information linking forensic evidence to each of the fire scenes. Yellow notes designated the possible changing M.O. of the perp, pink showed the forensic evidence, and blue had the names of possible suspects.

  Sarge sat at attention, ears perked, eyes sharp, as he stared directly at Jordan stretched out on the couch. The dog gently panted in Jordan’s air space.

  “Why is he staring at me all the time?” Jordan mumbled.

  “He likes you.” Emily casually responded as she brought more photos to the table. “Don’t play dumb, you know you love him.”

  “Lucky me.”

  The large dog pushed his bulky head into Jordan’s hand and demanded attention.

  “You should’ve known better than to give him gourmet meaty treats.” She said.

  Jordan sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “I saw the hideous dried up, preservative filled dog food he normally gets. I wouldn’t eat that.”

  “Of course not Jordan… you have a much more subtle palate for Chinese food with MSG, and your weekly chili-cheese burgers with a rude looking French dressing, along with garlic, chili fries.” Rick quickly pointed out. He sat down and typed on one of the computers.

  “Hey, I’m just sayin’ that the dog food didn’t have any real food value in it.”

  “You should take a look at your own diet…” Rick muttered.

  “Boys!” Emily yelled. She thrust her hands on her hips like a disapproving mother. “What’s the problem?” She looked at each one of them and waited for an answer.

  “I don’t have a problem.” Jordan quickly stated as a frown clouded his face.

  Emily looked at Rick, raising her eyebrows. She got tired of playing mediator, especially since they were on borrowed time.