Dead Burn

by Jennifer Chase

  Organized.

  Angel took off his plastic gloves, neatly folded them, every finger precisely placed vertical and folded over, before he tossed them into the garbage. Several boxes of disposable gloves took up the remaining space above the sink and small stovetop.

  He didn’t believe in the use of sponges or tea towels. Microbes and the unthinkable resided in them. Instead, he tore a small piece of paper towel exactly two inches square and methodically wiped the sink, counter, and faucet after every use.

  After a piece of dry wheat toast and a cup of strong coffee, it required him to clean up a mess that took almost a half an hour. His mind wandered a few times remembering the beautiful woman admiring his handiwork from his videos.

  Intriguing.

  It should have upset him, but strangely, it did not. It proved to be a new irregularity in his life’s work.

  Preoccupied with his hands, nervously pressing his fingers together, Angel left the spotless kitchen and entered the workroom – at least that was what he called it. Not one other person had ever seen the room. The old abandoned garage, ideally located on the ten acres, was chosen just for him. It propelled him forward and gratified the heavy fire workload.

  Before entering the workroom, Angel meticulously searched the walls, corner crevices, and window before taking a seat at his command post. He opened his favorite book, the journal of new life, an encyclopedia of cleanliness and the brilliant plans of eradicating sin.

  His mission was to take down the system of sinners. The main culprit was the criminal justice system allowing these types of people to continue with their evil ways. All those involved were just as guilty and would not receive any tolerance in the burn process. Sin was easy to identify.

  He saw it. He planned it. He cleaned it.

  Angel’s mind recalled the childhood memories deeply burned into his mind. There were no computer erase buttons to push in order to fully cleanse his detailed recollections of what that house was like for him growing up. He shut his eyes and dredged up one of the many days he had spent in that disaster; hoping things would change.

  It had been the usual bad day for the fifth grader dealing with name calling and punching from the other boys, including some of the younger kids. Even the bus ride was horrible and torturous. Everything he endured was always right on schedule. The good news was that Angel could take the slaps, shoves, and hard knuckles pounding his frail body without grimacing or crying anymore. He knew, someday, somehow, that he would win in the end.

  He entered Aunt Clara’s house from the side door, since the front door was completely blocked. The flimsy, single-door construction creaked open to about a six-inch gap. Angel pushed hard with his right shoulder to budge the entrance another couple of inches.

  He shoved his plain blue backpack through the tight opening and then slipped his thin body through. Shutting the door from the inside was easier and offered a haven from those who wanted to hurt him. The doorknob jiggled, wobbly in its resting place, and absent of the locking device that had long since fallen out. There were no locks anywhere on Aunt Clara’s house, but no burglar would dare to enter for fear of what they might find inside the home.

  Quickly grabbing his backpack from the floor, Angel slung it over his right shoulder.

  He was careful to keep his footing steady. One-step, squish, two steps, crunch, as it continued when he made his way toward the kitchen.

  The ranch-style home didn’t resemble an average comfortable family home. Covered from end to end, top to bottom, were piles of every type of clutter, garbage, and thrift store items amassed in every nook and cranny as far as the eye could bear to see. Every precious piece purposely saved by Aunt Clara; they were cherished belongings that she would never part with as long as she lived. It grew from day to day, and week to week. Some of the walkways resembled long dark tunnels.

  Angel knew that nothing had changed since he left for school that morning, but he still hoped.

  “Honey, is that you?” A voice hollered somewhere between the labyrinth of filth and clutter.

  “Yeah, I’m in the kitchen.”

  “I left you a snack on the counter. Don’t spoil your dinner.” She replied, this time her voice a little farther away, muffled by the walls of chaotic confusion.

  The floor had a constant wet muck combination with the permanently separated linoleum from a leak under the kitchen sink. In the quiet of the kitchen, the drip sound was almost a relief, a rhythmic comforting splash.

  Angel stared at the kitchen counter. A week’s worth of dishes sat unwashed, flies buzzed around the dried food that had turned green, while other pieces of previous meals dried in peculiar hardened fragments. At the end of the counter was a plate where the chicken nuggets had been previously heated in the microwave, probably a couple of hours ago. The snack arranged in a tight semi-circle made an interactive playground for the cockroaches.

  With an uncontrollable shudder, Angel could still see the cockroaches as if they had infested his workspace. That day had marked a new beginning. His vision cleared to the present day and he refocused to the pages of his cherished journal.

  Angel lingered on the last few pages, his posture in a loving embrace, shoulders forward, a serene look etched upon his face, as his thin fingers caressed the edges of the book. Love enveloped him. He felt fulfilled with the fact that he knew his quest would never end.

  Sin infested humanity.

  He soaked up the image of the She-Warrior from a frozen video shot. It was an unmistakable determination and a power within another warrior that gave him never-ending hope. He ran his fingertips over her outline and then to her face. He wondered if there were more warriors out there like her. The thought tugged at his being, in a way that had never touched him before.

  He wasn’t alone anymore.

  After lingering a bit longer with the outline of this fierce She-Warrior, Angel moved on through the carefully selected names.

  A red mark notated Zig Rodriguez. The authorities hadn’t found his body in the burned out car - a perfect final resting place for a sinner. Angel’s thumb rubbed back and forth on the red ink to savor the moments of the screams completely engulfed in a metal coffin.

  His right index finger stopped on the printed name Joshua Richards, he was the assistant district attorney that allowed crime and filth to continue to roam freely. The name Joshua resonated inside Angel’s head. Joshua was a name better suited for a warrior – not a sinner.

  It was time for the next cleansing.

  CHAPTER FORTY- SEVEN

  Sunday 1300 Hours

  “Two officers need to be posted at A.D.A. Richard’s house in rotating shifts around the clock until further notice.”

  There had been some hesitation in jurisdiction and cooperation initially, but everything was now set in motion. Better late than never, Detective Duncan thought sourly as he hung up the phone.

  What else could he do at this point?

  Taking a sip of coffee that teetered on three and half hours old, the detective mused over everything from the arson scenes. That familiar, overwhelming feeling plagued him. It filled his gut with frustration and the unavoidable – another victim in the near future.

  His desk resembled a bomb explosion that left him with all of the gritty jigsaw pieces to clean up. File folders, computer printouts, jagged pieces of paper with handwritten scribbles, rap sheets, and autopsy reports all fought for his direct attention.

  Flipping through the legal yellow pad that he judiciously uncovered from the piles, he stopped on the names of interest: A.D.A. Joshua Richards, Jury Foreman Anna Sinclair, and P.I. Zig Rodriguez. He took his black marker, crossed off Richards, and noted: in progress.

  Operating in sequential order and on the assumption of previous victims, he addressed each potential target. Jury Foreman Sinclair was conveniently out of the country and didn’t pose a likely victim threat, at least at the moment. He had left numerous messages for Rodriguez. Duncan’s hope was that the private investigator
had common sense and could take care of himself, if deemed necessary.

  With a deep sigh, the detective leaned back in the squeaky and equally uncomfortable chair. A slight wheeze of his breath didn’t draw his attention away from myriad of information that faced him. Sleep didn’t alleviate the investigative burden, coffee didn’t appease the growing fatigue, and eating better didn’t allow him to solve the case any faster. The investigation sat, stalled, and he knew that there would be more bodies if he didn’t come up with anything solid soon. He was supposed to have two other detectives working full-time with him, but budgets wreaked havoc on the department, and only one other detective was spared only on a part time basis.

  The detective took a bite of a day old doughnut with a sticky, Styrofoam consistency, which helped to soak up the caffeine burning a hole in his stomach. He tossed the remainder of the pastry into the trashcan.

  His mind wandered. The police station always seemed to have an endless supply of doughnuts, sometimes bagels, which were available twenty-four hours a day. For some reason the bakery goods would materialize magically, and no one fessed up as to who had brought them. This simple observation seemed to pick away at him.

  Simple facts, simple ideas, and simple overlooked clues were often the pivotal answer needed to solve a complex case.

  Duncan searched for some of the crime scene photos. Quickly sliding out files and notes as a few teetered from the piles onto the floor, he kept looking. It became an obsession. He knew that there was something he had missed. There was always something missed.

  The detective flipped over the crime scene photos of the warehouse and Chad Bradford. At first glance, the scene didn’t possess anything useful. He adjusted his glasses and leaned forward at the desk to view the images of the heavy-duty door at the back ally. The door stumped him. He looked past the back alley where the electrical box stood. In one outer area of the frame, there was a small black box that didn’t look like anything special, but in another view, it was missing.

  “What the…?” Duncan turned the photographs closer to his desk lamp examining them. He realized that the photo without the small box had been taken later by Fire Investigator Myers.

  The detective sat back and scanned all the photographs once again.

  Who would take the box and why?

  He glanced to his cell phone. It became clear to him. He knew that Emily Stone must have been looking into these arsons. The box proved an important piece of evidence and most likely put there by the killer. Or, the killer returned to retrieve his prop. This new evidence raised more questions.

  The desk phone rang.

  Grabbing the receiver and toppling more files, he said, “Duncan.” He listened intently and looked at his watch. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  CHAPTER FORTY- EIGHT

  Sunday 1930 Hours

  Emily watched Jordan’s face, curious and suspecting, as his eyes darted back and forth from her to the bartender. Jordan’s bruises were healing on his face, but he seemed to take them as a symbol of honor.

  Casually, Emily turned her head just far enough so that her peripheral vision could see the man behind the bar along with about a dozen patrons. The bartender slid the mixed drinks to a couple without a pleasant greeting, or cracking a smile. Broderick McCain continued with his usual duties, all without looking at anyone directly.

  It raised some red flags concerning behavior, but nothing that would indicate the persona of a serial killer. Having memorized his rap sheet and general background, Emily tried to fit the motivations of the crime scenes and borderline genius abilities to the man behind the bar, who half-heartedly dried a glass with a towel.

  After careful study, McCain didn’t fit the profile.

  Emily continued to watch Jordan, as he watched the bartender relentlessly.

  A jukebox played pop hits from the 80s, which drowned out the clarity of any idle conversations among customers.

  She leaned across the table still holding the sides of her soda water and said in a low tone. “If you don’t stop staring, he’s going to think that you have a thing for him.” A slow smile washed across her face.

  Jordan’s steely blue eyes settled back on her with a fixed expression between annoyance and inquisitiveness. “Are you jealous Ms. Stone?”

  “I think the better question is do you want to walk out of here with… or without a limp?” She still smiled, but her tone bordered on a serious quality.

  Jordan leaned back in the booth seat, relaxing his demeanor. “I don’t think I’m willing to find out. Don’t forget, I’ve seen you fight and I know my chances aren’t good.”

  Emily stared into her glass and watched the light reflect from the ice cubes. The multi-colored lights and décor in the outdated bar reflected a rainbow of colors inside her glass. Her arguments with Rick played through her mind. She knew that she could get beyond the feeling of betrayal, but it still left questions. It unsettled her usual toughness and determination. She hated vulnerability almost more than serial killers.

  “Em, are you listening?”

  She knew that it made Rick angry that she didn’t want to shadow the first pool of suspects with him. It took an extreme situation for her to get mad and it took twice as long to cool off.

  “Hello?” Jordan reached out and touched the back of her hand. “You okay?”

  Emily retrieved her hand to her lap. She brought her focus back to the assignment and the bartender. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You were just on another planet.” He downed his blended margarita and grimaced slightly at the cold temperature. “Tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Uh, I was a criminal profiler with the F.B.I. remember? I think I can read the obvious.”

  Emily tried not to smile as she watched the dramatic expression flash across Jordan’s face. “Look, I don’t… this isn’t the place to have this conversation.”

  “Hey, I’m your friend and if you need to talk to someone, I’m here that’s all. No biggee.” He looked back at the bartender as his shoulders and jaw tensed.

  Two new groups of people meandered toward the bar, three people sat at a table, while the others opted for the bar stools. They appeared to be friends from a nearby college and out for some drinks.

  Jordan sighed and said. “I don’t think he’s the guy. Maybe we should catch up with Rick.” His tone sounded defeated.

  “Wait…” Emily quickly replied, forced a smile, and pretended she was having a good time looking directly at Jordan.

  Two men in their mid-thirties walked by their table and moved to the crowded area. They headed to the end of the bar with sullen expressions. The taller man sported a zipped up motorcycle jacket and leaned into the bar, while the heavier set man with a baby face and bald head sat uncomfortably on an adjacent bar stool.

  Jordan followed Emily’s lead, casually observing the two men. It was obvious that they weren’t the usual clientele and that they came to see the bartender. They reeked from some type of criminal activity.

  Emily knew something brewed among the three men as they gave subtle nods to one another, never ordering any drinks. At first, Emily thought they were going to rob the place, but something else seemed to connect the threesome.

  Jordan asked. “What do you think?”

  “Not good.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Nothing… yet.”

  “Just clue me in when you know.”

  “Always do.”

  “This guy is a con and they could be involved in just about anything.”

  “True.” Emily casually looked around the bar as the waitress stopped at their table.

  The extremely thin woman asked. “Another round?”

  “No thank you, we’re good for now.” Emily replied.

  The waitress quickly moved to the larger table and dealt out the drinks in a counter clockwise rotation. Everyone seemed oblivious to the two men that nervously watched he rest of
the room.

  Jordan grabbed the empty glass from Emily’s hands and set it aside. “I know that I can’t change your mind, but I’ve got your back.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “You sound like a bad movie line.”

  “Can’t help it, it’s just how I feel.” He smiled.

  It was difficult to ignore Jordan most of the time, but equally difficult when he became relentless with his usual sarcastic chatter. Emily’s anger toward Rick along with the frustration with the arson cases made her want to take these two guys outside for a beating.

  Recklessness drove her adrenaline. She found it difficult not to let it completely take over and cloud her judgment.

  As suddenly as they had appeared, the two anonymous men left the bar and headed toward the restrooms.

  Emily stood up.

  “Wait.” Jordan snapped.

  “For what?” She gave him a small smirk.

  “Uh – you said you’d give me a heads up.”

  “I am.” Emily left the table and walked with medium speed toward the restrooms.

  “Shit.” Jordan fished out some cash from his pocket to pay for the drinks including a nice tip for the waitress. Mumbling under his breath as he counted out singles, he complained, “Rick will shoot me and bury me somewhere out in the desert if I let Emily get hurt…”

  Emily walked down a long hallway and past several unmarked doors that remained locked. She casually tried to turn a couple of the nobs listening for any type of voices from inside.

  Nothing.

  The old wooden floor complained in a high-pitch crackle under her boots as she stopped at the door with the recognizable symbol indicating the women’s restroom. She stood for a moment and noted that the men’s restroom was directly across the hall.