Dead Burn

by Jennifer Chase

  “I don’t think the profile is off, I think the perp is well hidden.”

  “Well even so, the suspects don’t fit the profile. This case has been obstructed for lack of a better word.”

  Jordan took a deep breath. “If we don’t go through this type of case systematically that’s when we’ll miss the most obvious clue.”

  Emily couldn’t help but notice that Jordan’s usual jovial attitude and sarcastic flair had faded.

  The arson case weighed heavy on her. The victims not yet realized weighed heavy on her. Bishop and Red taxed her energy. There was an unending fear of the unknown. Everything competed for her attention.

  The serial arsonist was her most difficult case, which made Emily’s energy level plummet. She pushed harder to keep her mind on the case, and not on Jordan or Rick.

  Something had to give.

  As if reading her mind, Jordan stated the obvious. “I wonder if Rick is having any luck with the other suspect?”

  * * * * *

  Without a single word or hesitation, the tall man lunged at Rick with a surprisingly heavy force, which slammed him onto the floor. DeBeers had returned to the motel room and was hell bent on retaliation for some reason. The clatter of bodies, arms, elbows, and feet rattled Rick’s bones. It instantly reignited the injuries sustained earlier by Bishop’s man. He could smell sickly sweat and alcohol of the attacking man.

  Gasping for air, Rick managed to scramble to his knees using his arms to block the flying fists. The suspect never asked who Rick was, but merely kept the attack mode. The deep pain shot up through Rick’s legs, as it tightened his back and shoulders with extreme anguish.

  DeBeers face changed, contorted and pained. He stopped moving in aggressive overtures and allowed Rick to get to his feet.

  Rick knew the look and took several steps backward as the criminal heaved with contorted thrusts. The projectile vomit rained down on the side of the bedspread and across the carpet. The stink revolted Rick.

  “Get up.” Rick ordered. He still felt the throbbing pain in his back.

  The suspect mumbled several unintelligible words, while spitting the remnants of his puke onto the floor.

  Rick stepped forward careful not to step in the vomit and pulled the man up by his arm. “Stand up.”

  DeBeers wavered just as his eyes narrowed, changing to pure animosity. He lunged again at Rick, but this time he averted the hit by taking a step to the side. The convict then fell forward, striking his head on the short chest of drawers before landing face down on the floor. His body lay limp unmoving, his arms rested down at his sides, palms facing upwards. Motionless.

  Rick stood above the man. As he looked down, the first thought was that he was dead, and all the complications that would entail. Within moments, the slow steady breath raised and lowered the suspect’s back. He was alive.

  Relief swept over Rick. The problems of a wrongful death left his mind.

  Thinking twice, Rick decided to drag the man and deposit him on the bed. He took another quick look around the room for good measure, looking in drawers, under the furniture, but found absolutely nothing that would connect DeBeers to the case.

  Rick left the motel room.

  He was relieved not to be in intimate contact with the barf and beer smells anymore. As he put the SUV in gear, his cell phone rang.

  “Hello?” The connection crackled and sounded hollow.

  He listened to the defeated voice of Emily as she explained that she and Jordan found nothing. At least she was speaking to him in a cordial tone and didn’t sound as mad as the past few days. However, there was almost a sadness in her voice. He wasn’t sure if Emily was just overly tired, or if the case proved too much.

  “It’s been a bust here too. Sorry I don’t have any better news. I’ll meet you back at home.”

  He pushed the end button on the cell, tossing the device onto the seat. The nagging feeling that there was more to the arsons than initially realized became more evident.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Monday 1100 Hours

  The staircase snaked around to the side of the multi-level estate winding up to the large sliding doors on a veranda. The impressive views of the ocean captured the imagination. The cool sea breeze invigorated Angel’s obsessive-compulsive mindfulness.

  He appeared average in physical characteristics with his dark jeans and hoodie that hid his slender build. He took each step, inspecting for the proper upkeep, to insure no paint had peeled from the dark wooden stairs. His combat boots kept the efficient pace, exhibited little noise, which helped him to keep the cadence of approach and flow.

  The gentle, cool breeze endured his stride like a good friend. He had forgotten what the coastline was like, clean, stimulating, and ultimately raw in nature. The surf crashed against the rocks below. It had a certain powerful tone, which helped him keep his warrior focus.

  No laziness.

  No uncleanliness.

  It remained Angel’s solace for the next ten minutes, due to the repetition of purity that hailed him.

  Angel’s left foot hit the landing of the deck and his shoe made a hollow vibration sound, much different from the stairs.

  He stopped. With one foot on the last stair and the other on the deck, he appeared uncertain what to do next.

  The area was clear of any potted plants, garden mobiles, outdoor furniture, or anything that would flutter or change colors in the wind. The deck remained sterile, empty, and void of any inhabitants. It intrigued Angel. He had to take an extra moment to admire the void; however, it didn’t sway him from his urgent mission.

  The job demanded top priority.

  Angel stepped gently onto the deck and quickly ignored the vista of the Pacific Ocean. Instead, he slipped off his backpack to retrieve a small black box. Everything had a specific place in the pockets of the personal bag, which he had packed and repacked several times. The special organizer contained everything he needed to set his trap for the cleansing.

  It only took a few seconds to attach the camera to the back siding of the house. It would allow him to watch remotely the emergency personnel hustle about their duties along with the smoke, fire, and the attractive burning embers of the house.

  A prickly heat rose from his lower extremities at the thought of the grand fire tearing away the house and the inhabitants through his carefully orchestrated purification. Like tiny cold fingers making their way up his legs and torso, it excited him. It used to frighten him like an unknown parasite; but now, it electrified him at the prospect of what was to come.

  Fire erased sin with a true refinement.

  A computerized remote deactivated the security system of the home A.D.A. Joshua Richards. It wasn’t difficult once Angel had the name of the security company. He jammed the frequencies with his homemade device with just a press of a button. The round button felt commanding, given to power that he controlled with just a thumb impression.

  Angel had found out more information about the locations of all of the attorney’s homes through a simple search from the County Assessor’s Office. He loved play-acting; it allowed him to become anyone at any time. It was easy to disguise himself as a real estate appraiser requesting more information from the inexperienced clerk who had been happy to help.

  The home had the usual minimum alarm coverage of the windows and doors, nothing else, not even security cameras. The closest neighbor had not inhabited their home in months. Angel had no fear about being spotted by curious spectators. Most people passed him on the street without a second glance or acknowledgment.

  With a few quick manipulations of the lock picks, Angel popped the French door open. Out of habit, he waited for any sound or flashing of lights.

  Nothing accosted him.

  For a brief instant, his mind formed the image of the She-Warrior from the video screen grab. He wondered if she would take extra precautions in her work too. The thought tugged at him, punched his chest, and momentarily the prickly burning fingers clawed at hi
s body. In all of his twenty-seven years on the earth, he had never encountered another person with his mindset.

  Angel counted to fifty-seven before he entered the house. Patience was a virtue, and he strove to make it one of his finer traits. The number represented the sinners he had cleansed.

  He stepped inside.

  The sea breeze forced the glass door shut with a bang.

  Angel startled with an adrenaline surge, goosebumps rose on his hot tingling skin. The pristine windows in the French door sparkled with the costal wind whipping around the individual panes.

  Silence resounded in the home.

  Stale air oppressed his senses. He gulped for more air to sustain him.

  The oversized furniture in light shades of beige, pale blues, stark whites along with a few art objects in pale yellows commanded his attention. The sickening colors made Angel nauseous. He fought the urge to shred everything in the living room, smash the knickknacks through the picturesque windows, and pitch precious antiquities off the deck.

  He caught his anger and turned his gaze around the room.

  A white end table held several framed photographs in silver frames. He moved closer and glared at the faces staring back. Family and friends smiled dramatically from the scenes of nature, restaurants, and even from the vacant deck of the estate.

  One photo caught Angel’s eye in particular, a special engraved frame that said: Christmas Vacation. A young, dark haired boy of ten or eleven grinning ear to ear with his parents at an amusement park setting posed for the camera. It seemed artificial. All were dressed in similar sweatshirts and jeans. A large rollercoaster with eager riders with their hands raised high in the air to add to the thrill provided the perfect backdrop for the family photo.

  Angel stared at the words Christmas Vacation until his eyes began to tear up from not blinking. Deep sadness filled him, almost too terrible to recall that event. He remembered one particular holiday morning.

  Angel opened his eyes with hope that he would receive presents on Christmas morning – at least something wrapped in festive paper adorned with snowmen or reindeer. Inside he would find a new toy, book, or even a cool t-shirt. When he was six, his parents had presents for him. That was the last time. The car crash took his mom and dad from his life, but he knew that they were starting over, somewhere again.

  As he lay on his mattress staring at the ceiling, he memorized every inch of the few posters he had found tossed away in a neighbor’s garbage can. The colorful photos kept his gaze away from the clutter and garbage that had oozed into his tiny bedroom.

  The house stayed quiet.

  Christmas morning had officially begun for the neighborhood. He imagined children squealing with delight at all the presents nestled under the tree and stockings stuffed with candy. Parents groggy, sipping the first cup of coffee.

  Nothing would ever magically materialize for Angel, but he patiently waited for his time. The promise of his new beginning drove him to survive another day.

  He knew that Aunt Clara slept, as she always did most of the day and nighttime. She rarely checked on Angel, and never asked him to clean up his room or to do his homework. He was alone and grappled with the usual pre-teen angst of growing pains and daily concerns – isolated.

  As Angel’s room became lighter, he sat up, rolled to the side immediately touching the floor. He stood in silence staring at the wall of refuse standing tall before him. He made sure that he wore at least two, sometimes three, pairs of socks before he ventured from his room into the rest of the house. He tiptoed through the dwelling; hopeful something had changed, but he knew that everything was the same as it was the night before.

  He stood at the threshold of his aunt’s bedroom - watching. She lay on her side with a plaid blanket covering her body, knees drawn up toward her torso. Her chest raised and lowered subtly as she dreamed – hopefully of better places. Her short dark hair in tiny twisted curls had streaks of grey.

  Huge stacks of clothes, boxes, magazines, and newspapers towered all around her. Angel envisioned that she was a queen in her royal bedchamber. The recyclables were the towers all around her, a magnificent castle, protected by a moat with alligators, and the clothes were her trusted court and guardsmen.

  Aunt Clara slept.

  Poor Aunt Clara, a miserable woman of this world. She couldn’t get out of the way of sin and disorder. She desperately needed a new start of a life, a new beginning, a do over.

  Angel knew it was a miserable situation, but he didn’t feel any sadness. He tried to muster some emotion, feelings of gloom, a tear or two, but nothing ever came. He felt nothing, except the need to clean up an impossible mess.

  In the very back of a cluttered cabinet in the kitchen, he found the items with the answer. He knew it was a sign directed at him. The feeling of strength like a warrior superhero consumed him. The empowering feeling took over his body.

  It was time.

  As Angel stood in the doorway with a can of lighter fluid in his left hand and a book of matches in his right, he knew it was the right thing to do.

  Angel closed his eyes, squeezed the lids tightly, and then reopened to find that his present vision restored. Looking at the happy faces of the lawyer and his family did not detour him from his mission.

  He retrieved a folded piece of paper that had a schematic diagram of the estate, along with intricate notes of the weaknesses of the electrical and gas lines to the home.

  He systematically got to work.

  The cleansing would commence soon.

  * * * * *

  The charred car sat alongside the country road halfway in a ditch, just off the roadway, and burned beyond any identifiable semblance of an automobile. Twisted and blackened to the point of disturbing. Most horror writers could not conjure up the shocking vision any worse than what premiered in front of Detective Duncan.

  The car and driver were the victims of a chilling branding by a serial killer. The car registration showed the name of a private investigator by the name of Zig Rodriquez.

  The case hadn’t been deemed a serial case. It didn’t definitely confirm a connection between the other arson cases, except that all of the recent victims had worked on the same court case.

  The arson investigation was assigned to another detective who would begin to run down the minimal amount of clues, about cases the P.I. worked, any threats, drug affiliations, and the company that he had kept. Duncan knew that it would lead to nothing. The department barked up the wrong proverbial tree once again.

  The detective stood and watched the scene unfold. It was the first time that he felt more like a fly on the wall than a homicide detective. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and enjoyed the feeling of the smoke in and out of his lungs. Irony fit the situation perfectly in a morbid way, but he didn’t care. He needed something to steady his increasing anger because more bodies would continue to pile up.

  The familiar sound of rattling morgue wheels stopped suddenly. For a moment, everything became quiet, except for the wind twisting through the dense trees.

  Two coroner’s technicians pulled the body out of the car. They set the remains inside a heavy-duty bag on the gurney, struggling a moment to make sure the limbs stayed inside the sack.

  Two forensic specialists completed their documentation and packed the few specimens into their crime scene unit vehicle.

  Duncan looked to the area of trees that had the best view of the car. He had a hunch, call it an instinct, due to the years of walking through all types of crime scenes. The perps always wanted to admire their handiwork, even to the point of arrogance and obsessiveness.

  The uneven road sharply dropped off into a dirt turnout, which led into the trees. Scattered paper items and garbage blown into crevices littered the exterior of the emergency parking area.

  The detective stepped into the dirt, took one last hit from his cigarette, tossed the butt on the ground, but careful not to contaminate the surrounding area around the crime s
cene. Nearing closer to retirement made him more reckless, but it didn’t change his dogged pursuit of finding the bad guy.

  Three large Pine trees in between a grove of Eucalyptus trees grew in a semi-circle. The spot appeared to have the best view of the car. If the perp could not afford to be seen at the crime scene, there were simple ways to still watch the handiwork of the cops.

  Breathless and tired from the lack of sleep, Duncan plodded over to one of the Pine trees. He found a small black box fixed to a tree trunk a little higher than eye level.

  The detective yelled in the direction of the forensic technicians. “I need photos along with video documentation over here now!”

  A chime from his top pocket averted his attention. He quickly grabbed the cell phone and found it was a text message from a record’s clerk.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Tuesday 0830 Hours

  The small blue and white cottage barely larger than a modest studio apartment sat hidden in the trees on the quiet street. Overgrown shrubs and dead grass all needed tending long ago, which practically dwarfed the little house. No direct views from the neighbors added to the secrecy of the surveillance and covert activity.

  Emily leaned over Jordan’s shoulder to gain a better perspective. “Park over at an adjacent street.” She motioned to the area. “It’ll be the best area to sit for a while and it looks like most neighbors aren’t home.”

  “Aye-aye captain.” Jordan eased his sedan to a parking place in between two trees. There was a still a view of the walkway leading to the cottage.

  “And stop saying that.” Emily stated. She studied the surroundings, squinting her eyes to see if anyone looked out their windows.

  “It’s better than Ma’am.”

  “Don’t say that either.”

  “See, you don’t leave me many choices.”

  “What you think?”

  “About what?”

  “Jordan…”

  “What?”