by A W Hartoin
She nodded and climbed over the shelving with the balance of a Flying Wallenda before ripping the egress window off. I’m not kidding. Fats ripped it off the wall and tossed it aside. Then she waved and somehow stuffed herself through. That window was not chosen with Fats Licata in mind.
Tank groaned and his eyes fluttered.
I bent over him. “Stay still. We’ll have you out of here in a minute.”
“What…” he trailed off and lost consciousness again. Not a good sign.
The sprinklers kept going and the temperature dropped precariously. I was soaked to the skin and started shaking violently. The fire alarm cut out suddenly and I could hear the sirens wailing close by. People were yelling and I yelled back.
And that’s it. The rest is a blur.
Chief Gates was pissed. The kind of pissed that a father might get after he has to pick up his daughter at his own police station at two in the morning after she snuck out to go joyriding with a neighbor’s nephew’s cousin who’s eight years older and might’ve stolen a BMW.
I regret nothing. Yates Digby was hot in a Leo DiCaprio in The Wolf of Wall Street kind of way. Funnily enough, he is now serving five to ten for insider trading and don’t think I haven’t heard about that three and a half million times.
I do regret being yelled at in front of Chuck, who happened to be doing an overnight ridealong with some of my dad’s friends and witnessed the bellowing of “You’ve shamed the family, Mercy!”
Dad didn’t yet realize that I had no shame. None. Zero. That really helps when you’re standing at a crime scene wearing bubblegum pink sweats with elastic at the cuffs in extra-extra large. My transformation to actual marshmallow Peep was complete.
So when I turned up at the smoking crime scene and Chief Gates bellowed, very dad-like, “You should be ashamed of yourself. You wreck people’s lives and turn everything to shit,” I yawned. I did not apologize for getting firebombed. I wasn’t taking that. He could bite me.
Chief Gates kept yelling in a vain attempt to cow me and I considered taking my Mauser out of the pink puffer jacket I’d been forced to buy at the hospital gift shop and pegging him in his big booze-soaked butt. He wasn’t in the ICU with a head injury like Tank or getting sixteen stitches without a painkiller because you’re pregnant like Fats or dressed like an idiot with a broken nose and a refractured arm like me.
Nothing had happened to Chief William Gates, but it was about to.
“I want you out of my town today. Now. I don’t care if Highway 44 is shutdown, you can get the fuck on it!”
I turned slowly to him and said, “This is your fault and I figure you’ve got until 44 clears before the FBI is on you like white on rice.”
He stopped mid-obscenity and made a gagging sound. Stratton came running over and got in my face. “How dare you! How dare you! Tank is—”
“Your fault,” I said, walking past her to the Sentinel’s door. Wisps of smoke rose like thin twisting branches up into the gently falling snow.
The crime scene laid out pretty easy. Someone opened the unlocked door and winged a couple of explosive devices down the hall. Lucky for us, the guy must’ve thought we were in Tank’s office, because that’s where he aimed, way down the hall and away from where we were in the basement. One device went straight through an open door into the loading dock where it destroyed a delivery truck and the other one hit the wall. That end of the St. Sebastian Sentinel was a wreck. The other half wasn’t so bad. The reception desk, books, and coffee machine were intact, just blown over, and the fire had never reached them.
Tank’s upgrades after the arson ten years ago had done their jobs very well. He’d put in fire retardant materials wherever he could and it showed. The fire didn’t spread and was quickly put out by the sprinkler system. No one else was in the building at the time and it could’ve been a lot worse.
Chief Gates continued to yell behind me and Stratton came up to stick the crime scene tape across the door. “You need a psych evaluation, if you seriously think this is our fault. You brought this to town.”
“It was already here,” I said. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s been here since 1965 and that’s on you. The law enforcement in this town needs a serious second look and it is going to get one.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You lied to me,” I said, pointing at the charred loading dock door. “And here we are.”
“I never lied. Will doesn’t lie.” Stratton had nothing in her eyes but fury and a good amount of self-righteousness.
I snorted and rolled my eyes. “You don’t have the files. The files from 1965 and my great grandparents plane crash were destroyed. Tough luck for you, Mercy Watts.”
“They were destroyed.” Stratton turned to go to the chief who was yelling at everyone. The fire chief and Lefty were trying to calm him down, but that guy was tanked. There would be no calming down.
I grabbed Stratton. “You want to rethink that stance.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s a lie,” I said. “What did you think I would do? Throw up my hands and go away?”
“There’s nothing to do. That case is closed.”
“There was a good reason to think the suspect didn’t do it and I told you that. So you lied and I had to do it the hard way. Look around Stratton. This is the hard way. If you’d given up the files when I asked for them or even told me they were there, I’d have had a head start. We wouldn’t be here, looking at this.”
“You didn’t have the right to look at those files. You’re not family.”
“But I know the family. They would’ve given me access. They’re talking to a lawyer right now, so don’t get any bright ideas about torching them.”
“I’m telling you those files are gone. Destroyed.”
“And I have evidence that Deputy Mosbach was moving those files to safety on the day of the burst pipes and he wasn’t the only one doing it. The Mullanphy family is using that evidence right now to get a court order to give me those files.”
Stratton stuttered and her eyes darted around, looking for an out.
“I’m not trying to bring you and your boyfriend down. I want to solve this case.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said hastily.
“For God’s sake, Stratton. I know he is and I know he’s drunk on duty right now.”
“Don’t be—”
I put my hand up. “Enough. Wake up and smell the vodka, Stratton. Will has a problem and it’s the same one his grandpa had. You’re not helping him and you’re sure as hell not helping me.”
“We think it was probably kids. They’re off school and have time on their hands.”
I stared at her. “You think kids with nothing better to do tried to murder three people to liven their day up?”
“Maybe they thought the building was empty.”
I pointedly looked at the two vehicles parked next to us. “Oh, yeah? You think that?”
She turned and looked at her boyfriend slip and go down on his butt. Two deputies rushed over to hoist him to his feet and the fire chief slapped his forehead. “I don’t know.”
“I do. I understand that Sister Maggie’s murder seems like it’s too long ago to matter, but it matters. This is the third time Tank’s been hit and this time they meant business.”
“Third time? Those other two times—”
“Don’t say kids, I swear to God,” I said.
She put her hands on her hips and I could tell I was finally making some headway. “Fifty years is a long time, no matter what you say. Whoever did it is probably dead and buried.”
“Possibly, but it didn’t die with him, even if he is.”
“But why do this? Killing you would just put a spotlight on why you were here. It’s so impulsive. And I know you say not kids, but that sounds like an immature person to me.”
“I’ll give you that, but they also wanted to destroy everything we had,” I said.
“What did you have?” asked Stratton.
I gave her a quick rundown and she took notes. I like notes. Notes were a good sign.
“You have proof that Bertram Stott was here at the time of the murder? I can’t believe it. We looked when he showed up. People were concerned.”
“Naturally,” I said. “We looked, too, and nothing said he was here. I still don’t know why he was. I need to know who his friends were. Carrie Norton is making some calls for me.”
“There’s usually stuff like that in the yearbooks,” said Stratton. “Where is it?”
I looked back through the door. “In there. I think we left it on the desk.”
Stratton asked the harried fire chief if we could go in. He said no and she said, “Screw it.”
In we went, not too far, just to the desk. Deputy Mosbach joined us and we went through every scrap of paper in the reception area, but I knew five minutes in.
“He took it,” I said.
“The bomber?” Mosbach asked. “Why? There are other yearbooks. He can’t destroy them all.”
“If you know where one is, I’m all ears,” I said.
Mosbach grinned. “The high school had the whole set when I went there.”
“Where were they?”
“Some were in the office.
“Where are the rest of the yearbooks?” I asked. “The ones not in the office?”
“They were in a storage room in the basement with the old files. We used to look through them. Eighties hair was freakin’ crazy,” said Mosbach.
“I take offense to that,” said Stratton. “My boyfriend’s mullet was awesome.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I said. “Can we get in the school?’
Stratton shook her head. “Sorry. Closed for the weather today.”
“But the Turkey Shoot’s tonight.” Mosbach checked his phone. “Teams start arriving in a couple of hours.”
“They’re still having the tournament?’ I asked.
“Basketball is big here. We’ve been our division champs for five years running. It would take a whole lot more than snow to stop the Turkey Shoot.” Stratton flipped through her notes. “Dallas, I want you to go over to Shady Glen and see what Bertram Stott has been up to today.”
Mosbach shifted from foot to foot. “Why? What for?”
She told him why and Dallas got worried. “What about the chief? He’s not a fan of Miss Watts.”
We looked over at Lefty, who had the chief in the back of a squad car and was pouring coffee down his throat.
“Let me worry about him,” said Stratton. “You make sure Stott hasn’t been out today and find out if he’s had any visitors. If he’ll agree to a search, search his room.”
Mosbach made a face. “He’s not gonna let me do that. He’s an ex-con.”
“You never know.”
He turned to go and I said, “Hold on.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell him we found his medal,” I said. “Watch what he does.”
“Like a military medal?” Mosbach asked.
“A St. Brigid. The FBI found it at that mass grave site in Kansas between two victims of a serial killer.”
Mosbach went pale for a moment, but then he hitched up his pants and headed out muttering, “It’s never boring in St. Seb.”
“It seems like one of us should be questioning Stott,” mused Stratton.
I shrugged. “I doubt it matters. That guy isn’t going slip up for you or me or anyone, unless he wants to, but it will give Mosbach a little experience.”
“Serial killers make mistakes. We’ve figured out how to talk to them. I’ve read the profiles.”
“All that data is based on the ones we’ve caught,” I said.
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” she said.
“Oh, I know. Believe me.”
The fire chief came walking up with a couple of his guys. His craggy face had irritation in its many lines and folds.
“What’s up, Bruce?” Stratton asked.
“I just got off the horn. The FBI is coming down and they’re bringing an arson and bomb squad with them,” said Bruce. “I guess we can’t handle it.”
Stratton turned to me. “You weren’t lying.”
“Nope.”
Bruce eyed me. “Lying about what?”
“FBI coming,” said Stratton. “Shit. I figured you were full of crap.”
I smiled and it hurt my nose. “Sometimes, but not today.”
“Isn’t your father persona non-grata with the FBI?” Bruce asked. “Will’s been going off about you and him.”
“My dad is,” I said. “I’m not.”
“You were sent here by the FBI? But you’re not an agent. You’re not a…I don’t even know what you are,” said Stratton.
You and me both.
“I have an unofficial relationship with the FBI,” I said. “They gave me a tip and here I am.”
“I wish you would’ve said that in the beginning.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
Stratton admitted it wouldn’t have. I’d screwed over the chief by finding Janet Lee Fine’s body. My leeway was zero.
Another firefighter cleared his throat, garnering our attention, and Bruce snapped into focus. “Oh, right. We think we know what the bombs were. We might be volunteers, but a few of us have been around.”
They had been around. In fact, they’d been around far away in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Two of the volunteers were demolition troops and they recognized the blast patterns. They thought our guys tossed a couple of grenades in the Sentinel.
“I don’t know if that’s better or worse,” said Stratton.
“At least he didn’t make them,” said Bruce. “He’s not at home cooking up more fire power.”
“And he’s not an expert. Anybody can pull a pin,” I said.
“Where’d he get them?” Stratton asked.
Bruce shrugged. “Black market. I’ve got a buddy who brought back a couple from ’Nam as souvenirs.”
“Why would anyone do that? Is he crazy?”
“More importantly, is he in town?” I asked.
“No,” said Bruce. “New Hampshire. I’m just saying people can get them.”
“That’s just great,” said Stratton. “This guy could have a suitcase full of grenades and here we are, waiting for the FBI.”
“They’ll get here when they get here. Arson team has to fly in from D.C. and Lambert’s having an ice issue.”
Stratton groaned and looked at me. “Well?”
“What?” I asked.
“You called the FBI. What did they say?”
“Nothing useful. They’re coming when they can. 44’s a wreck and they can’t take a helicopter. Poor visibility.”
I’d called the rookies from the hospital right after I called my dad, Chuck, and Spidermonkey. My people were freaked. The rookies were not and I wasn’t in the mood for high-fives. My X-rays confirmed that I’d gotten a shiny new hairline fracture in my bad arm, so I was just about as pissed as I could be, but the rookies couldn’t have been happier. Were they helpful? No. Were they thinking about their future promotions? Yes. The most I got was that they’d take me off the No Fly List and some sage advice not to shoot anyone or get shot. Darn. I was totally planning on getting shot.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Stratton. “I’ve done all the training, but we’ve never had a murder much less a Unibomber.”
“Whatever you do, leave Will out of it,” said Bruce.
Stratton grimaced. “He’s upset. Tank’s his brother-in-law.”
“Jesus, Candace. Will’s lit. The only thing he wants to investigate is where his flask is.”
“Bruce!”
Bruce held up a silver flask with the initials WL engraved on the front. “I took it off him.”
“Oh, my God.” Stratton put her head in her hands and Bruce shook his head.
“We all knew he had a problem. I didn’t expect him to show up at a f
ire, belching vodka, but I should’ve.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she said again. “He’s the chief.”
“Not today,” said Bruce. “That would be you.”
“Ah crap.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Not that,” said Stratton. “Look who’s here.”
I turned and saw a woman with red hair and no jacket slip around on the ice as she got out of a Toyota Camry.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Mallory, Tank’s wife.”
This is going to be so bad.
I braced myself for impact. How many people blamed me? All of them was my guess, but Mallory Tancredi didn’t come for me. She stalked across the parking with as much dignity as she could muster on ice and went for the squad car where her brother, Will, was sitting. That tiny woman yanked the chief out of the backseat and proceeded to smack the crap out of him yelling, “You drunken idiot. You’re not content to ruin your own life. You have to ruin mine, too.”
The firefighters and deputies managed to get Mallory off the police chief but not before she gave him a bloody nose and a black eye. While that was happening Fats pried herself out of the Camry and watched with grim amusement before coming over to me with Moe tucked under her arm.
“I like her,” she said and Moe yipped in agreement.
“You’re not alone,” said Bruce. “I warn you, Candace. Don’t arrest Mallory for this. It will not go over well, especially after it all comes out.”
“After what comes out?” Stratton asked. She was still trying. God bless her.
“I heard Miss Watts say you lied about files and the FBI guy I talked to said this has to do with a serial killer that’s been live since the sixties. You have got to come clean and deal with it. I recommend you do that before the FBI gets here and takes over, unless you want a repeat of the Janet Lee Fine situation.”
“I told you I don’t know what to do.”
Bruce inclined his head toward me. “She does. I vote you let her do it.”
The fire chief left and Stratton took a breath. “Okay. Miss Watts, what’s next? The high school?”
“Is it open?”
“Not yet.”
“How about those files?” I asked.
She took another breath and nodded. We got in Fats’ truck and drove out of the Sentinel’s lot without saying a word to anyone. Mallory watched us go, her eyes lit up. I gave her a nod and she nodded back. We were good and it was more of a relief than I would’ve thought. The bombing wasn’t my fault. I didn’t throw those grenades, but when I came to town, somebody noticed.
