Returning Fire

by Frans Harmon

  “Look, um, you are probably getting out of here soon. I wanted you to know I had your car moved here to patient parking, last row in the back.” She showed him his keys and dropped them on the side table.

  “Thanks, I appreciate that. Someday I will return the favor.”

  “Good to hear, and this might be someday.”

  “How you mean.”

  “MBI, mushrooms, be nice to be kept in the loop. I don’t get many chances at big cases, being a woman, and some at DPD see a female detective more of a token oxy-moron than actuality.”

  “Believe me, whatever I can do to keep you in the loop and me out of trouble, I’ll do. Sharlene was a friend, and not the only reason for me wanting to solve this. More eyes, the better.”

  Anstice reached to shake his hand, but realizing the drip line was in that arm, just tapped it instead. “Good, I left my card with your keys. Let me know when you are back on your feet.”

  Mace gave a feeble wave with his other hand as Anstice left. Then recounting what he had said, he stared at his hands.

  What is i?t I can’t remember?

  Chapter Seven

  Resting at home for a day was all Mace could stand. Dorian’s call for an early morning meeting was a welcomed surprise. Now Wednesday morning, Mace parked his BMW in the government center underground garage below Building One, next to a silver Mercedes, Director Dorian Ashford’s, his boss. He then took the connecting tunnel to Building Three, and Helyn’s office at the state morgue. His body bruised and reluctant to move, he had a feeling of dread. Something about the car explosion and fire didn’t add up, and why had the incident triggered thoughts about his last unsolved FBI case.

  The Vulcan murders were five years in the past, but his mind drifted back. Everything was going well. He was eighteen months into his marriage to Helyn, well thought of at Quantico’s Violent Crime Center, and lead on the investigation, his big opportunity. Instead, what no one suspected struck, the case, his marriage, and his career all fell apart. That history hung like anchor-chain on him. Something he had pushed to the dark recesses of his mind, until Friday.

  The morgue was in the basement. A dark, windowless place drenched in the blue-white glow of neon. He checked in at the security desk and deposited his Ruger into a lockbox. The Burn Lab was a short walk along a gray-tiled corridor populated with askew, abandoned gurneys, and gaping specimen collections boxes.

  Helyn met him at the door, hands thrust into pockets on a white lab coat, her gold hair coiled under a net. Mace managed a thin smile, but she stood business-focused and held up a hand, stopping him. “You can’t go in, Mace. We will have to talk here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You should have checked in with your office, with Dorian, before you came down.”

  “I’m off the case? I was there at the scene.”

  “Exactly, you are a victim, collateral, but a victim nonetheless, and you have a history with the case.”

  “History, this is a new case.”

  “They said it was the Vulcan active again.”

  Mace took a step toward Helyn. “Come on, Helyn. I want to get back to how we were back then, our FBI days, but no way can it be the Vulcan.” He said, placing a hand on her shoulder to turn her around towards the lab doors.

  “Stop, Mace.” She pushed his hand away. “You can’t go inside. Sharlene’s body is burned to a crisp, no trace can be recovered. Believe me, I tried.”

  “It’s not Sharlene.”

  “You seem to be in sole possession of that information.”

  “I’m telling you it is not Sharlene, I know it isn’t”

  “Why? Because you’re having an affair with her like you did that bimbo blonde five years ago. What did that get you, the clap? Not that I care now, of course. It’s your life.”

  Mace clenched his jaw, took a breath, and then said, “I’m sorry you were hurt, but your cooler head knows it wasn’t the clap. It was encephalitis, equine. The only intimacy I had was with a mosquito. And why won’t you move in with me, get a house.”

  Helyn turned her back to Mace. She was obviously dabbing her eyes. Mace reached up, his hands hovering over her shoulders, but then he dropped them at his sides. “Look, I’m… I’m sorry, I… the explosion, I probably should have stayed at home, given it another day. But something is off. I went to pull her body out of the car, and it wasn’t right.”

  Helyn turned around, sniffling, her hand under her nose. She swallowed. “How? How was it not right.”

  “That’s what I can’t figure, I can’t remember.”

  Helyn shook her head, gave a weak smile, and rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead. “Look, this is what I can tell you. The fire was very intense. Her hands were tied together with wire, clamped over her mouth, teeth gone. All the tells of…”

  Mace shook his head. “The Vulcan.

  “They transported Sharlene here still attached to the back seat,” Helyn said. “she wasn’t alive when he touched her. There were only trace amounts of soot in her throat. We haven’t determined cause of death.”

  Mac focused on his phone, continued making notes. “You’re working on that, right?”

  “Body is too badly burned. Flesh and body fat fused to blackened bones. No way to discover trauma or punctures, even a bullet would be a teardrop of lead, if we could find it. It was a high-intensity fire like I said.”

  “What about an MRI?”

  “The Vulcan did it, Mace. What would be the point?”

  “To determine cause. Hell, to determine anything, height, age, anything.”

  “We found trace, an accelerant, methanol, commonly called wood naphtha, and MEKP, it was in her epidermis. MEKP burns intensely and is very unstable. But something the Vulcan always used.”

  A grimace stretched across his face, not the words he wanted to hear. “Coincidence, that’s all. Methanol is commonly available if you have the street smarts to find it, and anyone working with plastics has access to MEKP.”

  Helyn tilted her head and formed a face reflecting Mace’s. “We arguing semantics here, Mace? Getting methanol takes effort, but MEKP is only available in a diluted form. To get a fire, this intense would require an explosive concentration. Think that happened?”

  “It is also a common terrorist compound. There are probably so many recipes on the web that you can have it in flavors and colors.”

  Helyn folded her arms, her leg forward in a defiant pose. “He bound Sharlene’s hands so tight, that the wire left pipe thread marks on her wrist… another Vulcan trademark.”

  “But not with steel wire.”

  “And you deduced that because…”

  “You didn’t mention it.”

  “You’re right. It was twisted-copper wire, common household extension cord.”

  Good an inconsistency, not much, but it was something. “Toxicology?”

  “You really trying to get me in trouble here? I’ve told you too much all ready.”

  Mace tilted his head, prompting waiting for her answer.

  She sighed. “Negative.”

  Nodding, Mace pursed his lips, trying to hold back the thought pounding to get out of his head. “I had to go Friday. You know that.”

  Helyn shoved her hands into her lab coat pockets and glanced at a hall clock on the wall behind Mace. “Not even fifteen minutes, I was wondering how long…”

  “You’re right, but I can’t let go. It seems so right for us.

  “You’re pushing Mace, Too hard, too soon. A girl needs time to think. I mean a house together, that is more than being just together. I’m not sure I am ready for that.”

  “Come on, Helyn, we have been, more or less, living together for six months. How is that too fast?”

  “I have other bodies to work on this case, and I have been working long hours for days now. I have given you more than I should have on Sharlene.

  “Wait, more bodies?”

  Helyn placed her hands on his chest. I’m glad you are okay,
but you need to talk to Dorian, Gavin McIlrath is lead. “Mace, I’m tired. I want to wrap it up, get back to my apartment, and get some rest. You have to go now.”

  Mace leaned down to kiss her, but Helyn turned her head and took a step back. “I still have things at your townhouse,” she said with a smile, “perhaps I can stop by sometime. We could have a drink.”

  “Sounds like a date.”

  Mace walked back down the tunnel. With more bodies, he had more questions. Sharlene was right to be worried and ask for his help. The question remaining: was that her in the car or someone else? He had to find out, his future was on the line.

  Chapter Eight

  Meeting with Helyn provided more questions than answers, but gave Mace a chance to formulate his arguments for Dorian. In the tunnel heading to building one, he collected his thoughts. If it were a question of who was lead, Mace was comfortable in his consultant role. He arrived at the elevator well for One Government Way. Gavin can have it, mostly paperwork anyway.

  Dorian, after all, was cautious and preferred experienced agents work high profile cases. Wrapping the Motel Murderer case last year should have checked that box. Stepping in, he punched the fifth-floor button, and his hopes rose with him. He reached Dorian’s office, ten minutes early. Entering, it was not what he expected.

  Everyone was already there, gathered around an informal setting of sofas and overstuffed chairs that encircled an oval coffee table embossed with the state seal.

  Dorian seated behind his large oak desk, his gray hair combed slightly forward, cocked his head as Mace entered. His bushy black eyebrows accentuating steel-blue eyes, locked onto his. Dorian was dressed in his unwavering wardrobe of choice, a charcoal gray three-piece suit, and had already banished the jacket to the back of his chair. Dorian motioned for him to join the group.

  Mace flashed a grin and closed the door behind him.

  “You know everyone, I believe, Mace. Lieutenant Governor Meiler, Emmett Loveland, agent-in-charge of the regional FBI office in Detroit, and Gavin McIlrath.” He said, and then tapping his forehead with one hand, continued, “Oh, no, that’s not correct, you would not have met Gavin, he is from the Sault MBI field office. Okay, that’s it, please sit down.”

  Mace eyed the room, giving a thin and wary smile as he took note of a straight-backed wooden chair placed at the rear of the settee to fill the anticipated need. Cassandra, dressed in a black pants suit accented by a band of pearls, had her long black hair assemble into a bun on top of her head. Seated in a high-backed stuffed chair next to Dorian’s desk, she looked like a dark queen holding court. As lieutenant governor, for this meeting, as political head of the MBI, she was, in fact, the queen.

  He moved to the chair, sensing the room. Over the weekend, the press and social media had associated him with the perpetrator behind Sharlene’s murder and tagged revenge as a motive. Mace was sure the resurgence of the Vulcan name would create political fallout less than laudatory for Cassandra. Damage control would be her sole focus.

  Gavin and a familiar adversary, Emmitt Loveland, faced each other, occupying separate love-seat sized sofas on either side of the table. Gavin’s agenda was a mystery, but he could hear Emmitt sharpening his knives. Mace was farthest from Dorian, his back against the wall. Gavin was looking at him stone-faced. Emmitt, sipping coffee, seemed reluctant to acknowledge Mace’s presence. It smelled like an ambush.

  “Nice to see everyone. I wasn’t expecting such a warm welcome. I… I mean, I assume that’s what this is.”

  “We are of course,” Dorian said, “happy to see you in good health, but—"

  “I’m canceling your contract.” Cassandra said, “In fact, I don’t want you anywhere near any MBI offices.”

  “What, why is that a problem—”

  “Because you fucked it up the first time,” Emmitt said.

  Mace looked across the state seal to Dorian for a sign of where he stood. Dorian sat stoically, eyes unblinking, hands folded on his desk in front of him. But he had something to say. A habit of puckering his lips before divulging what was on his mind was the tell. It was more of a ruling on a disagreement than a statement, but Dorian wouldn’t reveal it until all the heat was out of the room. Then he would push back from his desk. This Mace had observed since his academy days, and during his stint as lead on the Motel Murders task force. Lips pursing Dorian wasn’t moving.

  “There were two other murders, you might not be aware,” Gavin said. Gavin looked like his face was lifted in the winter from Mount Rushmore. A thin blanket of gray hair topped a chiseled face, every feature abruptly raised, and deep-set brown eyes bore into their target.

  “Eighteen months ago, snowplow discovered a lass burned in her Audi A4 in Romulus, and six months later another, a BMW this time, in Wayne. Five months after that, Sharlene. Same MO, hands bound over a toothless mouth, intense heat, burning everything away. If you hadn’t known Sharlene, had the files from these three murders laid out before you, based on your experience, your FBI experience, who would you say was behind these killings? Hmm? Be blunt.”

  Mace began a slow shake of his head. “It’s not the Vulcan if that’s your target.”

  “Why you in denial?” Mace’s head snapped toward the source, Emmitt. Their eyes locked like lasers seeking their targets. “You have some crystal ball we don’t know about?” He leaned back into the sofa. “You were really into the Vulcan case, obsessed even, no one could do enough until you screwed up the evidence chain. You had a guy, didn’t you? Jirair Houssain.”

  “Yes, my gut was that Jirair Houssain was the Vulcan. What is your point?”

  “Funny thing, after you got the boot, poof, no more Houssain. Why is that? What happened to him? More importantly, to my career after you freaked out.”

  “I lost my job.”

  “Yeah, I had it worse. I had to stay in mine. I’ve worked my ass off got my rep back, and you are not screwing it up again.”

  “Vulcan is what the press is going to say,” Cassandra interrupted, “they will use your involvement to substantiate their case, and your history will bring other cases back into the public eye. I can’t have that.”

  “Okay, fine, I’m off the case. But I’m telling you now, Sharlene isn’t dead, she is alive, and I think the others are also. So to me that says it’s not the Vulcan.”

  “You are saying a kidnapping and a murder?” Dorian asked. “What has led you to this conclusion?”

  “You’re not going to like this, but right now it is just a feeling. Something happened at the explosion.”

  “Yeah, like you hit your head,” Emmitt said.

  “My head is fine. Thanks for asking. But if I could get a little time, I’m convinced I can prove they are alive. I just don’t know how just yet.”

  Dorian pushed back from his desk and stood. “I agree with the Lieutenant Governor. Your public association with this case will make it more difficult to find whoever committed these crimes and raise the public’s level of anxiety.”

  Fingering a tan legal envelope, Dorian walked toward Mace. “However, when you are not emotionally involved, your instincts are incisive. Therefore, I have convinced the Lieutenant Governor to offer this support contract for the state’s cold case task force.”

  Mace accepted the envelope. “If you accept,” Dorian said, returning to his desk, “Sergeant Peter Mock will be expecting you in his office adjacent to the case archives in the basement this morning.”

  Mace pulled the contract from the envelope, his eyes scanned the text, but mulling his next move, he did not comprehend the words. “Fine, but can I at least see the ME’s report. I mean, I did work the original cases, maybe I’ll see something.”

  Dorian settled again behind his desk. “All right, but Gavin is MBI lead, the FBI, Emmitt, has the case, and everything you do, Mace, you run by me first.”

  “Noted, Dorian, got it. Cold cases.”

  “Right, good,” Dorian said, rising from his chair, Casandra we must not keep you from y
our busy schedule, thank you for your input this morning.”

  Everyone stood as Cassandra rose from her seat. She left. Mace followed, closing the door as Dorian in a muted voice called Gavin and Emmitt to remain.

  In the hall, Cassandra turned toward the capital bridge, Mace, for the stairs. She took a step and then spun around to face him. “Mace, no offense, it’s just politics. I’m a … making a run for governor and don’t want to raise ghosts. But, knowing you, I’m sure you’ll do what’s right, as you did with Roger.”

  She resumed walking towards the capital building. Mace froze, wondering what just happened. Cassandra Meiler was the heiress of the oldest and wealthiest family in Michigan. She was the start-up money behind his profile consulting business, and Roger was her husband, Or at least he was until he used the MBI for his political advantage, and did everything he could to get Mace thrown off the Motel Murders case. Somehow his death had catapulted Cassandra into Michigan politics and the office of lieutenant governor. Mace got a lot of push back on that case, threatened with the loss of his license, and put Helyn in jeopardy. But he dug hard and deep and solved the case in spite of everything. Was that what she was suggesting?

  He didn’t know.

  Chapter Nine

  “Mama, I had a scary dream, can I sleep with you?”

  Sharlene, on her side, hugging a pillow opened her eyes. They strained to focus. It was Sabriel. Her golden-haired seven-year-old with blue pleading eyes. Long strands of cork-screw ringlets fell over her shoulder, and glistening traces of tears streaked cheeks, still holding fast to their puffy origins. Sharlene smiled and attempted to raise her covers to offer a welcoming embrace. Her arms wouldn’t move. Two hands emerged from the night behind her daughter, Sabriel screaming, they jerked her shoulders, dragging her into the black.

  “Sabriel!” Sharlene screamed and rolled upright. She was on a bare mattress, the cold triggering a shudder through her body. From behind her in the pitch-black void that surrounded, a slender arm fell over, wrapping around her waist. Sharlene’s eyes adjusted, finding a faint light. Someone was lying in front of her. Less seeing and more sensing, she determined the features of two bodies pressing against her. They were women. From their slow breathing, she recognized they were asleep, blending, curve and mound, fused to hers.