by Hadena James
“Now, if he somehow managed to get the fire up really hot for a shorter period of time, it would make the cremation faster.”
“Name an accelerant that burns that hot, that fast, and is easy to get your hands on.”
“I’m not a chemist,” Xavier told me.
“I’m having trouble coming up with ideas.” I looked around the room. “I’m also tired of cases that involve fire; the Brazen Bull, the mad bomber, now an arsonist. Why can’t people just kill other people without fire?”
“It’s much prettier when there is fire. Flames leaping up from ignited sources, climbing higher into the sky, heating the air and making it shimmer, creating its own light, there are good things about fire.”
“Maybe we need to look at cases where the body didn’t burn,” I told Xavier. “You know, before the effective house fires, checking for ineffective house fires. The ignition range is different than the auto ignite range for most chemicals.”
“Sure.” Xavier pursed his lips together.
“Ignition means you have a spark. Auto ignite means you don’t, because it burst into flames on its own. For example, you decide to store gasoline in a metal container near an oven; it could flame up when it got warm enough. Our bomber relied on a chemical that would auto ignite when it got hot enough and he created the heat by using a sodium mixture that melted through plastic and fell into water.”
“Which explains why you are interested in the non-paint on the floor.” Xavier seemed to be connecting the dots.
“Right, if it’s a flammable sodium mixture, it could be assisting the fuel. Sodium burns hotter than most chemicals.” I thought for a moment. “But most sodium based fuels do not go out in water. They get stronger because sodium dropped into water causes it to flame up.”
“We aren’t talking table salt, are we?”
“No, we aren’t. Most fireworks are made of sodium compounds. They burn well and when mixed with metals, create colors. Of course, most fireworks don’t get that hot either, around 1,000 degrees. This is making my head spin. I need a mixture that burns really hot, but can be put out with water and I can’t think of a single thing.”
“Maybe it isn’t a single thing. Maybe it is more complicated than that.”
“More complicated means smarter. I don’t want a smarter serial killer. He’s already plenty smart.” My first instinct was to call Fiona and have her do a search. Michael would have readily accepted an assignment from me, but Fiona was not Michael and wouldn’t do it just because I asked nicely. I called Gabriel and told him to have Fiona search for house fires in the last year where the victim wasn’t burnt completely. This was an unnecessary step in my opinion. If the woman could perform cleansing rites on my clothing, she could take my directive to look up serial killer patterns.
“So, do you hate Fiona because she’s a woman or because she’s different?” Xavier suddenly sprang the question on me.
“I don’t hate Fiona at all. I dislike her, but not for anything as arbitrary as her being a woman or practicing a religion. Thinking like that leads to wars and ethnic cleansings and stupidity. Her unwillingness to go on the actual capture means we are always a man down. The extra firepower would decrease the chances of our being seriously injured. We could use a computer geek at our forensics lab with the same results and just hire someone who likes to shoot people. This makes her irrelevant,” I told him and thought for a moment. “Also, she burns copious amounts of sage over my clothing. As a result, the leftover smoke is constantly bombarding my nose and I keep a small headache all the time. I find that problematic. I’m tired of sitting here waiting for a lead. I’m going to go shake some trees and see if any squirrels fall out.”
“That is a strange expression.” Xavier put the bone down. “What trees?”
“The kind that work the streets. I’m going to go talk to the prostitutes in town and figure out who they are afraid of.”
“What makes you think they will talk to you? They don’t talk to cops in this town.”
“I’m not a cop, not by their standards,” I reminded him. “To them, I’m the boogeyman of serial killers everywhere. They’ll talk to me. The pimps will be a different story. I might have to get rough with a few of them first.”
“Why don’t I go with you?”
“Because you’re a guy,” I told him. “Prostitutes do not talk to men who look like you, talk like you, and have a badge. The pimps might talk to you and Lucas, but they won’t talk to you alone. You just aren’t…” I didn’t finish the sentence because I didn’t have the word.
“Yep, I know. That’s why Gabriel had you and Lucas talk to the girls in Vegas.”
“See.” I stood up.
“Let me see if I understand this. You are going to go to downtown Detroit and just walk around the streets talking to hookers and pimps. And you believe that’s safe?”
“Safe? Well, that’s debatable. I wouldn’t use that word. I believe we will get information regarding the serial killers that prey on prostitutes.”
“We don’t know that our killer is preying on prostitutes.”
“That might very well be the case, but we are here, and I’m sure there is at least one serial killer killing prostitutes. We can hunt him down while we wait for clues on the one burning down houses. I’m not against finding more than one serial killer at a time.”
“Oh boy,” Xavier said.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s going to be one of those cases.” Xavier sighed at me.
Eight
Gabriel hated my plan. Part of his job was protecting the public from the SCTU. This might not have seemed like a serious problem, but it could be. I was a magnet for psychopaths, degenerates, and any man with a dislike of women. I was also more likely to bring a bomb to a knife fight than a knife. A little overkill was better than an underkill. They tended to rise back up from the second.
I didn’t think of myself as a badass. When I bothered to think about it, which wasn’t often, I considered myself a survivor. However, others considered me a badass.
It was the only reason Gabriel had agreed. I had a leash, but Lucas was supposed to drive the car and stay non-threatening, unless I got in over my head. Gabriel had reminded me to keep my wits about me the entire time I had been strapping on knives and guns. There was no way I was walking the streets unarmed, even if Lucas was only a yell away.
The wits comment hadn’t been regarding keeping focused and sharp. They had been directed at not taking out my hostility on every jerk that stepped in my way with a bad attitude. I was supposed to talk to the prostitutes, not beat people up.
Lucas let me out of the car about a block from where the seedier district started. This concept was rather blurred in Detroit, but I understood that some sections were reserved for certain businesses and others were reserved for crappy residential living. My first thought was that it was entirely too cold to be a prostitute in Detroit in March. I should have brought a coffee cart and handed out free hot beverages. It would have gotten more people’s attention.
My badge was a wallet style flip-open with my credentials on one side and my shield on the other. My coat had the words “United States Marshal” emblazoned on the back in bright yellow. It also had a pocket that would hold the credentials and let the badge hang out. I opted to wear my badge on my coat and put on the hat that had “SCTU” embroidered in bright yellow on it. I couldn’t arrest a prostitute for being a prostitute. I didn’t have that sort of power. I could arrest her for violent offenses, but prostitution wasn’t a violent offense. The SCTU didn’t operate under the same rules as most law enforcement officials. It would work to my advantage tonight.
I wore blue jeans, a Marshals’ marshal T-shirt, and my black steel-toed boots. They had good traction and were warm. They were also really heavy should I need to kick anyone. I wore knives, one on the front and one on the back of each forearm, hidden by the coat. A matching set was strapped to my ankles, if I needed them, I might be out of luck.
I unzipped my coat, despite the cold, to show that I was wearing a double shoulder holster with guns on both sides. A third gun hung on my hip, next to my amped-up Taser, two sets of handcuffs, a bottle of mace, a baton that extended and locked into place with a good flick of the wrist, a handful of zip cuffs that I believed to be utterly pointless, and a hunting knife. A girl could never be too careful. If it had been summer, I wouldn’t have bothered with the coat and I would have let some of the scars show too. The scars spoke volumes about me and I knew it.
Lucas sat in the SUV. It idled at the curb, but didn’t move as I made my way to the district. Cars were lining up at the curbs in front of me. A myriad of women and men, some very young looking, some very old looking, bent over into open windows. A person could find whatever they wanted on the streets here. The prostitutes didn’t just ply their trade. They could hook you up with dealers for anything from guns to drugs, to smugglers and fences. Their pimps were jacks-of-all-trades, willing to sell whatever for the right price.
It irritated me. The muscles in my shoulders were already starting to tighten. Not the prostitutes, but the pimps. Prostitutes I got, and I staunchly believed that prostitution should be legal in all fifty states and every county and city within. If it were legalized, they wouldn’t be good victims. They wouldn’t be working for abusive pimps who didn’t mind selling them into slavery if a person had the money. They wouldn’t be hustling for a buck, strung out from whatever they needed to keep them from thinking about their occupation. They would be working out of nice business fronts and swank hotel rooms. They’d be tested for STDs regularly. They wouldn’t have pimps that took most of their money. They wouldn’t need the drugs because they wouldn’t be social pariahs. They’d stay young longer. This would be a life choice, not a choice made out of desperation.
Legalization wasn’t a cure all. There would still be illegal prostitutes, plying their trade out of desperation, but it would be a step in the right direction. I took a deep breath as I stepped into the crosswalk.
A young kid was running in front of me, shouting about the police walking the streets. It didn’t seem to deter anyone. I was a lone officer that didn’t look like the run of the mill beat cop or even a vice cop. It got me strange looks and looks of contempt. Faces turned to me that were tired and jaded. I locked eyes with a woman standing in a small group. She had on a short skirt, tall boots, no hose, and a sheer top with a spaghetti strap top under it. Her stare said she’d been working here a long time. I headed for the group.
“What do you want?” One of the other women asked.
“Just to ask a few questions about the missing,” I answered, pointing to the badge on my coat.
“What’s missing?” Another asked.
“Prostitutes,” I answered. “The kid’s only partially right. I’m a member of the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit. I don’t care how many johns you have or who your pimp is or how long you’ve been doing business on the streets. I just want to know how many prostitutes are missing from the area and any clients you guys know to avoid.”
“Why do you care?” The woman I had locked eyes with earlier asked.
“Let’s start again. I’m US Marshal Aislinn Cain with the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit. I hunt down serial killers, rapists, and other assholes for a living. And while I do it because they pay me, I also enjoy my job, a lot.” I gave them a genuine smile that I hoped didn’t scare them into running away. I didn’t smile often, but the thought that I loved my job did make me smile. I couldn’t help it that hunting serial killers made me happy. There was nothing I loved more, unless it was a family member and then it was tricky, but otherwise, it was a great job and I was good at it.
“You’re the crazy bitch that’s always on the news,” one of the women said.
“Yes, I am,” I admitted.
“You look different on TV. Taller for starters and heavier set,” she stated.
“It’s the guns. They add thirty or forty pounds to the outfit.” I pulled the jacket back to show them. “Also, I’m usually covered in someone’s blood when I’m in the news. I imagine I do look different cleaned up. Last time, I think I had arterial spray on my face.”
“That’s a good way to get diseases,” one of the others said.
“It is the part of my job that sucks the most. I get tested regularly and I wash as quickly as possible. So far, I haven’t had to deal with a psychopath that has a disease that’s contagious. I’m sure the day will come, but knock on wood, it hasn’t happened yet.”
“It must be hard workin’ with all those men all the time,” another woman said and let out a sigh. “Men are a lot of trouble.”
“The prime reason there are more male serial killers than women is that men need the attention, women don’t.” I smiled again.
“So why you here?” The one I had locked eyes with asked again.
“I’m here to catch serial killers, serial rapists, and very bad people that like to maim, torture, and ruin other people’s lives because they can. In this city, I’d guess there are a handful of men like that, preying specifically on the working classes.”
“The cops don’t care about us, so why should you?” She continued.
“Why should I care about you or why don’t the cops?” I asked.
“Both.”
“The cops are overworked just trying to keep the city from falling into a civil war from gangs and things. Besides, they don’t have a lot of luck catching the serial killers anymore. The cops aren’t crazy enough to do the job, but I am. The men I work with are. So we do.” I looked at her. “Now, why do I, specifically, care? I’ve been there. I’ve been in the clutches of a serial killer or four. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you do, you shouldn’t have to experience that. If you want to walk the streets at two in the morning and make a little money picking up dates, more power to you. You should be allowed to do that without worrying if your next date is going to be your last. No one should have the power to cause you pain, fear, or take your life.”
“So, you think you’re big enough to take on the serial killers of Detroit?” She continued to press me.
“I have survived more serial killers than the city of Detroit has to offer. I have never met a person bigger than me that couldn’t be cut down to size,” I pushed up the sleeves of my coat to prove that I was being literal.
“It’s true then,” another jumped back into the conversation. “You really are just as crazy as the motherfuckers you track.”
“I’m here, talking to you with back-up a block away. I’m an open invitation for a serial killer.” I looked at her. “No, I’m not as crazy as they are. I’m crazier. That’s why I’m on the streets with one guy in an SUV and everyone else is working leads on a case or sleeping. I’m not certain what the rest of the team is doing.”
“Why you and not them?” She asked.
“Because they are men. Would you want a street full of male federal officers chasing your dates away? No. However, I’m not threatening, except for my clothing and the bright yellow lettering on it. I don’t do anything fancy with the SCTU. I go in the front door first and get the bad guy before he has a chance to kill anyone. That’s my entire job as a Marshal. The SCTU men are less dangerous than I am. Not by much, but a little bit.”
“And you plan on cleaning up the mean streets of Detroit?” The primary prostitute asked me.
“There is no way I can clean up the streets of Detroit. They’d have to let me have hand grenades, machine guns, and no laws. However, I can take down a few of the bigger predators.”
“There is always another,” one woman said.
“That’s true,” I answered. “Nature hates voids, but the SCTU finds that when we go into a city and just aimlessly start taking on the serial killers that hunt in them, the voids don’t fill up very fast. It’s a simple case of risk and reward. Once we come to a city, we are more likely to get invited back. So, we go in, take out a handful of serial killers and the next group, the ones that haven’
t made up their minds to commit that first murder, start thinking about the fact that we’ve been through town. Is the risk really worth the reward? It’s one thing to face a police force. It’s another to face the SCTU. We have fan clubs in The Fortress filled with killers we’ve outwitted and caught. Nobody fears prison, but everyone fears death and we are just as likely to bring death, as we are life in The Fortress. Going up against us is a crap shoot for every killer we encounter and we always get our killers.”
“Whatever,” the primary one, the one that had made eye contact with me waved her hand at me and started walking away. To her, it was all bluster. She had heard the promises before. The others kind of hung around me, but they didn’t ask me any more questions. I was going to have to convince her before I would get any help out of these ladies and I had a feeling they knew a lot. None of them were under twenty-five. Most of them looked like they had been here for a long time. They would know whom to avoid. I needed them.
Nine
I stood there for a good five minutes after the ringleader had walked away from me. The other women were looking at me as they tried to decide whether to pick up dates or not. Most people didn’t know that we couldn’t arrest people for non-violent crimes. When we told them, they thought we were blowing smoke.
A sigh escaped me. There was really only one way to get their help and it didn’t fill me with joy. It filled me with boredom. I was going to have to find the biggest, baddest asshole on the block and kick his ass to prove that I was big enough to hunt down the serial killers preying on prostitutes. It wasn’t the first time I’d had to do it, and it wouldn’t be the last. Knowing my luck, it would be her pimp and she’d run to his aid. That had happened to me twice in the past. Once you got past the initial beating, things ran a little smoother.
The black SUV with tinted windows pulled up next to me. The women all stepped back as the window rolled down. Lucas cleared his throat.
“Go away, I don’t need you yet,” I told him.
