Incendiary Designs

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Carl, did you check with that guy from the life insurance company on whether any other companies were accessing Morgan’s records in the medical data base?”

  “Nothing so far—”

  The phone interrupted him. Thinnes picked it up and said, “Area Three detectives. Thinnes.”

  “Desk. Some guy named Koslowski here for you, Detective.”

  “Send him up.”

  While they waited, Thinnes said, “It seem like we’re coming up with a lot of Ford owners who were somehow connected to Wiley Fahey?”

  “Like who, besides this clown and Brother John?”

  “John Mackie drove a Taurus.”

  “Yeah. I forgot about that. Very coincidental, don’t you think?”

  “It might be, if they all bought their Fords from the same dealership. Maybe you could run a title history on them while I talk to Mr. Koslowski.”

  Oster nodded. “Maybe I should call Waukegan and see if the Smith brothers left a Ford behind, too.”

  “Wiley Fahey never had a vehicle registered to him, but check on his sister, Koslowski’s ex. If she doesn’t have a car now, call and ask her if she used to.”

  Koslowski was five-ten and maybe two hundred pounds, but solid as a pro wrestler rather than fat. He had a square face, blue eyes under eyebrows that seemed too far apart, and crew-cut brown hair. He was wearing a sweat-stained white T-shirt that proclaimed SHIT HAPPENS, dirty painters’ pants, and tan leather boots. He smelled like an ashtray full of butts.

  Thinnes took him in the conference room so he’d be less inclined to feel he was being interrogated. After having him go over the story of the hijacking and repeat his description of the offender, Thinnes dropped the big one: “Do you know a Brian Fahey?”

  “Wiley Fahey?” Thinnes nodded. “Yeah. You think he’s behind this?” The overdone incredulity was the giveaway. Koslowski knew about Fahey.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Koslowski shrugged. “Before Christmas, maybe? What’s this about?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Fahey is dead.”

  “No shit?”

  Koslowski wasn’t surprised, which didn’t surprise Thinnes.

  “What’d he die of?”

  “Smoke inhalation.”

  “I always used to tell him he oughta cut back.”

  “You don’t seem surprised he’s dead.”

  “The guy always lived on the edge.” He shrugged again. “You push your luck and…”

  Thinnes could tell that he was lying. And that he knew Thinnes knew it.

  “Listen, I thought you asked me down here to talk about my van. I bet you didn’t even find it yet.”

  “Actually, we did. It’s down at Central Impound.”

  “So what’s all this bullshit about Wiley?”

  “He was a friend of yours. I thought you might be able to tell us something about him.”

  “He wasn’t a friend. He was my brother-in-law. And after I got out of the joint, I never saw him. It would’ve violated my parole.”

  “I thought you said you saw him before Christmas.”

  Koslowski stood up and leaned his bulk toward Thinnes. “Look, just tell me how to get my van back and let me outta here—unless you’re planning to arrest me—then I want a lawyer.”

  “The desk sergeant downstairs can tell you how to get your van.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Fifty-Four

  Rising smoke and steam were silhouetted against the orange glow that radiate from the city’s lights like heat from banked coals. It was nearly 3:00 A.M. and still 88 degrees. Thinnes wondered how the fire fighters stayed conscious in their rubber suits. The frequent breaks for air and water wouldn’t have done it for him. As he stood between Oster and Fuego, the heat and strobe flashes of emergency light were making Thinnes light-headed. He was thankful there was no crowd—heat usually brought out the killer in people. This heat, so far this summer, killed directly.

  “The fire’s struck,” Fuego said, finally. He seemed unbothered. “We can’t even guess at cause and origin ’til they’re done with the overhaul.” He meant the partial destruction of the building by firemen seeking hidden fire in walls and other enclosed places.

  “Christ!” Oster said. “Time they get done, you’re not gonna be able to tell there was a building.”

  Fuego shrugged. After a while, one of the firemen came over to announce that they’d just found a body. “Kind of expected it,” he said. “Witness told us he saw someone go in just before the explosion.”

  “I didn’t even think about not seeing the guy come out until the firemen asked if there was anyone in the building.” The speaker, a male black in his late twenties, took a long pull from a sweating can of Coke. His outfit matched the customized eighteen-wheeler he’d parked fifty yards down the alley. Even with just parking lights, the truck looked like certain neighborhoods at Christmas. The driver was flashy, too, an urban cowboy with snakeskin boots, a diamond stud in one ear, and gold chains, and a Rolex. Thinnes wondered what kind of weapons he kept in the truck for protection.

  “What were you doing down here?” Oster asked the driver. Oster was soaked with sweat and looked about all in.

  “I got a delivery, but it’s not ’til six in the mornin’. I was just fixin’ to cop a few Zs when this went down.”

  “You don’t worry about getting hijacked?”

  The driver opened his eyes wide and said, “Should I be?”

  “Yeah, smart guy.”

  Before the witness could get too worked up over the insult, Thinnes jumped in as the good guy. “We’d like to run you over to the station to look at some pictures while this whole thing’s fresh in your mind. We’ll have an officer keep an eye on your truck.”

  “Well…”

  “Please. We think you might have seen the guy who set the fire. It’s not often anyone gets a look at one of these creeps.”

  “Would I have to go to court?”

  “Probably not.”

  “These bastards are usually happy to cop a plea if they’re caught,” Fuego added helpfully. “It’d just be nice to have something to prod ’em with.”

  “Yeah. Well, okay.” He rolled his eyes toward his truck.

  “We’ll keep an eye on it for you,” Thinnes reassured him.

  They sent the cowboy off with a patrol officer and went to see the body. The smell of cooking meat made Thinnes glad he wouldn’t have time for a barbecue any time soon. The body was burned beyond recognition. When you saw what was left, you could see why the Bible-thumpers threatened the damned with brimstone and hellfire.

  One of the firemen, who’d been watching his fellows lift the remains into a body bag, came up with a portable phone. “Who’s the primary detective on this one?”

  Thinnes held out his hand. “Who’m I talking to?”

  The fireman put the phone in it. “ME’s office.”

  Thinnes put the phone to his ear and said, “Thinnes.”

  The man at the other end identified himself and asked a few cursory questions, then said, “Bag him and ship him.”

  Thinnes handed the phone back.

  “Looks like he’s got a wallet on him, Detective,” one of the other firemen said. He held up an object that was hard to see in the poor light. Thinnes pulled gloves from his pocket and put them on before taking it. He walked over to the nearest fire truck to look the find over in the glare from the headlights. Oster and Fuego crowded around to kibitz. The license indicated that the victim was Terry Koslowski.

  “This seem a little like déjà vu?” Thinnes asked.

  “You mean just like Wiley?” Oster said.

  Fuego made a face in the reflected light. “All over again.”

  Fifty-Five

  After Koslowski’s autopsy, Thinnes just made it to the criminal court building at Twenty-sixth and California in time for the morning session. Oster was sitting in the hall outside the courtroom with his head in his hands, sweating heavily, and breathing
like a horse that had run the Arlington Million.

  Thinnes knew from what Oster never said that his partner was afraid to go to a doctor because of what he’d learn. Thinnes had brought the subject up once. Oster’s response was, “What’re you, my wife, now?” Short of going to Evanger with it, there wasn’t anything more Thinnes could do. So he tried not to think about it. He had mentioned it to Rhonda, who’d said, “Karma.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What goes around comes around. Now you know how I used to feel when you’d tell me, don’t worry about it.”

  “How’s it going, Carl?” Thinnes asked.

  “Been better, but I’ll live.”

  They sat and watched two lawyers cutting a deal down the hall with a maximum of gesturing.

  “Italian,” Oster said.

  “Southern Italian.”

  A private joke. One of the counselors was from Atlanta. It was funny, Thinnes thought, how you could carry on whole conversations with your partner and not say a dozen words.

  “I’m still after that Ronzani woman,” Oster said. “One of the church ladies thought the name rang a bell, but she couldn’t place it exactly. She’s gonna check with her friends and get back to me.”

  It was nearly 7:30 P.M. when Thinnes finally walked in his front door. Toby was sitting at the foot of the stairs with his leash in his mouth. “Don’t tell me nobody’s walked you,” Thinnes groaned. Toby thumped the floor with his tail.

  Rhonda called from the kitchen. “Don’t let him con you. He was out twenty minutes ago.”

  “Sorry, pal,” Thinnes told the dog. He took the holstered .38 off his belt and put it on the top shelf of the closet, then went to find his wife.

  She was emptying the dishwasher. She was wearing one of her going-out dresses, a cotton flowered thing that came below her knees but showed more of her cleavage than he liked to see displayed in public.

  “Where’s Rob?” he asked.

  “Staying over night at Mike’s.”

  Thinnes raised his eyebrows. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Reservations.”

  He suddenly felt tired. “What time?”

  “As soon as you’re cleaned up.” She stopped long enough to give him a playful kiss on the mouth; he could feel himself waking up. She ran her fingers along his jawline. “If you’re good, you might get lucky.”

  He must’ve been good. They went home early—for dessert.

  Afterward, he had just drifted off when the phone rang. “Thinnes,” the caller said, “you got a message here. Woman named Koslowski wanted you to call—urgent.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Viernes. Thought you might want to know right away. It’s about arson, according to this note.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  As he wrote down the number, Rhonda murmured, “What is it, John?”

  “Nothing. A screwup maybe. I’ve got to make a phone call. You go back to sleep.”

  Linda Koslowski didn’t answer her phone, and it gave him a bad feeling. A weeknight. He knew she probably had to work the next day. He thought about calling District Seventeen and having a beat car stop by her place, but he’d feel pretty stupid if she’d just turned her phone down and turned in early. He headed back to bed, but the bad feeling got worse. When Rhonda stirred, he told her, “I got to check something.”

  He smelled smoke when he pulled on to Christiana. He had the AC off—it didn’t work worth a damn—and the windows open. Linda Koslowski’s house was dark, shaded from the orange glow of the street lights by listless parkway trees. There was room to park by a hydrant out front, but the nearest legal space was half a block away. He cursed himself for a fool as he parked in it. The neighborhood was quiet but not soundless. He heard laughter, a dog barking some blocks off, a car rumbling over uneven pavement, crickets—all muffled by the roar of air conditioners. Conditioned reflex—years as a beat cop made him grab the cell phone from beneath his seat and lock the car. As he neared the house, he had to step into the street to see the numbers on the keypad. He tapped out Koslowski’s number. The phone rang; no one answered. The smell of smoke was stronger as he returned to the sidewalk. He looked at the house. Darkness seemed to be seeping out from around the windows. Seeping. Smoke! He debated with himself for a full second—charge in or call for backup? Training won again. He switched the phone off then on and called *999. “Fire,” he said to the dispatcher and gave him the address. The screen door was locked but he yanked, and it gave. The inner door was old, solid wood reinforced for urban living. When he kicked it, it kicked back. There was no sign of light beyond the window next to the door. He remembered a warning from long ago: Don’t stand in front of windows—they blow out. He spotted a small planter with hanging vines and flowers that looked black in the dim light. He jumped sideways, away from the window, as he heaved the planter through it. It touched the glass; the window blew out. Smoke pushing against it from within ignited. A cloud of orange heat and inky smoke flashed outward. He felt the explosion as he dived off the porch. He didn’t hear it. Heat seared his skin. He smelled hair burning.

  He landed face down on the parkway and covered his head with his arms. Embers and falling glass shards pricked his skin. He looked back cautiously. The front room of the house was an inferno. Smoke thick enough to shovel poured up from the top of the empty window frame. He got up and ran to the house next door. He kept ringing the bell while he pounded on the door.

  An upstairs window opened. A man’s head poked out. “What the hell?…” Then, “Fire!”

  Having raised the neighbors, Thinnes ran down the walk between the houses and tried Koslowski’s rear door. Locked. He was searching the smoky darkness for something to pry it open with when a silhouette materialized in the alley behind the house carrying a bar or short pole. Thinnes felt another hit of adrenaline. The arsonist?

  A second shadow joined the first, pointing a gun in silhouette. A Maglight caught him. “Freeze!”

  The familiar authority reassured him. Cops!

  “Thinnes,” he shouted. “Area Three!”

  “Stand back!”

  He stepped aside. The man with the bar attacked the door, and the wood around the handle splintered. The door flew open. A choking black cloud poured out and upward, searing his lungs, forcing him to retreat with the bar wielder. The coughing fit passed. He charged the doorway, but one of the cops grabbed his arm. Through the smoke, he could just make out an enclosed porch and an inner door. Orange flames licked the soot-smudged window in the inside door like a starving monster slobbering to get out.

  “Too late, man,” the cop said. “ ’Cept for the firemen or a priest.”

  Fifty-Six

  Fuego answered his page immediately, and when Thinnes had explained the situation, said, “Ten minutes.” It took him fifteen. By then the firefighters had the flames knocked back and were beginning overhaul operations. Fuego came in his own car, a Fiero, which he pulled into a space vacated by a neighbor who didn’t want his car damaged. Fuego’s Fiero had both police and fire decals and a bumper sticker that said FIREMEN ALWAYS COME.

  He set to work immediately—taking pictures of the spectators, interviewing Thinnes, the first cops on the scene, and the firemen during their frequent breaks to cool off. It was nearly 9:00 A.M. by the time they’d pronounced the fire completely out, removed Linda’s remains, and started to roll up the hoses.

  Thinnes asked Fuego, “Now what?”

  “Now we try to determine cause and origin.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “If you put on a hard hat and boots and don’t touch anything.”

  “This is how I figure it went down,” Fuego said.

  They were standing in the wreckage of the living room, staring at abstract patterns of uncharred wood on what had been the floor. He pointed to a circular, lightly burned spot on the most heavily charred part. Nearby were rectangular patches, nearly undamaged, with roughly rounded corners. “Looks like the fire sta
rted here, in the wastebasket, got going good, and spread to the sofa…” He pointed to one of the rectangular patches.

  “Then it started to run out of air—smoldered. I could probably calculate how long…” He shrugged. “It just laid here, biding its time, gnawing on Koslowski and the furniture until you came along and broke that window.” He shook himself. “The old fire devil’s scarier than any monster Hollywood’s cooked up.”

  “How can you tell it was a wastebasket?”

  “Anything on the floor protects what’s underneath because fire burns up. So unburned places show you where the furniture was. And that round spot on the floor matches the size and shape of a charred metal wastebasket I saw out front, where they dumped what they hauled out.”

  Thinnes looked around. Although much of what the fire had left had been removed, the remaining debris was black and soaking wet. “How the hell do you tell where it started?”

  “Absent unusual conditions—which we don’t seem to have here, fires burn upward and outward. So the most heavily damaged area, most burned, is usually the point of origin. And there’s usually a V-shaped pattern of charring or smoke damage against walls or burned into combustible structures, or a big circle of heavier damage on the ceiling above the point of origin that points down to it. It’s hard to tell here, because everything is so sooted up, but it’s there.” He pointed at the ceiling above the uncharred circle on the floor. “And you double-check that with the firemen who moved the stuff during suppression and overhaul and with people who knew where the furniture was before the fire.”