All the Dying Children

by James Halpin

  She had been his anchor. And now she was gone.

  Daly fell over to his side, weeping in the damp grass, sweat coming to his brow because of the intense heat from the fire.

  “Lauren!” he called out again.

  Suddenly, he heard a shuffling sound behind him. He turned and saw Lauren running toward him from the house next door.

  “Daddy!” she yelled.

  Daly jumped up, oblivious to the pain in his ankle, and hobbled over to meet her. He wrapped his arms around her neck and squeezed tightly, smelling the flowery scent of her hair against his face.

  “I thought I lost you,” Daly said through tears. “How did you get out?”

  “I couldn’t sleep so I went down to the den to watch TV,” she said. “The next thing I knew, I heard glass breaking. When I came out to the kitchen, I could see the living room was on fire. I couldn’t get through so I yelled for you and then went to Mr. Fischer’s house to get help. He called 911.”

  In the distance, Daly could hear the sirens of fire engines cutting through the nighttime silence. The faint sound grew louder by the second, reaching its crescendo when the red flashing lights of the engines turned the corner and came to a jarring stop in front of the house.

  It was clear they were too late. The fire had engulfed nearly every room, and the ones that were not burning were filled with smoke. Soon they would be drenched in water from the fire hoses as well. They might be able to salvage some of their things, but almost all their worldly possessions were gone.

  None of that mattered to Daly. Lauren was okay, and he would live to write another day.

  The bigger concern for Daly was why he heard the sound of breaking glass just before the fire broke out. It seemed someone had set the house on fire in the middle of the night with Daly and his daughter asleep inside. Finding out who was responsible had just become Daly’s top priority.

  CHAPTER 10

  Friday, March 30, 2018

  7:14 a.m.

  The Luzerne County detectives’ office sits in a nondescript corner of the courthouse basement, with little more than a small placard acknowledging its existence. Inside, about a dozen veteran investigators work in cluttered cubicles to assist local police departments with serious criminal investigations. This morning, Daly sat at a desk at one of them, surrounded by stacks of paperwork and case files. A few pictures of Phil Wojcik’s kids were taped to a shelf over the computer monitor, over which two Philadelphia Phillies bobbleheads stood guard. As he waited for Wojcik to get finished in another room, Daly sipped a cup of coffee and ran through the night’s events in his head.

  Someone wanted him dead. A state police fire marshal who visited Daly’s home overnight confirmed the crashing sound had been someone throwing a Molotov cocktail through the bay window in the living room at the front of the house. The gasoline inside the bottle sprayed like napalm across the room after the bottle shattered, covering the couches, carpet and a Lazy Boy with liquid fire. Within seconds, the blaze began releasing a deadly torrent of smoke, and the intense flames spread along the drywall like milk slowly expanding from an overturned carton.

  They had been lucky to escape, the fire marshal told them. Lucky or not, Lauren had been scared senseless by the fire. After finding her father outside the burning building, Lauren began crying and shaking uncontrollably. Daly tried not to think about what would have happened if they hadn’t heard the shattering window or the screaming smoke detector. While Daly was able to push those thoughts out of his mind, Lauren continued struggling through them.

  An ambulance had taken them both to Geisinger Wyoming Valley Medical Center for treatment. Daly needed a few stitches where the glass had sliced his palms, but fortunately he had only sprained his right ankle and wrist. He was cleared for release a few hours after arriving. The doctors, however, wanted to keep Lauren a while longer for observation because of her panic attack.

  After he was convinced Lauren had calmed down – and with the assurance that police would post a guard outside her door – Daly had agreed to go to the courthouse to talk to detectives about what happened and who might have done it.

  Investigators had been canvassing the neighborhood throughout the night, trying to find someone with surveillance equipment that might have recorded the fire bomber coming or going. These days, someone is always watching. It was just a question of whether the police would be able to find the right angle and make the connection between passer-by and crime scene.

  As Wojcik walked back to meet Daly at the cubicle, he gave Daly a slight shake of his head. So far, they hadn’t found any footage that would help. Daly had expected as much. His neighborhood was suburban, and the street lights were spotty. Even if a camera had recorded something, chances were it would be a grainy black-and-white recording filmed by infrared LED lighting.

  “Nothing yet?” Daly asked.

  “No. But we’re still looking. It’s a pretty quiet area at one o’clock in the morning. Anyone out and about then will stick out. I need to talk about who you think it might have been. Is there anyone you can think of who would want to hurt you?”

  Daly pursed his lips and thought for a moment, the shaking of his head increasing momentum at each pass.

  “I can’t think of anyone. Lauren and I pretty much keep to ourselves. And she’s pretty popular at school. I can’t imagine anyone would have wanted to hurt her.”

  “What about debt? Do you owe anyone money? Or any relationship problems?”

  “No, nothing like that. I don’t get out too much since my wife died.”

  Wojcik nodded, duly giving a moment of silence for the departed before continuing. He didn’t have to ask what had happened. He had been the lead investigator.

  “What about at work? Any complaints about a story?” Wojcik continued.

  “I’m a crime reporter. Everyone I write about hates me,” Daly said.

  “Fair enough. But has there been anything specific?”

  “Actually, yes. I got a letter at the newsroom yesterday. It was handwritten in block letters. It said, ‘You know what happened to the curious cat, don’t you?’ And it warned me to be careful.”

  “Who sent it?” Wojcik asked.

  “There was no return address. But it kind of freaked me out because it did have my home address at the bottom.”

  “Do you still have it?” Wojcik asked, keenly interested.

  “Yeah, it should still be at the newsroom.”

  “Great. I’ll have someone stop by to collect it for testing,” Wojcik said. “Any idea why someone would have threatened you?”

  “The main thing I’ve been working on lately is the suicide cluster,” Daly said. “But you said they were unrelated.”

  “I said they appear to be unrelated but that we’re looking into it.”

  Daly paused a moment, catching a slight twinkle in the detective’s eye. Wojcik knew or suspected something he hadn’t revealed. And from his terse answer, it didn’t seem like he planned to. But knowing that detectives were seriously considering the possibility of someone behind the scenes — someone who was pulling strings and playing with the lives of young kids — sent a chill down Daly’s spine.

  “If you’re telling me you think someone’s behind it, that changes things. Then there’s someone who would want to stop me from writing about the cases.”

  “And who do you think that could be?” Wojcik asked.

  “You tell me. It sounds like you have a suspect. That would be a good place to start.”

  “I’m not saying we have a suspect. I’m just asking who you’ve been talking to about this story.”

  “Probably the most interesting person is a kid from Nanticoke, David Kowalski,” Daly said. “I’ve been looking at him, asking some questions about the deaths. I found him on Facebook. He went to camp with Kim Foster and Justin Gonzalez last summer. He seemed like he didn�
�t really fit in with the two of them, and from what I heard he’s done some bad things. I’ve heard him described as a ‘creep.’ Kind of a problem child, apparently.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Well, no,” Daly said. “I was thinking that I first approached David on Monday, and then I got the letter yesterday morning. I went back and spoke to David a second time yesterday afternoon. Then my house got attacked last night.”

  “Uh-huh,” Wojcik said calmly, showing no recognition of David Kowalski’s name. “And who else have you contacted about this story?”

  “Not too many others,” Daly said. “I talked to a counselor at Camp Summit Lake — where Kimberly, Justin and David met — but he didn’t seem to be too attached. Obviously, I also spoke to the families. Tried to, anyway. Celeste Gonzalez was willing to talk. I left a message for Emma Nguyen’s family before I filed my story yesterday, but they never called back. Kim Foster’s parents were pretty upset when I showed up at their house. Her father threatened to call the cops and told me to get the hell off the porch. And I’m sure they weren’t too happy to see her name in the paper again. But I don’t think they would be that pissed about it. Not enough to blow up my house, anyway.”

  At this, Wojcik grunted and slightly nodded his head. Was it agreement? Or something else? Daly tried to read the look but wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “The only one that makes sense is David Kowalski,” Daly said, growing irritated. “He’s the only clear connection between Kim and Justin, and I was at his door asking questions right before someone torched my house. Who else could it be?”

  “Calm down,” Wojcik said. “We’re going to find out who did it. But it wasn’t Kowalski.”

  “How do you know that?” Daly asked, surprised.

  “Well,” Wojcik said, pausing to carefully choose his words. “He’s a juvenile, so I can’t say very much. This is off the record — completely off the record — but last night some vehicles were vandalized near Luzerne County Community College. Let’s just say David Kowalski was accounted for at the time of the fire.”

  Like a wisp of smoke, Daly’s prime suspect vanished into thin air.

  * * *

  When he was finished at the courthouse, Daly walked out in a light drizzle that was forming cool pools in the cracks and the dips in the sidewalk. The morning air had a chill to it, the kind of cold, wet day that brings a miserable, unshakable chill worse than any wintertime deep freeze. He wanted to get right back to Lauren and see how she was doing, but in his panic after the fire, he had jumped into the ambulance and left his car at home. Or, what used to be home, he reminded himself. Wojcik had brought him to the courthouse, and after the interview, he offered to bring Daly home to pick up his car.

  They drove along the winding hills of state Route 309 to the Back Mountain in silence, watching the morning mist shrouding the trees like a phantom aura. When they reached Shavertown, Wojcik turned off the main highway onto Daly’s street, then slowed down to a crawl as he neared the burnt husk of what used to be Daly’s house.

  Thin trails of white smoke still twisted up past the dripping wet two by fours that made up the ruined frame of the structure. The back wall of the house still appeared mostly intact – the kitchen and den on the first floor and Lauren’s bedroom above them looked from the outside to be blacked by smoke but untouched by the flames. However, the front of the home, where the fire began, was gaping obscenely open. All of Daly’s possessions were blackened and sopped in cold, ashy water. His living room – the back wall and the melted and charred remains of some of the furniture, at least – was on display for the world to see.

  He tried to ignore the devastation for the moment and to focus on getting back to his baby girl.

  “Listen, I know you have a job to do, but so do we,” Wojcik said as Daly lifted the door handle to get out of the car. “It would be best if you didn’t write about what happened, or about what we’re thinking about what happened. The fire marshal was talking to you about this as the victim of a crime, not as a reporter.”

  “I want you to catch whoever did this,” Daly said. “I want to catch whoever did this. But I also know my editor is going to need a story about the fire. I won’t be able to write it because it’s my house. But what if I just give them a straight-forward story about my escape? No mention of the possible link to my article.”

  “It would be best if you also left out the firebomb. Nobody knows yet that we know that’s what it was. We don’t want the suspect to think we’re on to him. It would be best if you just said you woke up hearing the smoke detector going off,” Wojcik said. “The cause is still under investigation.”

  “That’s fair,” Daly said, nodding. “All right. Well, thanks for the ride.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Wojcik said.

  Daly stepped out into the growing morning light as the black cruiser slid off down the road, its engine cutting through the still morning air. He turned and looked at his house once more, then turned his attention to his car. It was still in the driveway and appeared intact, but the paint on the hood and front side had been warped by the fire’s intense heat, and it was covered by a thick layer of paste-like ash and water.

  Surveying the damage in shock and disbelief, Daly slowly became aware someone was approaching him from the side. He looked over and saw his neighbor, Scott Fischer, the man who helped Lauren during the fire.

  “Been a hell of a night,” Fischer said, shaking his head in disbelief. “How’s Lauren doing?”

  “I think she’s okay. She was shaken up, but I think she was just in shock. I’m about to go to the hospital and check on her,” Daly said.

  “Do you guys need a place to stay? I’ve got a couple of couches in the basement you could sleep on if you need them.”

  “No, thanks. I think we’ll be all right. But do you still have the spare set of keys I left with you when we went to San Francisco last year?”

  “Sure do. Come on in. They’re in my desk drawer,” Fischer said.

  “Thanks,” Daly said. “And one more thing. I need to use your phone.”

  * * *

  The sun had begun to break through the misty trees along the highway as Daly descended into the valley from the Back Mountain. Below, he could see the awakening communities stretched across the valley floor, the outlines of the homes broken up by white church spires and the muddy waters of the Susquehanna River.

  At this hour, nobody would be in the newsroom, so Daly had used his neighbor’s phone to call Richardson’s cellphone. The editor answered after a half-dozen rings, sounding as though he were still not awake. He immediately perked up when Daly told him what happened. After giving the basic details, Daly asked if he could take a few hours off to get Lauren settled somewhere and make some calls to his insurance carrier. Richardson said he was glad everyone was okay and told Daly to take the day. Daly could tell he wanted to ask about getting the story but was holding back in a show of respect.

  “I’ll give Joe Reed a call this afternoon,” Daly said, volunteering to talk to a reporter to ease the awkwardness. “I should have a new phone by then.”

  Hopping onto Interstate 81, Daly made his way up to the hospital and slid the ailing car into a spot near the emergency department entrance. He walked through the automatic sliding glass doors and went up to an attendant sitting behind bullet-proof glass at the welcome booth. Looking around, he saw bored families stretched out on couches in the lounge, their droopy eyes transfixed on a flat-screen television broadcasting the unceasing smiles of the “Today” show cast as they bantered and giggled on a cold street in New York City.

  The nurse at the counter, dressed in purple scrubs with a flower-patterned shirt, peered up behind her glasses with vague interest.

  “I’m trying to find my daughter. Lauren Daly,” he said.

  After tapping on a keyboard for a few minutes, the nurse asked for
Daly’s identification and then buzzed him in. Daly made his way down the hospital corridor, past rows of gurneys and patients connected to tubes and wires until he came to the door where his daughter was supposed to be. As promised, a uniformed cop was stationed outside the doorway. After clearing the sentry, Daly entered and found Lauren sitting on the edge of her bed, pulling a sweater over the long-sleeved shirt she wore.

  “Daddy!” she said, running the few steps to close the distance.

  “Hey, baby girl,” Daly said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. The doctor said I just had a panic attack. What happened really freaked me out.”

  “Me too,” Daly said, nodding. For the first time, he felt a pang of guilt. It occurred to him that if the firebombing was because of his work, he would have been at least partially to blame for getting his daughter killed. And then …

  “Do they know who did it?” Lauren asked, interrupting Daly’s train of thought.

  “Not yet. But they’re working on it. They’ll get him.”

  “Him?” Lauren asked, her eyes gleaming.

  “Or her,” Daly conceded with a smile. Even now, she wasn’t about to give him a pass on a sexist remark, however benign.

  “What are we going to do? Do you think we could stay at Uncle Rob’s for a while?” Lauren asked.

  “No, I think we should get a hotel room, at least for the time being. They say the fire was definitely arson, so either it was vandals causing trouble or someone who knew we were there. We need to lay low until we know which.”

  “What about Great Wolf Lodge?” Lauren proposed. “I’ve been wanting to go to the water park there forever.”

  “Yeah right. I’m a journalist, not an oil baron. And I’m not driving forty-five minutes every morning to get you to school.”

  “So where?” Lauren asked.

  “Somewhere quiet and out of sight. I was thinking the Mountain Motor Lodge,” Daly said, stifling a smile as his daughter’s face became the picture of disgust. “It’s close to school, after all.”