“Karen Vail is a very valuable member of our unit,” Rooney said in his southern drawl. “If someone tries to fry her ass, it really pisses me off. Since I’ve spent nineteen years studying arson and bombings, I think it’s fair to say there might be something I can offer that’ll help identify the type of person who did this.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Fuller said. “But why are you here? I mean, don’t you deal with serial arsonists? Looks likely he might’ve only set this one fire.”
“Only one fire,” Rooney said. He nodded slowly, as if he was considering Fuller’s point. “I see where you’re coming from. After all, it’s just one fire, why make such a big deal over it. Right?” Rooney grinned broadly, leaned back in his chair. His military style crew cut, chiseled features and trim body gave him a formidable appearance. He didn’t need to act intimidating to be intimidating. “What’s your name, son?”
“Scott Fuller. Detective.”
“Good to meet you, Detective. I can certainly understand your confusion over the need for me to be here. And I don’t think any less of you for asking such a misinformed question. So let me answer you, so you won’t make the same mistake again.” Rooney slowly rose from his chair. “I am with the ATF. That stands for Alcohol. Tobacco. And Firearms. See, we deal with alcohol—this here’s wine country, so you might think there’s a connection there. But no. No, that’s not why I’m here. And then there’s tobacco, and, clearly, tobacco’s not why I’m here, either. So we get to the last letter in the acronym. Firearms. That covers bombs, incendiary devices, terrorism related offenses, and criminally set fires.” Rooney grabbed the back of the chair with two large hands. “Now let me ask you something, son. Where did you hear the word ‘serial’ in that description?” He narrowed his eyes, kept his gaze fixed on Fuller, who was staring back, his jaw set, lips tight and thin.
Vail shared a glance with Rooney. She was thinking: Man, I wish I could do that as well as you can. Her look said: Boy, I’m glad you’re on my side.
“So,” Rooney said. “Let me get back to where I was headed. I’m an ATF agent, but I’m also trained as a profiler. That’s important because the FBI has no jurisdiction over arson, but obviously it falls right into the sweet spot of the ATF’s authority. For Detective Fuller’s edification, that would be the ‘firearms’ part.” He walked to the whiteboard and motioned to the marker. “May I?”
Brix handed it to him. Rooney uncapped it, and moved to a blank area on the board. “Let me give you some background on the type of person who is most likely to have committed this crime. Problem is, there haven’t been a whole lot of studies done on arson. But we’ve been able to pool all our knowledge based on the studies and offender interviews that have been done, and we’ve arrived at a typology of arsonists. It’s based primarily on motivation, the motives behind the crime. Now we’re categorizing this fire as arson because it meets the three established criteria.”
Rooney held up a hand and ticked off each item on a finger: “First, property has been burned; second, the burning is incendiary and a device of some sort has been found at the scene; and third, the act was committed with malice, with the intent to destroy. I’ve been to the crime scene with Detective Gordon, and based on what we saw there and what he saw last night, this officially qualifies as arson.” He swiveled toward Gordon and said, “Is that right, Detective?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So here’s what we know,” Rooney said. “Shortly after Detective Hernandez left Agent Vail alone, the place went up in flames. We found a gas can in the back, in a well-concealed area that’s not visible from another room, the parking lot, or adjacent property. We found a cigarette lighter, likely used to ignite the trigger—the gasoline. But we also found something that we can’t explain.” Rooney nodded at Gordon.
Gordon scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, it’s damn strange. There was a well-defined area around the structure, which served as a barrier to the blaze.” He stopped for effect, then said, “And what looks like some sort of fire retardant chemical on the ground was laid out along the periphery.”
Dixon tilted her head and asked, “So you mean he meant to stop the fire at the one building?”
Gordon nodded. “That’s what it looks like. And no, nothing special about the chemical used. We’re still looking at it in the lab, but I think it’s widely available Class A foam, from fire extinguishers. It’s used to contain small brush and grass fires by creating a fire break.”
“So,” Rooney said, “armed with that knowledge, let’s talk about what we know about the people who start these fires. We classify them according to their motives: vandalism, excitement, revenge, crime concealment, profit, and extremist. All are self-explanatory.”
“Excitement?” Dixon asked.
“They get off on setting fire. They’re seeking thrills, attention, recognition, even sexual gratification—but the sexual component is pretty rare.”
Dixon said, “So are you saying we need to investigate each of these potential motives so we can eliminate them as possibilities, then narrow our suspect pool to those who are likely to have the remaining motive?”
“That’s one approach,” Vail said. “But rather than running in six different directions while still trying to zero in on this wine cave killer, I think we can logically eliminate crime concealment and extremist. There was no other crime he could’ve been trying to hide. Unless someone is aware of something, I don’t see a social, religious, or political conflict. Is there anything you know of I’m not seeing?”
“Nothing I’m aware of,” Brix said. He looked around. No one offered up anything.
Ray Lugo said, “If there was a profit motive, why just burn down the one structure?”
“Doesn’t make sense, I agree,” Rooney said. “Still, be worth looking into the owners, see if they’re in financial distress. Do they have a business partner with a beef? Have there been offers to buy the property that’ve been rebuffed by the owner? Anyone who’d stand to benefit by burning down the structure? An architect or contractor who was talking with the owner about a remodel the owner didn’t want to do? All this needs to be ruled out. Remember, the offender doesn’t think he’s going to get caught. He doesn’t think he’s leaving any clues for us.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Vail stopped, then shook her head. “Why would he go to such efforts to ensure the other structures wouldn’t also get destroyed?”
“An important question, for sure, but one we can’t answer right now,” Rooney said. “We’ll eventually know the answer, but for now it’s another thing to stick up on the whiteboard.” He turned and wrote “Arson,” then, below it, listed the question Vail had asked. “Another thing to keep in mind is that I’ve given you a very basic primer on arson—a number of those categories we discussed have subcategories. And then you have mixed motive offenders, too. But let’s keep it simple for now and expand as you gather more information and eliminate other factors.”
Fuller leaned forward, both forearms on the table. “Since you’re a profiler and your job is to profile, how about telling us who we should be looking for?”
“That’s really putting him on the spot, Scott,” Vail said.
Rooney held up a hand. “No, no. That’s a fair question, Detective.” He folded his arms across his chest and thought about it a moment. “If we go with the percentages, we’re looking for a younger white male, between eighteen and thirty, with a generally poor marital history. That suggests this UNSUB has a history of unstable interpersonal relationships. And a guy like this will have average or higher intelligence, and between a tenth- and twelfth-grade education level. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll have one or more tattoos.”
“Will this guy have a sheet?” Brix asked.
“Highly probable. You’re looking at about a 90 percent chance he’s had a felony arrest and better than 60 percent chance he’s had multiple felony arrests. So, yeah, that’d be a good place to start: known offenders with potential moti
ves for wanting that structure—or Agent Vail—in ashes.”
“Speaking of which,” Vail said, “were you able to tell anything about the front door?”
“In what way,” Gordon asked.
“I’m not sure, but it may’ve been jammed shut. I couldn’t open it.”
“There wasn’t much left of the structure, let alone the front door. But we can go back over there, take another look. You sure about it being jammed?”
“I was pretty freaked. The knob was very hot. Burned my hand.” She stole a glance at her palm. It was red and it hurt, but nothing serious. “I’m not sure, but I couldn’t open it.”
“Check it out,” Brix said to Gordon. “Anything else on the profile?” he asked Rooney.
Vail said, “There’ll probably be a history of some form of institutionalization. Not just prison—orphanages, juvenile homes, or detention, even mental health institutions.”
“But,” Rooney said, “unlike serial killers, a majority of arsonists come from intact and comfortable family units.”
“That makes me feel real good,” Dixon said. “Something went wrong somewhere.”
“Here’s something else you won’t like,” Rooney said. “Nationwide, law enforcement has a clearance rate on arsons of only about 20 percent, give or take. So we’ve got our jobs cut out for us.” He handed the marker back to Brix, then walked toward his seat. “If we find out this guy’s set other fires, there’s more to this equation, because then he’d be serial, and that brings in some other trends that’d help us catch this guy.”
“Like what?” Fuller asked.
“Like most serial arsonists walk to the scene of the fires they set, and they usually live within two miles, so they’re familiar with the neighborhood. About a third stay at the scene and a quarter of them go somewhere nearby where they can watch the fire department do their thing. Forty percent leave the scene.”
“But,” Gordon said, “almost all return to the scene from twenty-four hours to a week afterwards. So we’ve got an undercover watching the area to see if anyone comes by.”
“In case anyone’s wondering, the other guests have been placed at other B&Bs,” Brix said.
“We’re assuming,” Rooney said, “that we’re dealing with an honest to goodness arsonist. But if the intent was pure and simple, kill Karen Vail, then a lot of this goes out the window.”
There was quiet while everyone considered that.
“Any questions?” Rooney finally asked.
Fuller leaned back and stretched his arms upward. “Yeah, I’ve got one. How long are you gonna be in town?”
“I’m not. I’m headed to SFO for a flight back to Quantico. But I’m reachable on my cell.” He waited a minute, looked around the room, and saw there were no questions. “Karen, will you walk me out?”
While Vail rose, Rooney reached out to shake Gordon’s hand. “Pleasure, Detective. Please, keep me in the loop. You need something, anything, ATF will get it for you.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Oh—one more thing. An agent is on his way over from the San Francisco ATF Field Division office. I’d really appreciate it if you’d include him on your task force. Name’s Austin Mann.” He consulted his watch. “Should be here any—”
He stopped at the rapping of knuckles against the door.
Brix yelled out, “It’s open.”
The door swung in and revealed a suited man of average height, but heavy around the shoulders and thighs. He stepped in and nodded at Rooney. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“This is Agent Mann,” Rooney said. He then proceeded to introduce everyone in the room to him.
Vail couldn’t help but notice Mann had scarring on the left side of his face and a prosthesis—an artificial left hand. This was odd, to say the least. Vail would have thought such a condition would result in a forced retirement due to medical disability. Then again, she knew of agents with severe injuries who were permitted to remain on the job—but that was rare and usually due to their exceptional service records.
However, there was one thing she could be reasonably sure of: An ATF agent missing an extremity meant it had been blown off while defusing an IED on the job.
Mann turned to face her. “You’re Agent Vail?”
“Karen, yes. Good to meet you.”
“Karen was just about to walk me out to the car. You okay here?”
“They can get me up to speed.” Mann extended his right hand and Rooney took it. “I’ll keep you posted once you get back.”
Vail slipped the new FBI badge onto her belt, grabbed the envelope from the table and left the room with Rooney. As they cleared the front door to the building, Rooney reached into his inside suit coat pocket and handed her a new BlackBerry. “It’s activated and ready to go. Same number.”
She turned it on and waited as it booted up. “Thanks.”
“Watch that kid in there. Fuller,” Rooney said. “I’ve seen his type, knows it all, young buck who’s gotten where he’s at because of favors or nepotism or both. Book smart, street dumb.”
Vail marveled at Rooney’s ability to read people. She knew he was good, but that was impressive.
“He bugs me,” Rooney said. “Could be trouble.”
“Noted. What do you know about Austin Mann?”
“Hell of an agent. Loyal to the job like guys aren’t loyal anymore.” He nodded at the Bureau car down the street, headed toward them. His ride to SFO, Vail surmised.
Rooney said, “You noticed the prosthesis, I’m sure. Got it OTJ, defusing a bomb. Lucky that’s all he lost. I worked with him years ago in North Carolina. I was there when . . . when it happened. I hope you never have to see something like that. It was awful. A guy like that, tough as they come, squealing like a pig.” He shook his head. “Anyway, he took this assignment in Frisco and he’s been good. He’s been happy.”
The dark blue Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb.
“Is it a prosthetic hand, or his whole arm?”
“What?”
“Agent Mann’s prosthesis. How extensive is it?”
Rooney’s eyes narrowed. “Hand and forearm. Why?”
Vail stood there thinking a second too long.
“Karen, what is it?”
She laughed and waved a hand. “Nothing. Just tired.”
Rooney placed a hand on Vail’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “I want you to get back to Quantico in one piece, you hear? No more fires or other shit you seem to get yourself into.”
“Are you implying something, Art?”
“Implying? Hell, no. I think your record speaks for itself.” He stepped off the curb and opened the door. “See you back home soon.”
TWENTY-TWO
Vail watched the BuCar swing a wide arc in the street and head off down the road. She liked Rooney, and because she was about a dozen years younger than he, she sometimes thought of him like an older brother. She never felt that way about anyone in the unit—or anywhere else, for that matter.
But Austin Mann’s prosthesis began to bother her. When crushing a trachea, the “bar arm” move would be vastly more efficient if the offender had a hard prosthetic forearm. She would have to look into that. Carefully. One of her mentors had just vouched for the ATF agent. One thing she did not want to do was investigate a fellow LEO—a man with a distinguished service record—and have it get back to Rooney.
She turned to head back into the building, realized she was still holding the envelope Brix had given her, and turned it over. Agent Karen Vail was printed in black laser ink. She tore it open, and, while starting up the two flights of stairs, began to read:Hey there, Agent Vail. You don’t know me, but I’m betting you wish you did. I know you’re a profiler who’s been brought in to catch the guy who killed that woman in the wine cave. And I know you’ve found the one in Vallejo and the one in that old Black Knoll Vineyards cave. That was a nice touch, actually, don’t you think? They’ve talked for years about getting at that vintage wine that was supposedly buri
ed there, so I figured they’d eventually find my handiwork. It just happened sooner than I figured. I wanted it to be a total surprise, like, out of the blue, a holy shit moment, where everyone freaks out and says, “Oh, my god, another woman’s been killed by the same guy!” Ah, so the first question might be, am I a guy, or am I a woman? I’m not going to tell you. I’ll let you figure it out. I’m sure by now you’ve already got your theories. I’m sure you’re all thinking about me, talking about me. You, and Lieutenant Brix and Detective Fuller, Investigator Dixon, and Sergeant Lugo, and whoever else you’re going to bring on board. The more the better. You’re going to need it. But I’m wasting your time, and it’s not right to waste taxpayer money. So here’s the deal. I’m willing to work with you, but under some conditions. Are you sitting down?
Crush (Karen Vail Series) Page 15
