Count to Ten

by Karen Rose

  She looked up at the damaged ceiling. “The master -bedroom’s up there?”

  “Yeah. It’s one of the three points of origin. The kitchen here was the main one.”

  Her brows furrowed. “But you think she was in the spare bedroom studying. On the other side of the house. Tell me the time line of the fire from start to finish again.”

  “The neighbors reported an explosion about midnight and called 911. That would have been the kitchen. The first company arrived three minutes later and found flames engulfing this whole side of the house, top to bottom. There was a smaller fire in the living room on the other side. They charged a line and hit the blaze just inside the front door. The kitchen ceiling came down shortly after the fire department arrived and the chief pulled the firefighters out of the house. I got here at 12:52. They’d knocked it back by then. They shut off the gas line to the house when they arrived, so there wasn’t any more fuel for the fire in the kitchen.”

  “Heat, fuel, oxygen,” Mitchell murmured. “Good old fire triangle.”

  “Eliminate one and you can knock down the fire,” Reed agreed.

  Unger looked at the wall with a frown. “The ‘V’ pattern’s narrow. Like it ran straight up fast until it hit about five feet high. Then everything’s black the rest of the way up.”

  “The valve to the gas line was removed. He started a leak, waited for gas to build up, then left a device to get the fire started. The room exploded when the flame reached the gas, which rises. He ran a line of accelerant up the wall to make sure it did.”

  “What did he use to start it?” she asked.

  “The lab’s doing an analysis for the exact structure, but it was a solid accelerant, probably in the nitrate family. Mode of delivery was a plastic egg.”

  Mitchell’s blond brows went up. “Like an Easter egg?”

  “No, bigger. Like the eggs panty hose used to come in. He probably mixed the nitrate with guar gum so it would cling to the wall. When the solid ignited, it would have burned straight up. That’s why you see the narrow ‘V.’ But it also exploded out, which took care of everything below the gas line. Most likely he drilled a hole in the egg, filled it with the mixture, and ran the fuse. He wouldn’t have had much time to get away. Probably no more than ten or fifteen seconds.”

  “He likes life on the edge, then,” she said. “How did he get in the house?”

  “Through the back door,” Reed answered. “We took pictures of the lock, but we didn’t touch it to get prints.”

  She looked up with a frown. “Why not?”

  “I was afraid it was a homicide yesterday. I didn’t want some judge throwing out our evidence because it was collected under an arson warrant.”

  She looked reluctantly impressed. “Did you get prints, Jack?”

  “Yeah, but I’m betting they don’t belong to our guy. If he was smart enough to pull all this together, he was smart enough to wear gloves. Although we could get lucky.”

  “Can you check for shoe prints?” she asked Unger. “Although the rain’s probably destroyed any chance of that. Dammit.”

  “We got a number of shoe prints,” Reed said, “most of them from firefighters’ boots, but there were a few that weren’t. We made plaster casts of those yesterday.”

  Again she looked reluctantly impressed. “They’re at the lab?”

  “Along with the egg fragments. They’re checking for prints on those, too.”

  She crouched next to where they’d found the body. “Jack, let’s get samples here.”

  Reed crouched next to her, so close he picked up a lighter, much more pleasant scent than the smell of charred wood that hung over the room. She smelled like lemons. “I took samples around this area. We found traces of gasoline.”

  She frowned, troubled. “He doused her with gasoline. That’s why her body burned so hot the fibers of her shirt melted onto her skin.”

  “Yes. I picked up traces of hydrocarbons in the air space above the body. You can also see the checkerboard pattern here on the subfloor. It’s what happens when gasoline seeps between the tiles. The adhesive is softened and the floor beneath it gets scorched. He probably poured gasoline over her and splashed some on the floor.”

  “I can’t imagine him taking a chance on lighting a match with all that gas in the room,” Unger said thoughtfully.

  “I think when the plastic egg exploded, bits of the burning accelerant would have landed on her. Either way, gasoline burns off pretty quickly unless you have a constant supply. That’s why there was enough bone left for Barrington to X-ray.”

  Mitchell stood up, her jaw clenched. “So where did the little fucker shoot you, Caitlin?” She walked around the fallen rafters and into the hall where one of Jack Unger’s men worked with Ben, gridding off the room with string and stakes. “Hello.”

  “Ben, this is Detective Mitchell from Homicide and Sergeant Unger from CSU.”

  Ben nodded. “Nice to meet you. Reed, we found something just a few minutes before you got here.” He carefully stepped across the gridded area, a small glass jar in his hand. “Looks like it came from a necklace.”

  Reed held it up to the field lights. “The letter ‘C.’” He handed it to Mitchell.

  “Where did you find it?” she asked, studying it with a frown.

  Ben pointed to the grid. “Two up, three over. I was just looking for the chain.”

  She turned her eyes to the staircase. “You said you found pages from her statistics book upstairs. That means she was studying upstairs, so she had to come down the stairs at some point. Either alive or dead.”

  Unger nodded. “If he shot her upstairs and then dragged her down the carpet, there will be traces of blood in the fibers. We’ll take the whole carpet and check it out.”

  “He may have shot her in the kitchen,” Reed pointed out.

  “Then we take the whole damn floor,” Mitchell said grimly. “Shit. I hate fire scenes. There’s just nothing left.”

  Reed shook his head. “There’s lots left. You just have to know where to look.”

  “Yeah,” she grunted, holding the glass jar up to the light. Her eyes went fierce. “They fought here,” she said, one hand fisted at her throat as if she clenched a necklace. “Caitlin must have heard something, come down the stairs.”

  “He discovered her, overpowered her,” Reed continued.

  “Grabbed the necklace. The chain broke and the charm flew. Then he shot her.”

  “Then I’ll find spatter on the carpet.” Unger looked around. “We’ll bring some bright lights in here and go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. You said three points of origin. We’ve seen the kitchen. What about the other two?”

  “The one in the master bedroom was the same accelerant—another egg.”

  “What about the living room?” Unger asked.

  Ben had done most of the living room analysis. “Go ahead, Ben,” Reed said.

  Ben cleared his throat. “That fire was started in a trash can with newspaper and a cigarette, probably filterless. It would have smoldered for a few minutes before escaping the can. It caught the drapes on fire, but the truck put that one out pretty fast.”

  “Can we see the master bedroom?”

  “Carefully.” Reed led them up the stairs, then stopped in the doorway. “Don’t go in. The floor isn’t stable.”

  “The hole in the floor was caused by the fire?” Mitchell asked.

  “Yes, it was. The hole in the ceiling was cut by the firefighters to vent the heat.”

  Mitchell drew a breath and grimaced. “I need to get some air.”

  “You okay, Mia?” Unger asked, concern in his voice.

  “I took some Advil on an empty stomach,” she said. “My stomach is now protesting.”

  Reed frowned. “You should have asked me to stop. I could have gotten you lunch.”

  “That would mean she was actually taking care of herself.” Unger took her elbow. “Go get lunch. We’ll be here a while. I’ll call you if I find anything eart
h-shattering.”

  She glanced over at Reed. “Lunch, then the sorority?”

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  Monday, November 27, 12:05 P.M.

  Brooke Adler rapped on the door to the school counselor’s office and felt it give. She poked her head in to find Dr. Julian Thompson sitting behind his desk and one of the other teachers sitting in one of the guest chairs. “I’m sorry. I’ll come back later.”

  Julian waved her in. “It’s okay, Brooke. We’re not talking about anything important.”

  Devin White shook his head with a smile that made her heart flutter. She’d noticed him many times since she’d come to Hope Center. But this was the first time they’d actually exchanged words. “I have to disagree, Julian. It was of universal importance.” He lifted a brow. “Bears or Lions on Sunday?”

  Brooke knew little about sports, but Chicago was home. “Bears?”

  Devin scowled playfully. “I guess we can’t argue with hometown loyalty.”

  Julian gestured toward the chair next to Devin. “Devin’s betting on the Lions.”

  “It’s a personal weakness,” he said. “Do I need to leave? Is this a private matter?”

  Brooke shook her head. “No. I could actually use another teacher’s perspective. I have some concerns about some of my students. One in particular.”

  Julian leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess. Jeffrey DeMartino.”

  “No, not Jeff. Although he as much as admitted sending Thad Lewin to the clinic.”

  Julian just sighed. “Thad’s not talking. He’s too scared to give Jeff up and we don’t have any proof. So if not Jeff, who?”

  “Manny Rodriguez.”

  Both men were surprised. “Manny?” Devin asked. “He’s never given me a problem.”

  “Me, either. But this morning he was unusually interested in the lesson. We’re reading Lord of the Flies.”

  Julian’s brows shot up. “Are stories about teen anarchy wise around here?”

  Brooke shrugged. “Dr. Bixby thought it would make a good study.” The school’s director had recommended it, in fact. “Anyway, today we talked about the signal fire.”

  Julian tilted his head. “Manny’s eyes glazed over, didn’t they?”

  “He was practically salivating.”

  “And you want to know if Manny started fires before he came here.”

  “Yeah, I do. I mean, I’m happy he’s interested, but... It was creepy.”

  Julian rested his chin on steepled fingers. “He set fires, yes. Lots of little fires, from the time he was five years old. Then he set a very bad one that destroyed his foster home. It was then he was brought here. We’ve been working on impulse control.”

  Brooke sat back in her chair. “I wish I’d known. Should I do a different book?”

  Devin scratched his chin. “What would you read instead? Anything that’s worth discussing will have some controversial theme affecting at least one kid in your class.”

  “I thought that,” she confessed.

  “This may not be a bad thing,” Julian said. “Now that I know what Manny has been reading, we can use it in our therapy. This is a place he can’t start a fire, so presenting him with tempting images here is about as safe as you can make it. We can work on constructive ways to manage his impulses while they’re fresh in his mind.”

  Brooke stood up and both men followed suit. “Thanks, Julian. I’ll send you a report every few days. Let me know if it gets to the point that changing books is the right thing to do.”

  Devin held the door open. “I hear it’s mac and cheese and Tater Tots day in the cafeteria.”

  Her lips curved. “Then we’d better get in line. Tater Tots always go fast.”

  Devin grinned. “And they don’t hurt when they throw them at you. Bye, Julian.”

  “I haven’t been in a food fight yet,” she said as they walked down the hall together.

  “I was last summer. Unfortunately it was apples day. That really hurt. I wouldn’t worry too much about Lord of the Flies, Brooke. So many of these kids have seen far, far worse.” His smile faded. “It’s enough to break your heart.”

  “You care about them,” she said quietly.

  “It’s hard not to. They tend to grow on you.”

  “Mr. White!” A trio of boys caught up to them, looking panicked.

  Devin gave the boys a smile. “What’s up, guys?”

  “We need help before the quiz today,” one said and Brooke’s heart deflated a little.

  So much for Tater Tots, she thought. I’ll be eating at my desk again.

  Devin gave Brooke an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’ll get with you later.”

  With a silent sigh she watched him go. Tater Tots with Devin White was about as close as she’d come to a real date in a long time, which was pathetic. She turned toward her -classroom. Then stopped short just as she rounded the corner.

  Manny Rodriguez was looking both ways as he shoved something into the trash can just outside the lunchroom. A newspaper? That Manny had a newspaper for any constructive reason was unbelievable. She waited until he was gone then lifted the lid of the trash can and, wrinkling her nose, fished the -newspaper out. She’d expected to feel something heavy wrapped inside, but as she gingerly shook it, there was nothing.

  It was today’s Trib. Frowning, she pulled the paper apart until she found a hole with jagged edges. He’d ripped something out of the paper. An article? A picture? Whatever it was, it had been on page A-12. Briefly she considered keeping the paper, but ended up tossing it back into the trash can. Half of it was covered in cheese sauce. If it was something wrong, it would be information Julian could use in therapy.

  She’d go to the school library, check the Trib. Perhaps it was nothing more than an ad for a video game. But remembering the look in Manny’s eyes, she doubted it.

  Monday, November 27, 1:15 P.M.

  “So how old is your daughter?”

  Reed looked up in surprise. They were the first words Mitchell had spoken since they’d sat down with their trays in the burger joint she’d chosen. He’d thought she was still angry about this morning. Nobody liked hearing the truth when it hurt and Reed had simply told the truth. If she wasn’t capable, he’d ask for somebody else.

  If she wasn’t capable, it was understandable. A few quick questions to the ME had cleared the puzzle and Mitchell herself had added the final piece. A hurt partner and a dead father. Add the shoulder and she’d hit the trifecta. No wonder she’d been zoned out this morning. But he hadn’t seen a single lapse in focus since. She’d been strong and sure with the girl’s parents, saying the right things to ease the father’s pain as best she could. And at the Doughertys’ she’d pulled together the same scenario he had.

  Maybe her silence was her way of processing information and not due to residual anger. Either way her question was an olive branch of sorts.

  “Beth is fourteen.” He grimaced. “Going on twenty-five.”

  “That’s a tough age,” she said sympathetically. Her eyes flicked to a point behind him. “I wouldn’t go back to that age for all the tea in China.”

  “On that we agree. What’s back there?”

  “Barracuda.” Eyes narrowed, she followed the approach of a woman with a long blond braid. “Carmichael. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  The woman pulled up a chair and sat down. “Is that any way to greet me after two whole weeks?” She eyed Reed with interest. “I thought Reagan was coming back.”

  “He is, in a few weeks.”

  The woman put out her hand. “I’m Joanna Carmichael.”

  He wasn’t sure if he should shake it. “Lieutenant Solliday—”

  “OFI, I know. I ran the plates on your SUV before I came in.”

  Reed frowned. “I don’t think I like having my privacy invaded like that.”

  Carmichael shrugged. “Goes with the territory. I’m with the Bulletin.”

  He looked at Mitchell, who looked excessively annoy
ed. “You have groupies?”

  Carmichael laughed. “She makes good copy. You’re back sooner than I thought.”

  “I’m a fast healer. I don’t have anything for you, -Carmichael. All my cases were reassigned while I was on disability.”

  “This time I have something for you. I’ve kept my ear to the ground for you. One of my sources tells me that your partner hit one of the guys who shot at you before he was hit. Ripped a nice neat hole in the guy’s arm.” She lifted a brow. “Kind of like yours.”

  Mia shook her head. “Nobody matching their description’s visited any of the hospitals for a GSW any time in the last two weeks. I’ve checked. Every damn day.”

  “Your punk’s mommy is a nurse’s aide. Word is she did a do-it-yourself job. Not too shabby either. Apparently he’s a fast healer, too.”

  Mitchell’s eyes had narrowed dangerously. “What’s your punk’s name?”

  “Oscar DuPree. Is he your punk, too?” Carmichael asked with deceptive laziness.

  Mitchell nodded curtly. “That’s one of them. Where is he?”

  “Hangs at a bar called Looney’s. But he didn’t shoot your partner. His pal, however, has been talking it up. Big bad cop took one in the gut. Fell like a rock. Bitch cop took one in the shoulder while she stared like a deer in the headlights.”

  Color was rising in Mitchell’s cheeks. “Fucking little bastard. I owe you, Carmichael.”

  “No, you don’t.” Carmichael stood up. “You were nice to me once. I pay my debts. Now we’re square.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to be going. Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. If you get a good lead on your fire/homicide, I’d appreciate the heads-up.”

  Reed kept his face poker straight. “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, cut the bullshit, Lieutenant. You’re arson, she’s homicide. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put the pieces together. So, what about it? What’s the story here?”

  Mitchell was methodically folding her burger wrapper into a paper football. The look she spared Carmichael was fierce. “You’ll be the first to know. I pay my debts, too.”