by Karen Rose
“No. I hired someone to run it for me. I go out there on my off days and yank engines. Whatever I need to do.” He lifted a brow. “Your Alfa need a tune-up?”
“No, it’s still good from the last one you gave it. So you’re keeping busy.”
He met her gaze squarely. “It seemed like the wisest thing to do.”
David Hunter had a bad case of a wounded heart. Long ago he’d fallen for Dana, but Mia’s friend had never seen it. Then Dana had fallen in love with someone else, and nobody who’d seen Dana and Ethan Buchanan together thought they were anything less than perfect for each other. Mia was happier for her best friend than anyone else, but seeing the stark pain in David Hunter’s eyes had always been like a kick in the gut. “Nobody knows, David. If it’s up to me, nobody ever will.”
His smile was sardonic. “I guess there’s comfort in that somewhere.” He pushed himself away from the truck. “So what’s going on here, Mia. Really?”
“We don’t know yet. Listen, have you seen any other fires that looked like this?”
“No, but I’ve only been here three months. You should ask Mahoney.”
“I will. How about trash can fires? How many of them have you seen?”
“I’d have to think. A few, at least, but most of them are set by little kids, elementary school age.” He looked back at the house. “This wasn’t done by a kid.”
She frowned. “Most arsonists are under the age of twenty, right?”
“Yeah. But your friend Solliday would be better for that kind of information.”
He’s not my friend. The sharp edge of the thought was unexpected. He’s just temporary. “I’ll ask him. Now I need to talk to Mahoney before you guys head out.”
Tuesday, November 28, 1:35 A.M.
Now that, he thought, had gone a great deal better. He tossed a shovelful of mud to one side. Practice makes perfect, after all.
Quickly he covered the hole he’d dug, burying what he’d taken from the scene. The condom and bloody plastic bags would keep until he could come back and dispose of them properly. He should have stopped to dispose of them on his way back, but he’d been paranoid, constantly watching his rearview mirror.
His caution had been unnecessary. Nobody had followed him. Nobody had seen him. Penny Hill’s car was now abandoned, its license plates and VIN tags removed. He’d moved it far enough off the deserted road to keep it from being found for a while. He knew he’d left nothing behind, but one could never be too careful. One hair could convict him.
Of course, they’d have to catch him first. And that, they’d never do.
He’d been careful. He’d been skillful. He’d been ruthless.
He smiled as he gave the earth a good stamp with his foot. She’d suffered. He could still hear Penny Hill’s moans. Unfortunately they’d been muffled by the gag in her mouth, but that had been a necessary evil. But the gag hadn’t hidden the hollowed, glazed look in her eyes when he’d finished with her. And she’d known exactly why. That made it all the sweeter.
He stopped abruptly, one hand gripping the shovel handle. Shit. He’d forgotten the briefcase. Penny Hill’s briefcase was still in the backseat of her car. He made himself calm down. It was okay. He’d go back and get the briefcase when he could. He’d hidden the car well enough that nobody would bother it before then.
He looked up at the night sky. There were still hours before dawn. He could get a little sleep before his day officially began.
The boy watched at the window, his heart in his throat. He was there, again. Burying something, again. He should tell. He should. But he was so afraid. He could only watch as he finished, covering his hiding place once more. His imagination conjured all kinds of hideous pictures of what he’d just buried. But the reality of what he’d do if he told was every bit as bad. This the boy knew for sure.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday, November 28, 7:55 A.M.
She looked tired. It was Reed’s first thought as he stopped in the doorway of the Homicide bullpen, one hand clutching a pair of fire-fighters’ boots, the other carrying a carton with two cups of coffee. Mitchell sat back in her chair, her scuffed boots propped up on her desk, her attention focused on a thick file in her lap.
Her eyes flew up when he let the heavy boots drop to her desk. She eyed them, then looked up with a half smile. “It’s not even Christmas yet. I’m touched, Solliday.”
He extended his hand and saw true appreciation light her face. “Now you’re talking.” She set the file on her desk and took one of the Styrofoam cups from his carton.
“It’s real coffee,” he said. “Not like that sludge over there in your pot.”
“Yeah, but the caffeine concentration in the sludge is enough to keep us going for days.” Warily she looked up at him, a plastic cream packet in her hand. “You want me to put the cream in yours, or are we going to insult each other again?”
He chuckled. “I take mine black.” He looked down at the folder on her desk. “Roger Burnette’s case files?”
“Not his files from Records. I requested those yesterday, but our clerk hasn’t brought them up yet. These are -Burnette’s own notes. He was waiting when I got here this morning. Names, addresses, dates of anybody whose -Wheaties he’s pissed in the last few years. I think it helped him to feel like he was doing something.”
“And?”
She grimaced. “Everybody in here had a grudge.”
“So you’re back to Caitlin being the tool to her father’s payback.”
She added cream to her coffee and snapped the lid back into place. “I don’t know. I do know that Penny Hill was a social worker. She’s probably taken a lot of kids from a lot of homes over the years. Disrupted a lot of lives, from a certain point of view. I think it will be interesting to cross-reference Roger Burnette’s cases with Penny Hill’s. See if anybody hated them both.”
“Did Roger Burnette know Penny Hill?”
“No. I was so hoping he did, but he’d never heard her name.” She swung her feet to the floor. “Now it’s time for morning meeting. I asked Jack and the ME to come.” She grabbed the file and her coffee. “I also asked our psychologist to stop by. His name is Miles Westphalen. I filled him in. I’ve worked with Miles before. He’s good.”
Before Reed could say a word she was off down a side hallway, motioning him to follow. A shrink, was all he could think. Oh joy.
A large table dominated the center of Spinnelli’s conference room. Spinnelli himself sat at one end, flanked on either side by Jack Unger from CSU and Sam Barrington from the ME’s office. An older man sat next to Jack. He would be the shrink.
Spinnelli searched their faces, and winced. “You two get any sleep at all?”
“Not much,” Mitchell said. She smiled warmly at the shrink. “Hey, Miles. Thanks for coming. This is Lieutenant Reed Solliday from OFI. Reed, Dr. Miles Westphalen.”
Reed shook the old man’s hand, keeping his face blank. He hated most shrinks. Hated the way they tried to read your mind. The way they turned everything into a question. He especially hated the way they blamed propensity for evil on upbringing. He laid odds that Westphalen would have this arsonist reduced to a poor soul with no father and an abusive mother before the meeting was over.
Westphalen sat back, mildly amused. “Lieutenant Solliday, it’s nice to meet you. But don’t worry, I won’t read your mind. Not before my first cup of coffee, anyway.”
Reed’s jaw tightened as Mitchell took the chair next to Westphalen. “Leave him alone, Miles,” she chided wearily. “He’s had a long night. We both have. Sit, Solliday. Please.” She looked over at Barrington. “Have you had a chance to check her out?”
“Only a cursory look,” Barrington answered as Reed sat next to Mitchell. “But I’m willing to bet I find something else on the body other than gasoline. The burns are far deeper. This fire burned longer, at least on the victim.”
“So about the victim,” Spinnelli interjected. “Who is she?”
“Penelop
e Hill, age forty-seven,” Mitchell said. “She was an employee of Social Services for twenty-five years.” She blew a breath up through her bangs, sending them flying. “Last night was her retirement party. I talked to one of my old friends in Social Services this morning. Hill was well respected and well loved. She’d been written up in the paper several times for her community service.”
“‘Well loved’ is relative,” Westphalen noted. “By her coworkers, maybe.”
“But by parents whose kids she’s taken away?” -Mitchell continued Westphalen’s thought. “‘Well loved’ probably isn’t a description they’d use. I thought of that, Miles.”
“A cop’s daughter and a social worker,” Spinnelli mused. “Any connection?”
She shook her head. “Burnette didn’t know her. We’ll need a court order for Hill’s files so we can cross-check their case-loads. But the fires themselves were the same in a lot of ways.”
Spinnelli raised his brows. “Reed?”
All eyes turned to him. “Both were started in the kitchen. Both used natural gas as the primary fuel. Both used a strip of solid accelerant up the wall as a chemical extension of the fuse. The lab came back with the analysis of the solid accelerant used in the Doughertys’ house. Ammonium nitrate mixed with kerosene and guar gum. Highly flammable. I should have the lab’s analysis on the mix used in Hill’s house by the end of the day, but I expect it to be the same.”
Spinnelli stroked his mustache. “Are we dealing with a professional arsonist?”
“Not in the traditional sense. Arson for profit is normally committed by property owners for the insurance or by torches who are providing... a service. This doesn’t feel like it’s about money. It’s personal. I mean, he didn’t just set a fire. He blew up their houses. How he knew the victims we still haven’t figured out, but the use of an explosion just screams Look at me. Look at what I can do.”
“And Look at them. Look how they died,” Mitchell murmured. “It’s like a flashing neon arrow.” She looked over at Westphalen. “A cry for help?”
Westphalen lifted shaggy gray brows. “More like a cry of rage.”
Reed was surprised. He’d expected the shrink to run with the “cry for help” mantra. It was another thing he hated about shrinks. Nothing was anybody’s fault. If a criminal com-mitted a crime they were crying for help. That was bullshit. Criminals committed crimes because they got something out of it. Period. If they wanted help, they’d ask nicely, not by nearly blowing up a damn neighborhood.
Spinnelli pushed away from the table and walked to the whiteboard. “So we have what?” He started writing, creating two columns he headed Dougherty/Burnette and Hill. “Time of the crime?”
“Both about midnight,” Reed said. “Both were residential structures in middle-class neighborhoods. Both used incendiary devices with a fuse.”
“Don’t forget about the trash can,” Mitchell murmured.
“And both had a separate fire,” Reed added. “Set in a wastebasket with newspaper and a filterless cigarette. Without the filter, the cigarette burns down to the end, setting the newspaper on fire. It’s a very simple but effective time-delay device.”
Spinnelli noted it, then turned around. “Now that sounds more like a novice.”
“It means something,” Mitchell said quietly. “It’s... symbolic.”
“You’re probably right. What else?” Spinnelli asked. “Sam?”
“Both bodies were charred beyond visual recognition,” Barrington offered. “As I said, the degree of the damage appears much greater in the second victim.”
“Mrs. Hill,” Mitchell murmured. “Her name was Penny Hill.”
Something in her face squeezed at Reed’s heart but -Barrington just lifted his blond brows. “The killer used something different on the second victim. Something that didn’t burn off as fast.”
“Check for the nitrate mixture,” Reed said. “I’ll have the lab fax you the formula.”
“I’ll be waiting for it. Get me the second victim’s dental records, Detective. I’ll make a positive ID as quickly as I can.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell said flatly. “I’ll be on that today.”
Barrington stood. “If there’s nothing more, I have a great deal to do today.”
“Call us when you have something,” Spinnelli said and Barrington left.
For a moment Mitchell glared at the door the ME had closed, then slowly flattened her fist on her thigh. When she spoke, it was quietly. “Marc, Caitlin Burnette’s body was incinerated with gasoline. Penny Hill’s with something... hotter.”
“Probably not hotter,” Reed inserted. “Just something that didn’t burn off as fast.”
She shrugged, annoyed. “Whatever. My point is, it was a difference. He changed. Improving on his MO, maybe.”
Spinnelli’s mustache bent down as he considered it. “Sounds like a reasonable assumption. What are the differences?”
“In the first house he left two devices,” Reed said. “One in the kitchen and one in the master bedroom. In the second, he didn’t leave one in the bedroom.”
Westphalen seemed intrigued by this. “Why?”
“A specific rage for the Doughertys maybe,” Westphalen said. “It was their bed.”
“Or he may have decided he got plenty of bang with one device, so why risk a second,” Reed countered. “A common mistake of novice arsonists is leaving too many incendiary devices. They think one is good, so five is better. But if one of the five doesn’t go off, it’s evidence. Simplifying could be part of his learning curve. But we’ll ask the Doughertys if they have any enemies.” He glanced at Mitchell. “They called me this morning. I told them we’d meet them at their house sometime after nine.”
“That’s fine.” She frowned though. “Miles, if the -Doughertys were the target, I’d agree. But if Caitlin was the victim, why the master bed? I mean, Caitlin was studying in the spare bedroom. What good did burning a bed she’d never touched do him?”
“It’s a good question,” Westphalen admitted. “Go talk to the Doughertys.”
“Other differences?” Spinnelli asked.
“He left Caitlin’s car in the garage and used Penny Hill’s to get away,” Reed said.
“It does seem like he’s organizing his method,” Westphalen commented.
Spinnelli scribbled on the board. “Jack?”
“We found blood spatter on the carpet we took from the Doughertys’ house. Ben Trammell also found what could have been the metal button from her jeans. It was in the hall, in a crevice against the staircase. We didn’t find any trace of her jeans in the hall, but they could have burned. If they did, we should find some remnants in the ash.”
“What about the gasoline?” Mitchell asked.
“None on the carpet. Only in the kitchen around where the body was found.”
“So he raped and shot her in the hall, then dragged her into the kitchen and doused her with gasoline.” Mitchell clenched her jaw. “Sonofabitch.”
“Next of kin,” Spinnelli said. “Have Penny Hill’s been informed?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I’ve called all the Mark Hills in Cincinnati, but none of them are related to Penny. Human Resources at Social Services will be at their desks in another half hour or so. I’ll get contact information from them.”
Spinnelli sat down. “Miles, can you give us a profile, or at least a place to start?”
Westphalen cast a cautious glance in Reed’s direction. “Lieutenant Solliday probably has a better understanding of arsonists.”
Reed gestured for him to continue, interested in what he had to say. “Go ahead.”
Westphalen took off his glasses and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “Well, about twenty-five percent of arsonists are under fourteen and light fires for excitement or due to compulsion. I don’t think that’s the case here. Another twenty-five percent are fifteen to eighteen.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to believe a teenager could do this, but we all know they’re capable. Rarely
are arsonists over thirty years old. If they are, they’re the torches the lieutenant mentioned—purely for profit. Adult arsonists who aren’t for profit are almost always seeking revenge. The majority are white. Almost all are male. I’d almost guarantee this perpetrator has a record.”
“We couldn’t find any prints,” Unger said. “He didn’t leave anything behind that we’ve found so far, so we have nothing to lead us to him or his record.”
Westphalen frowned. “Well, when he leaves something behind, I’m betting you’ll be able to link it to someone, somewhere in the system. The fact that he was seen driving away from Mrs. Hill’s house seconds before the explosion indicates he either planned the timing of his escape poorly or that he planned it well and has a high need for risk.”
“A high sensation seeker,” Mitchell said and Westphalen nodded.
“Perhaps. Arsonists in general have had an unstable childhood. Absent fathers, emotional abuse from the mother.”
Reed’s jaw tightened. There it was. He’d known it was impossible for any psychologist not to blame upbringing. Westphalen’s eyes met his and Reed could see the shrink had picked up on his irritation, but the older man just mildly continued. “Many times arson is a stepping-stone for sex crimes,” Westphalen added. “I’ve treated a number of sexual predators who have used arson as a means of sexual gratification early on. Then the fires aren’t good enough anymore. They graduate to rape.”
“So you’re not surprised that this guy would rape and burn,” Mitchell said.
Westphalen put his glasses back on. “No, it doesn’t surprise me at all. What does surprise me is that he didn’t stick around to watch his fire burn. He plans such a giant blast and then doesn’t stay for the performance.”
“I thought the same thing,” Reed agreed, stowing his irritation. “I checked the crowd last night. I didn’t see anybody in either crowd that didn’t live in the neighborhood and I didn’t see anybody last night that was at the Doughertys’ fire.”
“What’s next?” Spinnelli asked.
“I’ll analyze the samples we took from Hill’s house last night,” Unger said. “I don’t anticipate finding much in the kitchen, but we did sweep the front part of the house where there was less damage. I’m going to take a team back again this morning, to check things out in the daylight. If he left a hair and it didn’t burn, we’ll find it. Can I count on Ben Trammell, Reed? He was a huge asset yesterday.”
