Slow Burn
Page 1
Andy Hayes Mysteries
by Andrew Welsh-Huggins
Fourth Down and Out
Slow Burn
Capitol Punishment (forthcoming)
Slow
Burn
Andrew Welsh-Huggins
Swallow Press
Ohio University Press
Athens
Swallow Press
An imprint of Ohio University Press, Athens, Ohio 45701
ohioswallow.com
© 2015 by Andrew Welsh-Huggins
All rights reserved
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious, with the exception of well-known public figures. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
To obtain permission to quote, reprint, or otherwise reproduce or distribute material from Swallow Press / Ohio University Press publications, please contact our rights and permissions department at (740) 593-1154 or (740) 593-4536 (fax).
Printed in the United States of America
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Welsh-Huggins, Andrew.
Slow burn : an Andy Hayes mystery / by Andrew Welsh-Huggins.
pages ; cm
ISBN (hc : alk. paper) — ISBN (pdf)
. Private investigators—Ohio—Fiction. . Ex-football players—Fiction. Columbus (Ohio)—Fiction. I. Title.
PSES58 2015
813'.6—dc23
2015000890
My late in-laws, Pat and Tom Welsh, always had books in their hands. Pat loved mysteries, while Tom’s thing was nonfiction, usually history or geography. Sometimes they found a title they agreed on and read aloud to one another. As readers, but more importantly, as a second set of parents, they always supported this writer. I wish they could have met Andy Hayes, but their spirits are in these pages. This book is dedicated to them.
What is reconstructed has a lot to do with what was destroyed. The shallower and smaller the wound, the simpler the process and the more quickly it is accomplished. The deeper and larger the wound, the more likely it is to require surgical intervention.
—Barbara Ravage, Burn Unit: Saving Lives after the Flames
Wretched man, what becomes of me now, at last?
—Odysseus, in Homer’s Odyssey
Prologue
Collapsed, knees buckled, hands on the ground, I had a dim memory of striking a similar pose decades ago, more than once, brought low on the playing field. I felt a lot lower now. Behind us, pops and snaps intensified as the fire began to spread. Both of us stank of smoke. I could hear sirens, but far off. I tried not to look at what was left of the man in the next yard over, the pant of his moans like someone laughing as he’s being strangled. I tried not to think about the other man, the one collapsed on the porch steps. I knew I should try to stand up. I was just so tired, and I hurt so much.
Lying on the grass in front of me, Helen said something, indistinct.
“It’s OK,” I said. But was it, after everything that had happened?
I looked around me. People were emerging onto porches on either side of the house, roused by the commotion. I saw a young man on his cell phone in the next yard over. Next to him another young man—all students in this neighborhood—staring at the flames visible through the windows of the house. Behind him stood a couple, boy and girl, clutching each other, him in T-shirt and shorts, her wrapped in a scarlet-and-gray quilted Ohio State comforter.
“Water?” I said.
The spectators looked at each other. No one moved. I meant the stuff from a bottle, not a hydrant, but it didn’t really matter. We were alive, and help was on its way.
“I called 911,” offered the boy on the cell phone.
Helen spoke again, her voice low and raspy. I caught a single word: “Upstairs.”
I gulped air, trying to expunge the acrid stink from my nostrils and mouth and throat. I fought off fogginess. I thought about what had led me to the house a few minutes earlier, or more to the point, what had nearly kept me from coming at all. I looked again at Helen, assuring myself she was OK.
Someone handed me a bottle of pop. I splashed some into my mouth, swirled it and spat. I lifted Helen’s head and tried to give her a sip. She pushed it away and started to cry.
I sat back in the grass in what passed for a yard in that part of Columbus and tried to think. There was going to be a lot of explaining to do when authorities arrived, and I wasn’t quite sure where to start. I turned and looked at the house and the flames inside and shook my head. We had been lucky. Very lucky.
I caught the word again, from Helen, through her sobs.
“Upstairs.”
“What about it?” I asked.
“Lori,” she said, struggling to get up. “She’s upstairs. Came home after all.”
I looked at the house, saw the flames in the living room, the smoke pouring from open windows. Listened for the sirens, definitely close, but still a few blocks off. Thought about the speed at which fire sweeps through buildings. Four minutes from ignition to flashover—isn’t that what they said? I took another breath, tried to stand up, swayed, nearly collapsed, swore, then tried again, and a third time, until I was up.
I glanced around, mind working slowly, too slowly, then settled on the girl wrapped in the comforter. It would have to do. I limped toward her, grabbed a corner and pulled. She gave a shriek as it fell away. As I turned and stumbled toward the burning house, I caught a glimpse of her sprinting in the opposite direction wearing exactly the same amount of clothes she’d had on the day she was born.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders and head.
I made it up the concrete porch stairs, glanced briefly at the man lying to the side, out of harm’s way for now, pushed open the door, and barged back into the maelstrom. Smoke alarms were screeching, the front hall was filled with smoke, and the flames had gone straight up the stairs to the second floor, pulled like fire up a chimney, blocking that approach.
“Lori!” I called.
No answer.
I stepped farther in, into the living room to the left. It was an old house, with building materials less apt to burn quickly, but filled with polypropylene-infused furniture and appliances and clothes, perfect fuel for modern fires. A draw, but a deadly one. Even in the few minutes since the blaze had begun, the flames had grown immeasurably. I didn’t have much time left. I had to get upstairs.
What was the lawyer’s expression for me? Indefatigable asshole? Time to prove it once more.
Except this time, I thought, as I crouched to avoid the cloud of heated gas and smoke rapidly forming overhead, my stick-to-it-iveness might be fatal.
1
“Say that again?”
“You heard me correctly,” the woman said.
It had all begun three weeks earlier on a Thursday morning, nearing mid-April. Anne and I were working our way north along the Olentangy River exercise trail. She was looking smart in black shorts and a green jogging top, with her mane of red hair wrestled into a bouncing ponytail as she ran at a comfortable training pace for the upcoming Discovering Columbus Half Marathon. I was riding beside her on my twelve-year-old mountain bike, trying to look smart in a pair of faded gray workout shorts and an Otterbein College sweatshirt with at least two holes in it, admiring the fact she was training for a half marathon. The day was going well. Only one person had apparently recognized me, a woman riding a beater bike in the opposite direction, and her insult, “Shameful,” was so quiet and she was past us so quickly I was pretty sure Anne hadn’t heard.
“What are you thinking?” she said as we nego
tiated the downhill by Third Avenue and were rewarded with the sight of a heron wading in shoals not twenty feet away.
“What a beautiful day,” I said.
“Anything else?”
“What a beautiful day to be working out with my favorite college professor?”
“Better,” she said.
“Only better?”
“It’s like I tell my students. You’re not trying hard enough.”
“What a beautiful day to be thinking impure thoughts about my favorite college professor, with clouds overhead like shredded cotton balls?”
“I’d go with torn skeins of fresh-washed wool,” she said. “But not bad.”
Anne did her long runs with a group of girlfriends on Saturdays, which had led me to privately dub our Thursday outings the “lunkhead” run, since I knew next to nothing about training for a half marathon and the only way I could keep up with her was on a bike. I tried not to let the fact that she was free on a Thursday morning because her classes didn’t begin until later bother me, given that I was free on a Thursday morning because I was, well, between jobs.
Which is why, when the opening notes of “Small Town” by John Mellencamp sounded from my fanny pack, I didn’t hesitate to reach down and extract the cell phone. Between jobs was between jobs.
“Mr. Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“You’re the private detective?”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Dorothy Custer. I’d like to talk about hiring you.”
“I’d like that too,” I said. “For what?”
“My grandson.”
“What about him?”
“I need help clearing his name.”
“What did he do?”
“He’s in prison for murdering three people.”
“Say that again?”
2
Dorothy Custer lived in a beige Dutch Colonial off North Broadway in Clintonville, an old city neighborhood north of campus so comfortable and also so occasionally full of itself it had threatened secession from Columbus proper more than once. Her house had a slightly sloping lawn, a two-car garage, and a redbud tree in the front yard that was just beginning to glow with color.
“Thank you for coming,” she said when she opened the door a few hours after her call. She wore tan slacks, a cream blouse, and a thin brown sweater. Her earrings were silver and tasteful and hinted at wealth without shouting it. Hair, short and white. Reading glasses around her neck. I put her in her midseventies.
She led me into her living room, where a carafe of coffee along with cups, cream, and sugar awaited us on a glass-topped table.
“You’re Frank Custer’s widow,” I said after I’d seated myself in a chair opposite the table.
“That’s right.”
“I’m a fan,” I explained. “Old Hickory and Young America. One of my favorite books. I put it together after you called.”
“You’re a detective, of course.”
“Didn’t take much detecting. You’re in the acknowledgments.”
She smiled. “Touché.”
Old Hickory and Young America: Andrew Jackson and the Bloody Battle for a New Presidency. A best-selling biography a few years back by Dorothy’s husband, an Ohio State history professor. Among other things, he had explored Jackson’s somewhat complicated relationship with his children, including two adopted Indian sons and several wards, in deep psychological detail. As the father of two sons, neither of whom is in my custody, I’d paid more than the usual attention.
“Optioned for a movie, if I’m not mistaken?” I said.
“Optioned being the right word. It’s a slow process.”
“Hope it happens,” I said. “Great book.”
“Thank you,” she said, a little stiffly. “That would have pleased Frank. He was an admirer of yours. At least, before your difficulties.”
“That’s true of a lot of people in town.”
“People make mistakes,” she said. “I tried to tell him that.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t make the connection when you called,” I said. “About Frank.”
“No apology needed. The world’s full of Custers.”
“Any relation to George?”
“Distantly, in fact. Enough of a family curiosity to inspire a career as a history professor. Though not of Native American history.” A smile. Old joke, no doubt. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black,” I said.
When I’d been served, I said, “You mentioned your grandson on the phone.”
“Yes,” she said. “Aaron.”
“Aaron Custer.”
“You’re familiar with him.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you know.”
I sat back in the chair and sipped the coffee.
I said, “He set fire to an off-campus house eighteen months ago. Three people died, and a fourth, a boy, I think, was badly injured.”
“A girl, actually. Helen Chen. I hear she’s back on campus finally. Thank God. Go on.”
“There’d been a party at the house earlier in the evening. One of the students’ birthdays.”
She nodded. “Matt Cummings.”
“Aaron showed up, drunk, unwelcome, and was eventually kicked out.”
“That’s correct.”
“As he left, he shouted something at people on the porch. Something threatening.”
“He said, ‘I’ll fucking kill you fucking bastards if it’s the last fucking thing I ever do,’” Dorothy said, as matter-of-factly as if she were reading potluck items off a church bulletin.
“OK, then,” I said. “He came back a few hours later, middle of the night, with a milk jug of gasoline and a lighter. Both found on the lawn. There was a usable print on the lighter, which led police to Aaron, since he’d been arrested before.”
“Correct again.”
“Arrested for setting a fire, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“There was also security camera footage from a gas station on High Street showing him filling the jug earlier that night. Between the time he left the party and the time of the fire.”
“Yes.”
“He was found nearby, badly injured.”
“That’s right. Someone had beaten him up.”
“Like he’d gotten in a fight afterward,” I said.
“The conclusion was he got in a fight as he ran away. Or was mugged. Or maybe was chased down by someone who supposedly saw him light the fire.”
“Odd coincidence.”
“The street where the fire happened is on the edge of a pretty tough neighborhood.”
“They never found out what happened.”
“No.”
“He confessed almost immediately, after he recovered,” I said.
“That’s right.”
“Between the video, the threat, the fingerprint, and his own criminal history, it was an ironclad case.”
Dorothy nodded.
I said, “He was headed to trial, but pleaded guilty at the last minute. To avoid the death penalty.”
“Almost.”
“Meaning?”
“Officially, he pleaded guilty at the last minute. Unofficially, he wanted to plead guilty all along.”
“Why?”
“He was certain he did it. Still is.”
“But if he’s certain . . . ,” I said.
“He’s certain because he has no memory of that night. Confronted with the evidence, he drew the same conclusion any rational person would.”
“No memory?”
“He’s an alcoholic, on top of all his other problems. Like his father, my son, I might add. Like his father was. You’re familiar with blackout drinking?”
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
“Between being dead drunk that night and the beating he took, it’s a complete blank.”
“He’s assuming he did it.”
“That’s right.”
I said, “I never understood why prosecutor
s went for the plea. Given the evidence.”
“Pressure from the families to end it quickly. Can you blame them? The trauma of reliving everything. The certainty of endless appeals since it was a capital case. I don’t know if ‘satisfied’ is the right word, but they were willing to accept life with no chance of parole.”
“Which is what he got.”
“Yes.”
“Where’s he housed?”
“Mansfield Correctional.”
“All well and good,” I said. “So why am I here?”
“Because of Eddie Miller,” Dorothy said. “And a baseball cap.”
3
She lifted a thick manila folder off the coffee table, opened it, and handed me the sheet of paper on top. It was a photocopy of a short Associated Press article printed off the Internet. “Ohio prison inmate hangs self with sheet,” the headline said. The story was only a few paragraphs. The subject was the man she’d just mentioned. He’d been found in his cell a week earlier. At Mansfield, I noted. Two months into a fifteen-year sentence for bank robbery.
“OK,” I said, handing her back the paper.
“Miller arrived at Mansfield about a month ago,” Dorothy said. “After he’d been processed. Aaron explained that part to me. It’s not like in the movies, where you just go to prison. There are evaluations first.”
“That’s right,” I said.
After a moment, she said, “Of course you would know that. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “A lot of it actually is like the movies.”
“Well,” she said, flustered.
“Please continue,” I said, flashing back to several of the least favorite months of my life.
She said, “Lots of inmates know Aaron, or know who he is, because of the fire. Such a prominent case. But Miller was different.”
“How?”
“He sought Aaron out right away. Wanted to talk to him.”
“About what?”
“He told Aaron there was a witness that night, someone nobody knew about. Someone who could vouch for the fact that Aaron didn’t do it.”
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t say. Said he knew somebody who knew somebody who’d seen what really happened. He wanted money for the name.”