Fire Born (Firehouse 343)

by Christina Moore

  She nodded as she turned around and carefully made her way down to the first floor. “Actually, the K12 would be useful—I want to cut the end of that beam off to collect as evidence. And I want to get samples from those burns Logan and I saw to see if the lab can discover what accelerant was used.”

  “There were open doors in those apartments,” Chris observed as they exited the building. “I don’t remember if I told you, or if any of the others noticed, but every one of the empties had open interior doors.”

  “He’s right about that,” piped up Football. “I remember now that the only door we had to kick in was 2A’s, where the elderly couple lived.”

  “And Cal had to kick in 3C’s door because Jessica’s mother had locked it on her way out,” Logan added.

  “Were the main entry doors to the apartments open?” Martie asked. “Because that could also affect how fast the fire spread.”

  “Now that you mention it, 2C’s door was open,” Logan told her. “Not all the way, but I remember now that on our walk-through, all I had to do was push it open. It wasn’t latched at all.”

  “And if 2C was the main flashpoint, then it is truly a miracle that the apartment above wasn’t fully engulfed by the time you guys got here,” Martie added. “That little girl was doubly blessed.”

  After her hands had been cleaned by Football with alcohol wipes from the medical kit (with much teeth grinding on her part due to the sting), Chris took the K12 back out of the truck to use on the ceiling beam and dismissed Logan and Football back to the station, saying that he would stay with Martie until she got what she needed. Making sure to be more careful this time around, she visited each apartment once more, filling and labeling several evidence bags, and in 3C she showed Chris where to cut the beam so that they could take the broken end with them.

  When they were done and in the car getting ready to make their own way back to the station, she told him she was going to check on the whereabouts of the Breckon Apartments’ residents who’d been home at the time of the fire. She needed to interview them as well, she reminded him, to get a complete picture of the timeline.

  “Well, as far as I know, the elderly couple are still in the hospital, as is Jessica,” Chris said. “At least, they were last I heard anything. Bob will probably know for sure.”

  “I got their last knowns from him when we spoke yesterday,” Martie said then. “The old couple and the little girl were still undergoing treatment as of yesterday, and the college kids were supposed to be staying with friends. I need to track them down so I can get their stories. It’s obvious that someone started that fire on purpose, and one of them might have seen somebody. I also need to get in touch with the police who were first on scene.”

  “You’re kind of sounding like a cop yourself.”

  She glanced over briefly. “Technically that’s what I am—the Montana Bureau of Fire Safety is a state-level police agency. I conduct investigations much the same as detectives do—it’s just that my specialty is fire instead of robbery, narcotics, or homicide. I have to interview witnesses and suspects, gather evidence, and coordinate with local police and fire agencies in whatever city I visit. I have to be knowledgeable about what can start a fire, how the different materials and chemicals involved can make a fire behave… ”

  Chris laughed and held up a placating hand. “Okay, I get it. You’re one damn smart lady, and if I ever start a fire, you’ll know the what and the how.”

  “And once I catch you—and make no mistake, I will catch you—I’ll find out why.”

  ***

  When she and Chris had returned to the station, Martie went to the restroom to relieve herself and found that her legs were already sporting bruises. It was a good thing her brother wasn’t around. Had Tony seen her stuck in the steps he’d have read her the riot act for being careless, and if he looked at her legs and saw them in this condition, he’d probably insist she take time off to let them heal.

  Especially, she thought as she stood to redress herself and winced at a sudden, sharp pain in her left knee, if he learned that she might not be a hundred percent for a day or two. She’d noticed earlier that her knee was aching but it had been tolerable. Now it was not. Thank goodness she carried ibuprofen in her purse, because she’d hate to have to ask Chris for painkillers.

  She smiled while she washed her hands, as it suddenly occurred to her that Chris and Tony were a lot alike. Both of them could be overbearing and overprotective.

  As she walked back out into the lounge, she mentally reviewed what she needed to get done to move the investigation forward. She still had to get the evidence she’d collected to the BFS lab in Billings, interview the Breckon Apartments residents and the first police officers on the scene, and of course, type up her recorded interviews for the official record, along with her own observations. She was, at some point, going to have to talk to Trevor Breckon as well. And though she wished it weren’t necessary, she was also going to have to file a report on the accident since it had happened in the course of her duty. Graham was another one she wasn’t looking forward to hearing from about that.

  After eating a late lunch with Chris and his crew, she called the Gracechurch Police Department and arranged a meeting with the two officers who were first on the scene. Their story (and subsequent report, which she requested a copy of) wasn’t much different than that of the firefighters’: huge flames, black smoke. They’d been driving by as part of their daily rounds when they noticed the building was on fire and called it in. The two veteran street cops also expressed curiosity as to how come no one coming or going at the McDonald’s next door had seen or heard anything, which was something Martie also wished she knew but would probably never get an answer to. As Logan had pointed out earlier, how often did anyone really take notice of what was going on around them?

  Eight

  Finishing at the police station, Martie headed for the hospital. There she visited with the elderly couple from apartment 2A, Herman and Lucille Wilson, who had been assigned the same room.

  Their doctor, she learned, was keeping Herman because the burn on his arm had developed a mild infection, and because he had a heart condition he wanted to monitor for another day. Lucille was staying with him for the simple fact that she had nowhere else to go. They were independent enough that they didn’t need to reside in an assisted living facility or a nursing home, but their Social Security checks, even when combined, didn’t provide much income. Lucille’s family could be traced back to the founding of Gracechurch, she told Martie proudly, so she was reluctant to leave town. The apartment in the Breckon building was all they could afford right now, though of course they’d have rather taken a unit on the ground floor because steps were difficult to manage for both of them.

  The fire had burned through the wall separating their apartment from 2B. Not knowing how it had started or why, Lucille had tried to beat the fire out with a blanket. When her dress had caught a spark from the flames she’d screamed for Herman, who without thinking had thrown himself on her to knock her to the floor.

  “Stop, drop, and roll, they taught us,” he said with a smile.

  Lucille swatted his hand. “You’re lucky you didn’t break a hip—mine or yours.”

  Martie had chuckled at the banter, as it was clear that the couple, who’d been married for 53 years, were still very much in love. Her heart squeezed a little, wondering if she would ever have that kind of lasting relationship with a man.

  If it was possible she could have one with Chris.

  Tuning back into the Wilsons’ story, Herman said that after pushing his wife down, he’d swatted at the flames and that’s when his shirt had caught fire, burning his arm. He managed to put it out by rolling on the floor, then he and Lucille had hurried as fast as they could into the bathroom, because it was farthest from the fire.

  “By that point, the dang fire’d already spread to the door. I didn’t want to risk taking Lucille through it, so I just headed for the bathroom and prayed
to God the fire department would hurry up and get there.”

  “Strangely enough, young lady, the bathroom in our apartment is on the outside of the building,” Lucille said then, “meaning an outside wall. Like, if we had a window in it, we’d be looking out onto the street.”

  Martie nodded. “I know, I visited the building this morning,” she said. “The bathroom in each of the A apartments is on the outside wall. It’s a little strange, sure, but then what do I know about early 1960s architecture?” she said with a smile.

  “That young lady on the third floor, the one with that cute little girl, she sometimes comes to help me clean,” Lucille said. “And she’s done some shopping for us too. I really hope that Jessica’s going to be all right.”

  “I’m actually going to see them next. I’ll let Miss Thompson know you were asking about her.”

  “Oh, please do, will you?”

  Martie smiled and nodded again. Sensing that they had no more they could tell her, she nevertheless handed Lucille her card when she stood to leave, instructing them to call anytime if they happened to think of anything else that might come to mind about the fire. Thanking them for their time, she left and headed for the children’s wing, where Veronica Thompson was watching over her daughter Jessica.

  After stopping at the nurses’ station to show her badge and inquire as to Jessica Thompson’s room number, Martie headed in search of it. Locating room 309, she knocked lightly on the partially open door, through which she could see a plainly dressed, light brown-haired woman stroking the hair of a little girl who was curled up in the bed.

  “Excuse me, Miss Thompson?”

  Veronica Thompson turned sharply at the sound of her voice. “Who are you?”

  Martie held up her badge. “I’m Lt. Martine Liotta of the Montana Bureau of Fire Safety. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you some questions about the night of the fire.”

  Veronica visibly paled, but she nonetheless nodded. Turning back to her daughter, she bent and kissed the girl’s temple. “I’ll be right outside the door, okay? You’ll be able to see me the whole time.”

  Rising slowly, she paused a moment to take a breath, then walked toward the door. Martie could see right away that the woman was worn out, and possibly a little frightened. She might be worried that she would lose Jessica to Child Protective Services since she hadn’t been home when the fire started, and Jessica was just ten.

  Moving to stand in the hall just outside the door, Martie waited for Veronica to join her, then offered the younger woman a reassuring smile. “Please don’t be nervous about anything, okay Veronica? I’m just here to ask you what you remember about that night.”

  “It’s Ronnie, actually. At least that’s what my mama always called me,” Veronica said.

  She grinned wider. “And I’m Martie, for pretty much the same reason. Say, Ronnie, do you mind if I record this conversation?” she asked, pulling out her voice recorder. “I’ve just found using a recorder easier than trying to lug a notebook around and scribbling notes. My hand certainly cramps less.”

  Her light tone and self-deprecating words did as she’d hoped; Ronnie appeared to relax measurably, though she continued to cast furtive glances into the room toward her daughter.

  Martie followed her glance. “Is Jessica all right?” she asked softly.

  Ronnie visibly fought a sob and wiped hastily at tears. “She hasn’t spoken a word since that night. Just lays there curled up in the bed in a tight ball. I’d take her home to see if it helped, but we got no home to go to now.”

  “Do you have any family that you might be able to stay with?”

  “No. My mama was a single mother too; raised three kids all on her own. But she died of cancer before Jess was born. My brother is in the military—the Navy, to be more specific—and he’s out on maneuvers somewhere. He lives on base or I would ask if I can go stay at his house. And my sister lives in France with her hoity-toity French husband. I hardly ever speak to her.”

  Ronnie sighed and squared her shoulders. “Go ahead and record whatever you want. I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

  “One more quick question before we get to that,” Martie began. Whether it was her own latent motherly instincts or simple human compassion, she felt terrible that this woman had nowhere to go, just as the Wilsons had nowhere to go.

  “I don’t mean to pry into your personal business, but what about asking Jessica’s father for help?” she asked.

  Ronnie scoffed. “Please. Don’t get me started on that asshole. Like I don’t feel fool enough for having slept with a married man.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  A thin hand was raised to wave off her apology. “Nah, it ain’t nothin’ you said. I just do my best not to think about him. That affair ain’t a time in my life I’m proud of, certainly, but I also wouldn’t trade it for anything, ‘cause I got Jessica. That baby girl is my life. And maybe we struggle, but we make it alright. Not that Kenny would know anything about that. When I told him I was pregnant, he told me to get an abortion, because me having his baby would ruin his life. I refused to have the abortion, so he cut me off.”

  Martie frowned. “Cut you off? What do you mean?” she asked.

  “When I met Kenny, I was waitressing in a cocktail bar in a hotel. I knew right away he was married because he didn’t bother to hide it. But I was lonely and he was paying attention to me, not that such is an excuse for stupidity. Anyway, after we started seeing each other, he started buying me gifts. Giving me money. I didn’t have to work as much as I had been. But when I told him I wasn’t killing my baby, he took it all away, except for a few things I’d hidden. He got me fired from my job. Had to pawn the jewelry I’d managed to keep and clear out my bank account to get out of Billings. I’ve moved around with Jess a few times, but came here about a year ago because I’d heard Gracechurch was a nice, quiet place to live.”

  She huffed, and squared her shoulders. Looking back at Martie squarely, she said, “You go ahead and turn that thing on. Ask your questions.”

  Nodding, Martie switched the recorder on. After saying her usual intro, she asked Ronnie, “What can you tell me about the night of the fire?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “Not much. I don’t remember seeing or hearing anything unusual.”

  “Lt. Paytah and Firefighter Kilbride said that you mentioned you’d gone out for sodas?” Martie prompted.

  At this, Ronnie colored. She looked away for a moment, glancing in at Jessica once again, and said, “I bet you’re wondering why I was gone so long. Speedway’s just three blocks from the apartment, I shoulda been able to walk there, choose and pay for two sodas, and walk back in ten or fifteen minutes.” She looked back at Martie. “Am I right?”

  “I’m curious, yes—because if, as you say, you neither saw nor heard anything unusual, then the fire must have started either right before or right after you left the building,” Martie said frankly. “As you’re aware by now, it spread really fast.”

  “The building is old,” Ronnie said with another shrug. “Wiring isn’t great, either. I’m always replacing light bulbs. Was thinking it mighta been fixed when the electrician came the day before this happened.”

  Martie raised an eyebrow. “Electrician?” she asked, careful not to let her sudden excitement show.

  Ronnie nodded. “I’d called the manager’s answering service a bunch of times about the light bulb issue. I’ve probably spent over a hundred dollars in bulbs this year alone, and I was tired of replacing them. An electrician was finally sent to look at the wiring in our apartment.”

  “What rooms did he visit?” she asked, fairly certain that Jessica’s room would be one of them.

  “All of them,” Ronnie replied. “He hooked some kind of tester thing up to each ceiling fixture, checked all the outlets. Told me at one point he needed to get up into the attic space over the apartment, and would I mind removing the clothes from Jessica’s closet, because he didn’t want to get
any dust on them. I thought it was awfully considerate of him, so I took them out and laid them on her bed.”

  “The attic access was in Jessica’s closet?” Martie asked.

  Ronnie nodded. “We only have the one bedroom, and I gave it to her—I sleep on the couch. Anyway, the access is just a little wooden plate over a hole. Wasn’t sure the guy would fit through it with that tool belt on.”

  Her blood began to race furiously through her veins as Martie listened to Ronnie’s story. Given the fire and the damage that had occurred in little Jessica’s room, the man who’d visited her apartment the day before was no electrician—and he’d climbed up into the attic not to repair or replace any wiring but to saw that ceiling beam so that it would be weak enough to collapse during the fire. Whoever it was had wanted someone to get hurt, but was his target Veronica Thompson or her daughter? Was the target one of the firefighters?

  And did it mean that, at least this time, Trevor Breckon wasn’t responsible?

  Martie forced herself to stop that train of thought. Truth be told, she had yet to prove he’d been negligent in the case of the first two fires on properties he held, and there was also the possibility that he’d hired the fake electrician. Either way, Graham was going to go apoplectic on hearing this. It might well derail their case against Breckon if he wasn’t responsible for the apartment fire, but as much as she disliked the cocky bastard, Martie certainly wasn’t about to put the man in jail for something he hadn’t done. She’d rather bust his ass for a crime she could prove he’d committed.

  Thanking Ronnie, she turned off the recorder and started to walk away, intending to get back to the fire station to start typing up her notes before the long drive back to Billings. She also needed to locate the college kids and talk to Graham.

  She’d taken just a few steps, however, when a thought occurred to her, and she turned back. “Ronnie, why were you gone so long?” she asked.