by Jen Blood
“Littlehope?”
“They were first on the scene. And while I know small-town fire departments are sometimes lacking in training and equipment, that doesn’t really explain what we found when we got out to the island.”
I slipped a digital recorder from my bag and set it in the center of the table. Flint stood and closed the door, then returned to his seat. I waited until he’d taken a long pull from his Coke, and switched on the recorder.
“Would you mind walking me through what you found when you first arrived on the scene?” I asked.
He nodded.
I leaned back, giving him space, and he began.
“Because it’d been a dry summer that year, everyone was pretty maxed out by the time August rolled around—lots of brush fires, that kind of thing. I was new in the department. I’d trained as a fireman, then went through the Academy and got a degree in criminal science before I wound up here. Still, there’s not a lot of training short of the battlefield that can prepare you for something like the Payson fire.
“The first we heard of it was the afternoon of Wednesday, August 22nd. The reports were conflicting—somebody from the volunteer fire department in the next town said there was a fire out on one of the islands, but then we got another call from the Littlehope fire chief saying that everything was under control.”
“What time did you get that call?” I asked.
Flint checked his notes. “That came in early that afternoon—around noon.”
“And Joe Ashmont was the fire chief then, right?”
He nodded grimly.
“And he told you that the Fire Marshal wouldn’t be needed for the Payson fire? That would mean he told you there were no casualties out on the island, wouldn’t it?”
This earned another nod. “We’re charged with investigating any fire that results in a death, whether accidental or otherwise. So, yes—if Ashmont told us we wouldn’t be needed, he was basically saying the fire was harmless. Everyone was okay. He made it out to sound like a brush fire that had gotten a little out of hand.”
“What time did you finally get the call saying you would be needed out there?”
“At four o’clock that afternoon, we got a call from a volunteer fireman summering in Littlehope.”
“Noel Hammond,” I said.
“That’s right. Hammond put in the call, and because we’d already been getting conflicting information all day, we had an idea that something was up. Until we heard from him, we had no idea what a large-scale investigation would be required. And no clue of the number of fatalities, of course.”
“So, how long did it take you to get to the island?”
“There were a number of different agencies involved—the ME’s office, state police, criminal investigations, the Fire Marshal.…To get everyone out there, we had to pull in Marine Patrol. It took all night and part of the next day before everybody was on the same page and we were all headed out to Payson Isle.”
“So, early afternoon on the 23rd?” I asked.
“Around eleven o’clock.”
“And what did you find when you got out there?”
He scratched his chin. Eased back in his seat, something distant in his blue eyes. I had the sense that he was no longer seeing me; was no longer rooted in the safety of the barracks.
“The fire was out by then, of course. A few people had stayed on the island overnight to make sure no new fires sprung up—that can happen sometimes. You’ll think a fire’s dead, but it’s just waiting for a little breathing room before it comes back to life. So, there were a few people on watch.”
“Do you remember who?”
He checked his notes again. “Ashmont, of course. The town constable—Matt Perkins. Hammond was there. And there was a doctor there, too—Katherine Everett.”
My mother. I tried not to show my surprise.
“And the scene itself? What did you see when you got there? What was your initial reaction?”
“Horror. I can’t even begin to describe…” He stopped suddenly, his eyes on me. “But I don’t really need to tell you that, do I?” he asked, his tone softer now. When I didn’t respond, he continued. “It was the kind of thing you hope you never see. Everything burned to the ground. Bodies and rubble swept up and cast to the side.”
The description triggered something in me—a memory buried so deep that I’d thought it would never surface again. Crawling through soaked grass, inching closer to the fire. Blackened bodies. A hand with fingers curled as though beckoning me.
“Ms. Solomon?”
“I’m sorry—I was just…” I shook my head. “Sorry. You said the bodies were swept to the side. That’s not the way they would have fallen though, would they?”
He smiled, just slightly. “Diggs said you were good. No—they wouldn’t have fallen that way. They hadn’t fallen that way. Sometime between when the fire was put out and the time we got there, Ashmont took it upon himself to clean things up a little.”
“He moved the bodies?” The image sent a chill straight through me.
“He stacked the bodies, raked the debris, and didn’t take so much as a Polaroid to give to the investigative team.”
“How could he get away with that? He calls and blatantly lies to dispatch saying the Fire Marshal wouldn’t be needed on the scene, breaks protocol, destroys evidence.…How did he not get in trouble for any of this?”
“He did get in some—they forced his resignation, from what I recall. But it was hard to prove intent. He said he’d just been confused when he put that first call in and hadn’t realized how bad things were, and then things got too chaotic to follow up.”
“And the others who were there—Hammond and Perkins, Dr. Everett…They all corroborated his story?”
“That was the major reason we never prosecuted. Between you and me, it was a bullshit story and everybody knew it, but you’ve got four respected members of the community insisting that that’s what happened. Short of an eyewitness to say otherwise, there wasn’t much anybody could do.”
We spoke for another half-hour before Flint had given me all the details he could remember, and I was ready to end the interview. Beyond his description of those first impressions of the scene, there weren’t a lot of surprises. The investigative team had set up camp on the island for several days, which I had known, with the ME conducting cursory exams of the bodies on site before the remains were returned to the mainland.
Before I said goodbye and prepared for an afternoon with the ME to follow up on their findings, I stood at the door with Flint and asked a final question.
“You said nothing could ever be proven, but you seem pretty clear on the fact that Ashmont and the others were hiding something. Do you think there’s any chance he or one of the others started that fire?”
Flint shook his head without hesitation. “No—we know what happened, Ms. Solomon. Ashmont was hiding something, no question. They all were, but I’d say that had more to do with covering their own asses after making such a mess of things. The toxins in the victims’ blood, the isolation of the community, the fact that there were almost no survivors…” He hesitated, and I could tell he was thinking of my father. “Isaac Payson set that fire, as far as the Maine State Fire Marshal and the law is concerned. That’s why the case was closed. There were no questions left to answer.”
I thought of the secret stash of photos Noel Hammond had kept hidden all those years. The false alibi I had provided for my father. The padlock on the door. The cloaked man chasing us through the woods.
If he’d known the truth, I was sure that Sergeant Flint would find there were, in fact, no shortage of questions left to answer.
Chapter Seven
Nothing new came up at my next stop, meeting with the Maine State Medical Examiner. Because of the extensive damage to the remains and the way the crime scene had been corrupted by Ashmont and his cohorts—my mother included—there was some question as to who, exactly, the investigative team had unearthed after the
fire. Identification of the bodies had been slow, and because so many of the members of the Payson Church had little in the way of medical records, there had been a lot of guesswork that went into the process. Thirty-four bodies were recovered, but only thirty had been identified conclusively. The remaining four—two women and two children—were anyone’s guess.
While this was less than confidence inspiring. I wasn’t surprised. Dr. Pratt, the Chief Medical Examiner, let me take copies of all the files she had, but based on what I’d learned so far, I didn’t expect them to reveal anything earth shattering. A dead body is a dead body is a dead body.…Or so I thought at the time.
It was after four by the time I got back from Augusta. I debated going out to the island, but decided instead to set up shop at the Trib and start going through the box of files and photocopies I’d gotten from the Fire Marshal’s office. An uncharacteristically quiet Diggs set me up in a closet-sized office with Internet access and a boxy little window overlooking the harbor, and I went to work.
Since I’d already seen most of the official paperwork before, I focused on the investigators’ notes. There wasn’t that much to go on—they’d followed protocol, just as Flint had said. My father was a suspect early on, that much was clear, but the police apparently ruled him out thanks in large part to the alibi I’d provided.
Or maybe not. At the bottom of a file marked “Witness Statements,” I found a copy of handwritten notes dated August 28, 1990. My mother’s name was in the upper left corner, with mine written beneath it.
One word was written directly underneath, underlined twice:
Lying??
I stared at the page. The file belonged to Jim Abbott, a police detective whose name had come up before when I was researching the investigation. The notes were paper clipped to my mother’s official statement.
I called Sergeant Flint. Ten minutes on hold and a transfer to records later, and I had the phone number for Jim Abbott in my hot little hand. I could get used to this whole cooperating-with-the-press thing.
For the next several hours, I sat in my office and read reports and notes, looked at photographs, wrote down names. I borrowed Scotch tape from Diggs and began putting photos up on the walls: the barn before the fire, the barn after. The padlocked door. I taped the only photos I had of my father, Isaac, and several members of the church just below the crime scene shots. I wrote down what I knew so far. It wasn’t much.
May, 1976—Isaac starts the Payson Church of Tomorrow
January, 1979—Dad joins the Paysons
August, 1990—Payson Church burns
Of course, I knew plenty beyond that, but no matter what I tried, I couldn’t make what I knew add up to the fire. I’d studied other cult suicides over the years: Jonestown, the Solar Temple, Heaven’s Gate.…In each instance, there was always something in the dogma that gave a good idea of what the congregation had been thinking would happen when their numbers were up.
The Payson Church was a fundamentalist, Christian church. As such, they had a very clear view on suicide. Essentially: you do it, and you never make it to the pearly gates. I remembered the Paysons. They were all about those pearly gates.
I added another note to my timeline:
October, 1989—I leave Payson Isle.
I stared at the entry for a few seconds, then added one more word:
Why?
I tossed that question around without any major revelations until one o’clock that morning, when Diggs knocked on my door.
“Come on—we’re going home.”
“I’ll be there in a while. Go on without me.”
He didn’t budge. I looked up to find him standing with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall. My back and neck were tight, and my eyes stung from staring at a computer screen for far too long. Einstein was still peeved at having been left at home during my trek to Augusta earlier that day; being imprisoned in my tiny office for the remainder of the day hadn’t done much to get me back in his good graces.
I stretched, yawned, and closed my laptop.
“Did you have dinner?” I asked.
“We’ll make something when we get home,” he said, showing the first trace of a smile I’d seen since the night before. “Come on. Play your cards right, and you can have beer and chocolate for dessert.”
Diggs has always known the way to my heart.
◊◊◊◊◊
Juarez’s car wasn’t in the driveway when we pulled in that night.
“Matt took a turn for the worst this morning,” Diggs told me. “Jack said they were taking him back to Togus for a while.” The Maine veteran’s hospital. “Juarez’ll probably stay there tonight.”
I thought of how Old Man Perkins had looked in the woods the night before, stalking me and muttering psychotic epithets. Juarez might only be there overnight, but I was hoping they’d keep the constable under lock and key for a while.
“So we’ve got the house to ourselves?”
He nodded. “You want a burger?”
“A burger burger, or a veggie burger?”
“I’ve got cow, I’ve got chicken, I’ve got eggplant.”
I went to the cupboard and got a couple of plates for the table. “Cow, please. You should have some, too. You look pale.”
“Thanks. I’m pale because I never see daylight anymore, not because I don’t eat cows. One of the dangers of working the desk.”
Once the food was cooking, he opened a beer for me and a sparkling water for himself, and leaned against the counter. Einstein sat at attention, veggie and cow burgers sizzling in separate fry pans on the stove.
“Sergeant Flint was great today—thanks for setting that up. He did everything but write the story.”
“Did you get an honorary pin?” he asked.
“How’d you know?”
“It’s because you’re cute. I never get a pin.”
“You’re cute,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not Flint’s type.”
“Fair enough. I got notes from the original investigation. All the old files. Photos.”
“Any leads?”
“Can’t tell yet.”
We talked while he cooked, careful to keep things light. Once the food was done, we sat and ate in what was becoming an increasingly uncomfortable silence. The day was catching up to both of us. Halfway through the meal, I found it hard to keep my eyes open. I caught Diggs looking at me and sat up straighter.
“I’m more tired than I thought.”
“I noticed.” He hesitated. I had the feeling there was something he wanted to bring up, but wasn’t. I waited him out.
“I was thinking about the people you want to talk to—the families of the victims. I think that’s a good approach.”
“Thanks.” I took a bite of burger and wiped my mouth. And waited some more.
“It would probably be good to talk to somebody else, though. Someone who was actually, I don’t know, there. Someone who knew Isaac Payson and your father fairly well.”
“I’m not calling her, Diggs.”
“Why the hell not? She was there, Sol. She might not have talked to you about it before, but it’s been a long time.”
The clock on the microwave read quarter past two. I got up and took my plate to the sink, drinking the last of my beer on the way. Diggs followed.
“You don’t have to do it as her daughter—do it as a reporter. Any other story and this would be your lead interview.”
“My mother won’t be able to make the distinction, trust me. I’m not calling her. She wouldn’t answer my questions when I was a teenager, she wouldn’t say a word about any of it after Dad died, and now that she knows I’m writing a book on the subject, I’m pretty sure her response will be exactly the same: ‘No comment.’ ”
“What if you told her what you’ve found out? Tell her about the pictures you found. For Christ’s sake, tell her what you told me about the morning of the fire with Adam. Then maybe she’ll understand what yo
u’ve been so obse—”
I stared at him for a long few seconds of silence. “You can say the word. It’s not like I haven’t heard it before.”
“Obsessed.” He said it quietly, without accusation. I was standing at the sink, Diggs’ body close enough that I could feel his heat. Diggs is tall—I forget how tall sometimes, but standing there in my bare feet in his kitchen, he seemed very big. And very male. He has broad shoulders and a mean right hook and I remembered, suddenly, what it was like to kiss him all those years ago. Our eyes held for a breath, maybe two.
“You should get to bed. I’ll clean up here,” he said.
“You’re sure?”
He nodded, but he didn’t look all that sure to me. “Yeah. Go on—I’ll see you in the morning.”
I left him to his cleaning and retired to my room alone. Again.
Chapter Eight
The next day, I was at the office by ten with Einstein in tow, ready to tackle the list of contacts Diggs had given me the day before. The first half-dozen calls I made went straight to voicemail. I left a message, though it was unlikely that anyone in their right mind would call back, and contented myself with the knowledge that at least that first contact had been made.
The eighth call was to a man named Jed Colby, whose sister-in-law Cynthia had been a member of the Payson Church. She’d been quiet, self-contained, but I remembered her laugh and her smile; remembered that she’d worked with my father and me in the greenhouse. She’d had a son a little older than me—Will. I hated to think ill of the dead, but I remembered Will Colby as a mean little prick who’d taunted me and the rest of the kids on the island relentlessly while I was there.
Cynthia had been nice, though.
Jed answered on the second ring, with “Colby’s Garage.”
“Mr. Colby, my name is Erin Solomon. I’m doing a—”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted. “You wanna talk about the fire.” His voice was hard, his Maine accent thick even by Littlehope standards.
