Fireproof

by Alex Kava

  “I think he’s older,” Maggie said when she knew Ivan wasn’t expecting her to say anything. Maybe that’s why she continued, “The fire chief’s report mentioned a chemical reaction being the starting point.”

  “That’s right. The fires have been too quick and the heat too intense. There haven’t been any other accelerants used.”

  “But it smelled like gasoline was poured in the alley.”

  “That’s the exception. Incidentally, he didn’t start the fire on that side of the building. He uses materials he finds at the site. But he brings whatever the hell he’s using to start the chemical reaction.”

  “No timing device?”

  “Haven’t found one yet. But all that fits a pyromaniac’s profile, right?” Ivan said with a smirk, as if goading Maggie. “Goes along with an impulse disorder. He gathers whatever he finds to start the fire—rags, newspapers, garbage. Doesn’t really think about it or plan it. Just needs to satisfy his impulse, relieve his sexual tension and his desire for the thrill.”

  Maggie suppressed a sigh of frustration. Was he serious or simply having fun with her? She studied his face and decided he was making fun of her and of profiling. “Pyromania” was a term psychiatrists and defense attorneys loved to use. In reality, few arsons on this scale had been blamed on an uncontrollable impulse or an irresistible urge to start fires to “relieve sexual tension,” as Ivan put it.

  “But you said he has to bring the chemicals,” she pointed out. “Hardly impulsive if he’s toting around whatever it takes to create such a combustion.”

  Ivan shrugged. “So what’s your profile?”

  He looked pleased to put her on the spot, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. Behind them sirens wailed along the streets. Police whistles directed traffic. Overhead, they could hear a helicopter, still too far away to tell if it was a life flight or cable news crew.

  “He’s educated,” Maggie said. “A chemical reaction that includes that sort of timing, as well as the correct proportions, is not something he learned in the Boy Scouts or surfing the Internet. I’d guess it was part of his job at one time. Maybe it still is. He’s someone who doesn’t attract attention. He can blend in. He looks like he belongs.”

  “Right. And what kind of job combines chemicals to start fires?” Ivan was skeptical.

  This time Maggie shrugged. She wasn’t the arson expert. She wanted to say that perhaps someone with the ATF—perhaps a fire investigator like himself—should be able to examine and determine that part of the puzzle.

  “So what does he drive?”

  She almost rolled her eyes. They were always so hung up on a vehicle that they could stop by throwing up blockades. Maggie shook her head. “It won’t matter because I think he parks away from the site and walks several blocks.”

  “Humph. You’re not giving me anything.”

  “Okay, here’s something. Have you checked the surrounding ERs?”

  “Emergency rooms?”

  “Check for chemical burns. Whatever he’s using might burn his skin or even discolor it.”

  “Great. So we look for a guy older than twenty-five who’s educated, in good enough shape to walk several blocks, and maybe has—what, like purple fingers or something? That’s supposed to help me?”

  “Hey,” Racine said. “It’s more than we had an hour ago.”

  “Except these two fires change things a bit,” Maggie continued.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Churches instead of warehouses. And in the middle of the day. If he knew there were people inside he’s no longer a nuisance offender who likes to stand back and watch the chaos or read the headlines the next day. The fact that there were people inside changes his motive.”

  “What about the victims in the last fire?” Ivan asked.

  “He may not have known about the person inside.” Although Maggie knew that if the skull was bashed in the way the woman’s face was in the alley, then chances were the victim inside the building was not an accident.

  “We still haven’t figured out who the woman was,” Racine added. “She definitely wasn’t killed there. Her murder may have had nothing to do with the fires.”

  “Interesting,” Ivan said, shifting his feet again and practically stomping them. “But you still haven’t given me a solid description of this guy.”

  “What exactly do you expect?” Maggie asked. “That I tell you he wears double-breasted suits and talks with a stutter? That he walks with a limp and drives a white paneled van?” She purposely mixed several famous profiles. First, the Mad Bomber of the 1940s. Second, the vehicle that was supposed to lead them to the Beltway sniper.

  Ivan stared at her—or, rather, his mirrored glasses did. Then recognition came as a smile crept over his lips. “That’s right. The profile of the Beltway sniper was totally wrong. The type of vehicle was just one mistake. You’re only proving my point, Agent O’Dell.”

  “You need to give me some facts, too, Investigator Ivan. Agent Tully and I were asked to profile this case, but we were given very little information from your department. By now you must know or at least can speculate what chemicals are being used to start the fires.”

  “Wait a minute,” Racine said. “The District PD is under the impression that the ATF and FBI are coordinating this effort and working together.”

  Maggie saw Ivan clench his teeth and suck in a breath as his head swiveled away from her. In the mirrored reflection she watched flames dance where his eyes should have been. There was something unsettling about the sight.

  “Our lab’s still working on that.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

  The mirrors came back.

  “Send whatever trace you’ve collected to Keith Ganza. When he tells me what the chemicals are, I’ll have a detailed profile for you within twenty-four hours.”

  Another fire engine wailed to a stop about a hundred yards behind them. In Ivan’s glasses Maggie could see two firefighters jump out. Ivan was still stonewalling when Maggie heard someone call her name. It took her almost a minute to recognize the arriving firefighter in his full gear, his hat brim pulled down low over his brow.

  It was Patrick.

  CHAPTER 44

  “That hot cop is your sister?”

  “She’s not a cop. She’s an FBI agent.” Patrick hauled his equipment to the curb.

  “Looks familiar. Hey, wait a minute. Last night on TV. Wasn’t she on Larry King Live?”

  “Larry King’s not on anymore.”

  “Really? What happened to him?”

  Patrick wasn’t in the mood for this. It was bad enough to run into Maggie here. He didn’t need Wes Harper’s ridiculous chitchat.

  “Is she married?”

  “Divorced.”

  “That’s even better. You know what they say about divorced women?”

  Patrick didn’t know and didn’t want to know.

  “What did you do to your hand?” he asked, changing the subject. He pointed at a fresh scar on the back of Harper’s right hand. It still looked a bit raw.

  “Nothing.” But he pulled his glove up quickly. “So maybe you could introduce me to her.”

  “Don’t you think we should get our equipment ready?”

  “Hey, chill out, dude. You’re not the team leader on this one.”

  Harper gave Maggie another look before he turned his back to get to work. “There’re three buildings in between the fire and our client’s building.” He kept his voice low. “Not like it’s urgent. Probably won’t even need to foam it if those guys take care of their business.”

  By “those guys” Patrick knew he meant the real firefighters. He stopped to watch. They had a hell of a job on their hands. Hoses were still being attached to fire hydrants. A second engine screamed two blocks away. The siren faded, then stopped when it arrived at the other church. Two blazes spewing black clouds of smoke and yet Patrick and his partner weren’t here to help on either blaze.

 
For Patrick, this was much worse than being five miles away, like the last assignment, spraying down a house and watching from afar. To be here—right here—to feel the heat of the flames and fill his lungs with smoke and just stand back and watch. It was wrong. It went against his basic instinct.

  Patrick twisted his gloves in his fists instead of putting them on. He felt helpless, shackled. He glanced at Harper, who had pulled out a computer tablet but was staring up at the flames.

  “It’s actually pretty, isn’t it?” Harper said, and smiled at Patrick. “It takes on a whole life of its own, swallowing up everything into red and gold flashes of light.”

  Patrick had always thought fire was fascinating, but he couldn’t say he’d use the word “pretty.”

  “Sometimes,” Harper said in almost a quiet confession, “even when I’m not on duty I’ll go to fire sites just to watch.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. Got my police scanner on to see if there’re any close by. I’ve always had a thing for fire. My nickname growing up was Matches.” He laughed, but Patrick didn’t join him. “My parents were very relieved when they heard I wanted to be a firefighter instead of a fire starter.”

  Harper stared at the blazing steeple for a few more seconds, then, as if he’d flipped a switch, he went back to the computer and started tapping. He started to go through their checklist, completing the required form that their client—a group of law offices, three buildings down—would need to sign off on when they were finished.

  Patrick glanced over to where Maggie stood with Detective Racine. Harper’s admission reminded him of Maggie’s Christmas dinner last year and how Racine had asked him why he wanted to be a hose monkey. He didn’t take offense at the term. He knew cops and firefighters had a love-hate relationship and that Racine didn’t mean anything by her comment.

  Firefighters axed and stomped and crashed their way through a fire, their minds set on rescuing anyone inside. Get in quick. Find survivors and get them the hell out. Then put the fire out. It was messy. No doubt about it. But the cops, the detectives, the investigators, and the crime scene technicians hated that evidence got trampled, sometimes destroyed, and often washed away.

  Patrick suspected that Maggie thought he wanted to be a firefighter only because their father had been one. He had to admit, when he found out his father had died saving others, he did think that was pretty cool. He never knew the man. Thomas O’Dell died before Patrick was born. He probably did have an inflated superhero image of the man. And so what if he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps? What was so wrong about that?

  Patrick knew he had the raw instincts needed to be a good firefighter. It became obvious to him a year ago when he and some friends were at the Mall of America on the day after Thanksgiving. Three bombs blew up and ripped through a portion of the mall.

  Patrick could have easily made it to safety, but without hesitation, without even thinking, he turned around and went back into the devastation. While other people’s instincts were to flee from danger, Patrick’s was to run toward it and see how he could help.

  “I think it’s what I’m supposed to do,” he had told Racine.

  “You mean like God told you?”

  By then he had already been warned about Racine’s smart mouth. He remembered smiling politely and saying, “Exactly. Just like God told you to be a homicide detective.”

  Suddenly the church’s stained-glass windows burst into a rain of colored glitter. Three firefighters were caught under the spray of shattered glass. They stopped to shield themselves, then immediately hurried into the building.

  Patrick stood back and watched. He felt his gut twist and his fists continue to ball up around his gloves. He should be following them instead of sitting on the sidelines preparing to hose down a building that wasn’t even on fire.

  A firefighter in front of him struggled to unwind more hose. Another shouted at the guy to hurry just before he disappeared inside the building. Patrick didn’t even look over at Harper. He secured the chin strap on his helmet and pulled on his gloves. Then he hurried over to help the firefighter with the hose, knowing full well he was probably walking away from the best job he’d ever get in a long time.

  CHAPTER 45

  “It bothers you,” Racine said as soon as Ivan left, right after the windows exploded.

  It took a second or two for Maggie to realize that she was talking about Patrick. When she didn’t answer Racine continued, “Tate Braxton’s an asshole but his firefighters are highly trained and certified.”

  “How do you know Braxton?”

  “Just by reputation. He’s a businessman. In it for the almighty dollar. But he does a good job making sure his people are qualified.”

  They stood side by side watching the flames. A stretcher with a body on it had just been hauled to the first waiting ambulance. They sighed in relief when the body raised an arm and they realized the person was alive. Still, Maggie could sense Racine’s frustration at not being able to help. Her impatience and tension radiated off her.

  “I dated one of Braxton’s firefighters a few years ago,” Racine added.

  Maggie recognized the idle chatter the detective resorted to when she hated waiting, when she felt sidelined.

  “She didn’t make it to Valentine’s Day either, huh?”

  Neither of them shifted or looked at each other.

  Racine said, “Nope.”

  But she could see the smile at the corners of Racine’s lips.

  Maggie felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket and she pulled it out. “This is Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Maggie, it’s Tully. I just heard about the fires. Do I need to be there?”

  “Not unless you want to stand around with Racine and me.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad. We have casualties this time. There was a meeting in the basement of one of the churches.”

  “And it’s the middle of the day. He’s getting cocky.”

  “Or reckless.”

  Racine’s phone started ringing. She pulled it out of her pocket and walked away from Maggie as she answered.

  “The guy with the backpack,” Tully said. “He was there during the warehouse fires. The film footage shows him in the middle of the bystanders before the second building blast.”

  “Doesn’t mean he started the fires.”

  “No, but get this. Instead of just walking away? He disappears down a manhole.”

  “That’s weird. Are you sure?”

  “I went back to the site. Yeah, I’m sure. So why travel through the sewer system unless you have something to hide?”

  “Or maybe you don’t want to be seen. Any idea who he is?”

  “No. I don’t even know how to find him without staking out all the manholes in a ten-block radius.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Not in a ten-block radius, but maybe around the fire site. He stuck around during the fire and then came back at least once. Maybe he was looking for something in that alley. Something he left behind. Something that could incriminate him.”

  “Good point.”

  He sounded tired. She wanted to ask if he was okay. If his shoulder was okay, but she knew he hated such questions as much as she did.

  “What time will you be finished with Dr. Kernan?”

  Kernan. She’d almost forgotten.

  Her grip tightened on her phone. She rubbed her eyes and let her fingers find the scar at her temple. She didn’t realize she’d taken too much time responding until Tully said, “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

  She smiled, told him she would. Then she clicked off just as Racine finished her conversation. She didn’t look happy. She avoided Maggie’s eyes the whole time she came back, glancing at the fire, the ambulances, everywhere—except at Maggie.

  “They finally released the information on that breast implant,” she said, still not looking at Maggie. “The manufact
urer has privacy rules. Said we needed to contact the surgeon.”

  “Was that the manufacturer?”

  “No. It was her surgeon. Our Jane Doe was Gloria Dobson, a breast cancer survivor. She’s a mother of three from Concordia, Missouri. She was supposed to be at a sales conference in Baltimore all this week.”

  Maggie noticed Racine’s eyes were still preoccupied. She held her jaw like she had something that tasted bad in her mouth. She was trying to keep her tough-guy exterior from revealing that this piece of news didn’t sit well.

  “Did you ever notice,” Racine said, “that it’s always women in Dumpsters? Men rarely end up in Dumpsters.”

  Maggie stayed quiet when she could have reminded Racine that Gloria Dobson was actually found beside the Dumpster, not inside. It was a detail that didn’t matter when struggling with the brutality of a senseless murder.

  “She survived cancer,” Racine continued, “just to end up in a fucking Dumpster.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Sam noticed him first on the other side of the crime scene tape. When he saw her, his grin—all dimples and white teeth—made her insides flutter like an annoying teenage girl.

  What was wrong with her?

  She shot a quick glance at Jeffery to see if he’d noticed. Thankfully he was too busy being Jeffery Cole to notice anyone else. Which always seemed a bit odd to Sam. Weren’t investigative reporters supposed to be observant? Ever since they had heard there were people trapped in the church basement Jeffery had been transfixed on the side door he expected them to come out of. They had rescued only one person so far. Jeffery made Sam hold the camera on the door, though she had sneaked a few sweeps of the crowd when he was preoccupied.

  He wanted an interview with one of the fire personnel. Every one of them ignored his shouts. When Sam realized Patrick was coming over she wanted to wave him away. She caught his eyes and gave a slow, subtle shake of her head. He stopped in his tracks, his face completely changing as if he’d been caught doing something inappropriate. What was worse—he looked hurt.