by Liz Bradbury
After the fire, the fire department let us back in to salvage what we could. When I went into the kitchen, I called to Adrienne that we didn’t have to worry about saving the spices any more. She asked why. I pointed. Not only was the spice rack gone, so was the entire wall it had been hanging on. The wiring in the kitchen wall must have ignited too. When we looked up, the ceiling and roof were gone as well. There was a moral in there somewhere about the spice rack, but the real lesson was: Fire Is Scary.
In a way, the Irwin Administration Building conference room now looked more horrifying than when it was actually on fire. Maybe because I had more time to think about it. A large section of the ceiling was gone. Tarps covered the torn open roof. The fire department must have cut it away to be sure the fire was out. Part of the back wall behind the table where the drinks had been was now just a large hole with twisted metal behind it. Everything in the room was black and sooty. Splintered furniture parts stuck out at odd angles like greenstick fractures. File cabinets lay on their sides. Shards of glass crunched under my feet. Another tarpaulin hung over the broken window area, but a sharp December breeze buckled it into the room. The wind was stirring up rank odors and wet grit.
It was easy to see how the fire had spread. The pattern of blackened scorch marks resembled a childlike charcoal drawing of the sun. The irregular rays generated from a round blackened area at the back table.
The chair Bart Edgar had knelt on was lying on its side. The back was charred, its plastic arms melted. But the area directly above the chair was fairly untouched, as was the area where Bart had fallen to the floor. The phrase, “gods protect little children, drunks and fools,” seemed particularly apt.
Nighttime temperatures were forecast to drop below freezing. Puddled water on the rug would be ice before dawn. I marveled that I hadn’t seen more water damage to the ceilings of the floor below, but then Bart’s office wasn’t under this part of the building.
In a heap on the floor next to the coat rack, was my once beloved parka, filthy and stinking of burnt rubber. I left it there. Good thing my good gloves hadn’t been in the pockets.
The reception area window was smashed where Connie had tossed out the marble stand. I pulled the tarp to one side, interested to see if the stand was still on the ground below the window, but it was gone. Good thing it didn’t hit anybody. My mind segued for a moment to Carl Rasmus’s dead body on the sidewalk.
I had hoped looking at the fire scene would give me some profound insight. It didn’t, except the fire pattern seems more like a wide slash than a blow out. I took out my laptop and rested it on Connie’s not too dirty desk. I made a few notes about events leading up to the explosion. I also noted that Miranda didn’t have an alibi for Carl’s death and that according to her, Jimmy Harmon had tried to punch Bart. Miranda was a fount of information, maybe I should have quizzed her about Kathryn Anthony... So Miranda, does Dr. Anthony live with anyone? But then, Jesse Wiggins voice echoed in my mind, Why don’t you ask her?
When I returned the keys to Miranda, I noticed that half the pile of Bart’s papers on the floor was gone. It was nearly 11:00 AM.
Chapter 6
Since Leo Getty had rescheduled, my next appointment was with Daniel Cohen at 2:00 PM. Plenty of time to walk home, check some things in my office, look over my notes, then hop in the car and speed over to Sears to replace my dearly departed jacket. I wore the new parka to the meeting with Cohen.
I was a little early, so I darted over to the Student Union and snagged a pre-made sandwich of Swiss cheese and lettuce on a hard roll. Not many choices left by nearly 1:50 PM. I mused that my choice for a meeting beverage would probably be a Stewart’s Root Beer in a glass bottle. Stewart’s would always win my vote in a blind taste test. I thought again about Carl Rasmus. He’d had such a promising future... he died too soon. At that moment, I made a promise to Carl. I would solve the case and ring out justice, in his name. It sounded like a folk song, but I meant it.
Daniel Cohen’s building was on the other side of Washington Street facing the Administration Building. The Environmental Safety Building had soaring angles, projecting cantilevers, and all the outside surfaces were mirrored glass or polished steel. I liked the irregular negative space it created. The inside lobby felt vast, because there was a spectacular outdoor view in every direction. Pipes running along the ceiling were polished sculptural bronze. There were bright lights and splashy colors, with giant posters and even some neon. It had the feel of a high style mall, which must have made many teenaged students feel at home.
Professor Cohen’s office door was painted red. Inside the secretary ducked her head into the door behind her desk when I explained who I was, then said genially, “Go on in.” She seemed happy and enthusiastic. Maybe it was a reflection of the way Cohen ran the department.
“Nice office,” I said taking in the glass wall view, then eyeing a shaped canvas painting by Frank Stella on the wall by the door.
“Yeah, it is isn’t it?” he smiled. “The painting’s part of the College’s permanent collection. I don’t even want to know what it’s worth. More than my house, probably. Have a seat.” The chair was a museum reproduction of Le Corbusier’s “Wassily” chair, made of steel tubing and leather.
Cohen was casually dressed in a sport jacket. He was the kind of guy you instantly thought of as a dad who’d fix your car or hang up a basketball hoop in the driveway. There were playful models of 1940s trucks on a shelf and neat piles of papers, folders and documents on almost every other surface in the room. A photograph of two attractive women, probably his wife and daughter, was on the desk. There was also a large computer with a huge monitor.
Daniel Cohen’s ruddy round face broke into a warm smile, he reached out with one of his large meaty hands. He and I suddenly felt a comradeship that neither of us expected. We’d faced death as a team just the day before. It was like we were part of the Justice League. I smiled too, gripping his hand for a moment with both of mine.
“You were at a two day conference on fire safety in Virginia at the time Carl fell from the balcony?”
Cohen chuckled, “I guess giving a keynote address in front of 500 people is a pretty good alibi.”
I said directly, “I think the explosion had something to do with one or more of the bottles that were on the back table of the conference room. But, you’re the fire safety expert, what do you think?”
“Me too,” he said simply, but then he began to digress into the way fire inspectors work and that he shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
“Daniel,” I stopped him, “I’ll bet you have some pretty strong opinions about what happened already, and you probably trained all those fire inspectors yourself, didn’t you? Have you spoken to them?”
“Confidentially?” he asked. When I nodded he went on, “My guys, who happen to be on the fire team called me. Some of the State guys just want to chalk this up to a back flow gas tank leak, but that’s not how it started, not what I think anyway. My guys on the inspection team say there was accelerant in one or more of the bottles on the table and Bart managed to tell the police at the hospital that there was a bang when he lifted a bottle. The cops aren’t taking him seriously though.”
“I saw him.”
“What?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
“I saw Bart pick up the bottle... Well, I saw him reach for it. I couldn’t really see the bottle.”
“And there was a bang? “
“Yes, well... there was a flash and then a bang,” I said slowly.
“Good, then that fits. I think that when Bart picked up one of the bottles, the movement somehow triggered or detonated a small explosion.”
“Before the fire started?” I asked typing the information into my laptop.
“See, all over the internet, you can easily buy baby M-80s. It’s not legal to buy the old fashioned M-80s any more, but you can buy fireworks that have just under fifty grains of blast powder, anywhere. The old M-80s were really dangerous, they wer
e equal to a quarter stick of dynamite, but fifty grains still gives a real kick,” he explained. “The bottle exploded and the flaming accelerant in the bottle splashed across the room. There was a tiny pocket of natural gas in an old pipe in the wall. It wasn’t connected to anything any more, but it exploded too, from the heat from the fire. The pipe was secondary though. It was the bottle that caused the damage. That’s what I think anyway.”
“How could the bottle go off just because someone touched it?”
“It’s not too hard. There are detonators for sale on the Internet. Even a homemade device wouldn’t be too complicated for someone to fashion. It just has to make a good spark. Static electricity or a battery in a sham bottle base. The spark would ignite an immediate fuse made of something like flash paper, which would touch off a couple of M-80s. The bottom of the bottle would explode and the liquid and fumes that were in the bottle... it would have to be flammable, like gasoline or lighter fluid, even paint thinner... would be ignited. If it was compressed in the bottle, liquid would be propelled all over the room. That room itself was a fire hazard, way too many flammables, those old ceiling tiles certainly weren’t up to the current code, and the carpet was so incendiary, it might as well have been kerosene...”
“This bottle bomb... would it be hard to make it?”
“Unfortunately no. Look,” he swiveled his computer screen toward me, “I found this at a site called: blowitupquick.com.”
I shivered involuntarily. It was a mechanical drawing of a plastic soda pop bottle with a detonator and directions on how to make it. “This is really creepy. Could anybody do this?”
“It would be very dangerous. Fumes can easily ignite... some of the fire inspectors combed the room for hours looking for detonator parts. All they found was a little watch battery. I think a tin foil pressure switch with a flat battery could have made the spark that set off the M-80s.” He paused thinking, then went on, “I didn’t answer your question... Yeah, anybody could make this. So I guess the next question is: Who would do it?”
“Let’s just think about who could. This is the time frame... Max Bouchet told Connie to unlock the door to the room when the tenure committee began to show up...”
“Yeah, they’re a lot of confidential files in that room. The doors have to be locked all the time,” Daniel explained.
I nodded, then took the list Miranda Juarez had given me out of my shoulder bag. The paper smelled like the fire. “When I came into the room: Bart Edgar, Dr. Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann, Dr. Leo Getty, Dr. Skylar Carvelle, Professor Jimmy Harmon and Dr. Amanda Knightbridge were already there. Then Miranda Juarez, Max Bouchet, and I came in together. After that Connie Robinson came in with the drinks on a tray and put them on the back table. She left, then came back in with a tray of cookies. Everyone in the room got their respective drinks except me, Bouchet and Miranda. Connie brought me a water from the reception area. You and Dr. Georgia Smith came in after that, but neither of you got your drinks.”
I paused, he nodded. I continued, “After everyone was done getting drinks, there were five bottles left on the back table.”
Cohen interrupted, “Were they all plastic bottles?”
I formed a clear picture in my mind of the back table. “Yes. There was, a water, a Diet Coke, a Cafalatte, some kind of organic juice, and an iced tea.”
Cohen said, “The Diet Coke was for me, I always have that, but since I’d come in late I didn’t get it.”
“Could someone have set up the bottle bomb and then left it in the refrigerator so that Connie would put it on the tray without knowing it was explosive?” I asked.
He glanced at the sky through the glass ceiling. Then he turned to the bomb diagram and ran his fingers through his curly hair a few times.
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Too volatile. That is if we’re presuming it went off with Bart just picking it up. Connie couldn’t have taken it from the fridge, put it on the tray, carried it in on the tray, picked it up again, and then set it on the table without setting it off. No way.”
“What if Connie knew it would blow up, could she have carried it in carefully?”
I’d surprised him with that one. Connie didn’t seem like the type. On the other hand she’d been amazingly decisive and capable during the fire. He finally said, “Yeah, I guess, she could have been careful to hold the bottom on and keep the contact in place, if she’s known...” He suddenly looked shocked at what he was saying. “Oh... no... look, I’m not saying I think she did it! We have no idea what really happened...”
“But if the bomb was in a bottle, then the bomber would have had to carry the armed bottle carefully to the back table, put it on the table and then take away the corresponding bottle Connie had brought in, along with their own drink.”
“Seems tricky to do,” said Cohen imagining the scene. “I wasn’t there when people were carrying their drinks back to the table, did you see anyone acting strangely?”
I thought, then shook my head, “Under this theory, we’re talking about; Connie Robinson, Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann, Skylar Carvelle, Jimmy Harmon, Amanda Knightbridge, and Leo Getty.”
“Oh God, I can’t believe any of them would try... wait, there’s one more,” suggested Cohen.
“Who?”
“Bart.”
“Would he blow himself up on purpose?” I asked incredulously.
“Well, maybe, or he could have been trying to take the device away and it went off... or...” Cohen put his chin in his hand and though for a moment, “or, he could have intentionally been trying to injure himself...”
“Why?” Then I saw his point. “You mean to be in a position to get disability rather than getting fired? That would be so risky! It would be stupid to attempt it.”
“Bart shielded himself with the chair, but yes, it would have been stupid. However, if you ask most people, they’ll tell you that Bart’s not exactly the best tuned truck in the bay, he’s clumsy too.”
“But then that would be saying an idiot did this job and whoever did this at least was careful and paid attention to details and wasn’t clumsy,” I said.
“I don’t think that describes Bart,” Cohen said dryly.
I nodded, “OK, cross out Bart. Too bumbling. But heck, the whole room went up in flames. It injured someone in the doorway! If the bomber was in the room, he or she could have been killed. Seems stupidly risky.”
Daniel Cohen was in his element now. He explained, “Amateurs rarely gauge the amount of explosives they need correctly. They almost always over dose. I’d guess this psycho, whoever he or she was, had planned to just kill the person picking up the bottle. As a matter of fact, if you read this schematic and the directions here on the screen,” he indicated the diagram, “it says this device is for targeting one person you want to get rid of without collateral damage. It’s a ridiculous claim. This was a fire bomb after all, with fire anything can happen... and it did.”
“This has been very helpful, Professor Cohen,” I closed my notebook.
“Wait... about Carl, I’m going to be frank, I’m a PFLAG dad. Know what that means?” he looked at me closely.
I nodded and smiled, “Yeah, my parents are too.”
“Thought so. Look, I would have said, from what I knew of Carl... that it’s hard to believe he’d write that note. He didn’t seem like the kind of a guy who hated himself, even with those erratic emails recently. Maybe he was on drugs or something that made him not himself. It all just doesn’t make sense.”
Chapter 7
It was a little after 3:30 PM when I finished with Daniel Cohen. I’d given him my card in case he had more ideas.
Twenty-five minutes to get over to Fenton Hall to meet Dr. Rowlina Roth - Holtzmann. I had a feeling, based on her general lock-step attitude, that she wouldn’t tolerate lateness. First though, I wanted to ask Connie Robinson the receptionist, some quick questions.
I took a short cut to the Administration Building by bisecting the half ci
rcle drive. It was getting colder. The sky had turned gray and heavy. A yellowish cast of waning afternoon light made the campus seem surreal. No question about it, Frosty the Snowman was on his way.
As I got near the door to Miranda’s temporary office I heard two voices, both tense and angry, coming from inside. One was Miranda’s.
“You must leave. I do not want you to come here again,” said Miranda. The fear in her tone surprised me.
“You think you can tell me what to do?” sneered a man’s voice, “I tell you what to do. Understand!”
Miranda shrieked. I sprang into the room. A middle-aged man was twisting Miranda’s wrist, her face showed pain, but when she saw me, an even more painful look infused her features.
The man was ugly with rage. When he saw me he dropped Miranda’s arm, and wheeled on me. “What’re you looking at, bitch?”
Miranda’s mortification was evident. Her dark even skin tone blanched. She’d been uncomfortable with this man in her office, but a witness made her utterly humiliated.
The man was an inch or two taller than I. His skin was wind-burned red from long hours outdoors. His greasy light brown hair was uncombed, and he looked way beyond the point where needed a shave would adequately describe the condition of his face.
I stepped in close to him. He stank of stale whiskey, bad breath, and unwashed clothes. “Time to go,” I said in a low no-nonsense voice.
“Oh yeah?” he taunted, a master of repartee.
“Yeah,” I said catching his wrist and twisting it behind his back. I spun him around and pushed him off balance toward the door. He did a stumble run trying to right himself, but fell, catching his shoulder painfully on the frame. He hit the floor in the hall, whacking his knee again against the far wall.
Someone down the hall poked his head out of an office to see what was going on. Two maintenance workers, a man and a woman both in coveralls, advanced from the elevator.
