by Todd Borg
“I’ve been an ex-cop long enough now that I’m largely over it. But it’s true that some of my dealings with the FBI were rough. I remember one time where a Special Agent, fresh out of the academy, came into my case and pulled rank on me, flashing his law degree in my face. Then he proceeded to screw up my entire investigation with his inexperience. I certainly understand how cops can develop a pejorative attitude about them.”
“The suits.”
“Yes, that’s what we call them,” I said. “But you have to get a little curl into your lip when you say it. Also, put an expletive modifier in place of the word ‘the’ and you’ll have it just right.”
George grinned. “So tell me how I can help you.”
“I need to learn about firestarters.”
“I assume this is about the arsonist up in Lake Tahoe.”
“Correct,” I said. “I’ve been hired to try and find the arsonist. The first fire was in Douglas County on the Nevada side. The Fire Investigator for Douglas County is Diamond Martinez, a good guy, but somewhat inexperienced. The second fire last night was on the California side. The South Lake Tahoe authorities are equally at a loss when it comes to tracking a crime without a traditional motive.”
“You expect more fires?”
“Yes. Each fire was preceded by a note. The first fire involved no structures, so insurance claims are out and without insurance we don’t have any kind of arson that we understand. The second fire burned two houses, but coming on the heels after the first fire, it doesn’t seem as if insurance is any motive.”
“So,” George said, “you don’t have a motive on these fires. But I read in the paper that they did find a body,” George said.
“Yes,” I said. “In the first fire I thought perhaps it was the dead man who lit the fire and maybe he accidentally burned himself as well.”
“You considered self-immolation?”
“Suicide? I didn’t give the idea much credence at first, but it became a possibility when we found out that the victim was in debt and that the gas can found at the scene might have belonged to him.”
“Yet you now think it is murder.”
“I’m not sure. There was a second note before yesterday’s fire and that fire caused a second death,” I said.
“Another death?” George’s eyebrows rose.
“Yes. Like the first death, this one could be murder. Then again, the woman who died in the second fire was supposed to be at work and apparently called in sick. So we’ve got two deaths, and either one could be accidental.”
“I see. Why don’t you fill me in on the details,” George said.
I went over the events from the beginning. George interrupted now and then to ask questions. In each case the questions were about small details such as whether the phrasing on the notes used active or passive verbs. And how many bystanders were seen at the fires.
“Let me tell you a bit about arsonists,” George said when I was done bringing him up to date. “The firestarter who is easier to catch, the one who burns for money, is much less pathological than the other kind. Typically, the former is a person who gets into financial trouble and searches for a way out. If they are desperate enough and if they are not constrained by the kind of psychological mechanisms that help you and me to function morally and legally, they may see any number of ways out of their financial troubles, arson being just one of them. Once such a person chooses arson, they go about it the way you or I would, making various attempts to conceal their involvement, some clumsy, some clever. Often, to establish an alibi, they hire someone else to strike the match while they are away on a well-documented trip.
“Ironically, another example of the less pathological firestarter,” George continued, “would be a person who decides they need to murder another person. Perhaps the victim appears to be an obstacle to all that the murderer cares about. Or maybe the victim has incited uncontrollable anger in the murderer. Just as with the individual who has financial problems, the cold-blooded murderer searches for an appropriate way to commit the crime and they might settle on arson as the best method.”
“So in both cases the arson is merely a means to an end,” I said.
“Exactly.” George sipped his scotch. “And because of that, understanding the crime and finding the perpetrator is much easier.”
“But we may be dealing with a different kind of criminal?”
“I’m not certain, but that would be my guess,” George said. “The person who lights fires for the thrill of it is an especially disturbing individual. We don’t understand much of the pathology, but the fixation on fire is tied to an entire range of other problems.” At this statement, George’s eyes widened with enthusiasm.
“What kind of problems?” I asked.
“For example, let’s look at serial killers. Typically, there are several manifestations of pathology that appear at an early age and continue into young adulthood. Bed wetting is one. Torturing animals is another. And fixation on fires and playing with fire is the third. We call this the homicidal trinity.”
I thought of Pussy Cat when he mentioned animal torture. “Meaning that someone who grows up with all three characteristics is more likely to murder?”
”Yes,” George said. “But not just murder in the sense of killing a certain individual.”
“In other words, not murder as a means to an end, but as an end in itself.”
“Correct. The person who kills because they like to kill.”
“So serial killers and arsonists who torch for thrills have something in common,” I said.
“Yes. However, it is serial killers who exhibit the highest tendency to manifest the homicidal trinity. It is these people who are the hardest to catch. Their victims appear to have been chosen at random or as a matter of convenience.”
“Do serial killers ever use arson as their standard MO?”
George nodded. “From what you’ve told me, the person you are after might not be an arsonist trying to solve their personal problems, but a thrill seeker. If I had to guess, I would say that the deaths were intended.”
“The killer wanted these people dead and figured out how to murder them with fire?”
“No,” George said, shaking his head for emphasis. “I think it is worse. I think the killer didn’t want those particular people dead, but he wanted to kill. The identities of the victims were random. As will be those of future victims.”
I sipped beer and thought about what he said. “Is there a sexual component as well?” I asked.
“In most cases, probably. But, as Freud made so clear, there is a sexual component to all behavior.”
“I guess I meant sexual deviancy in the sense of behavior that would make it easier to catch the killer.”
“After you catch him, you may well see such a deviancy. But it might not be something that will aid you in finding him. First of all, you might not be able to discern its presence without considerable digging. And secondly, many people behave in ways that one would think of as deviant, yet they don’t kill people nor do they light fires.”
“I’m assuming that these deviant personalities don’t always fit into neat little boxes,” I said.
“In what way do you mean?”
“For example, maybe a killer exhibits the bed wetting, fire starting and animal torture as a child but doesn’t become a thrill killer. Instead, he kills as a - what did you call it? - a problem solver.”
“That’s true. The pathology runs the gamut,” George said. “Someone exhibiting the homicidal trinity could be on the edge, tempted but never acting on a homicidal impulse until they find themselves in a situation that would come close to driving the rest of us to kill. In that case, such an individual will go over the homicidal edge much sooner than you or I. But they are not killing for the thrill of it. Instead, they are killing for reasons similar to those that would make you or me kill.”
“You make it seem as though the personality characteristics are so indistinct that we’ll never f
ind the killer.”
“Oh, no,” George said. “These personality characteristics are very distinct. And when you find your killer, if he has such characteristics they will be clear to you.”
“You say, ‘if’ the killer has characteristics.”
“Correct. It’s important to remember that this is not a causal relationship. The horse who wins the Kentucky Derby usually has great conformation, long legs, powerful hindquarters. But if you see a horse with great conformation out in a pasture, it is unlikely you’re looking at a derby winner.”
I drank some more beer, wondering about the use of a metaphor that presented killers in such a light of greatness. “What other characteristics do serial killers present?” I asked.
“Oh, there are many of them, but because they are less common they are notable only when the main three are present.”
“And they are?”
George paused. “I’m a bit reluctant to even mention them because making note of them is likely to bring innocent people under suspicion.”
“But if,” I said carefully, “I have reason to suspect an individual of murder and/or arson, and I find the homicidal trinity, then what else might I notice about the suspect?”
“Under those conditions,” George said, “you might also make note of any speech impediment.”
I immediately thought of Winton Berger, the kid who used to work for Jake before he was killed. “How about a minor lisp,” I said. “Like, for instance, an SH sound in words where there is only the standard sibilant sound of the letter S?”
“Yes, that would qualify,” George said.
I thought about it a moment. “Other traits?”
George hesitated.
I was reassured that there were some limits to George’s apparent enthusiasm for the details of killer’s personalities.
“You might find an abusive childhood. Especially physical and sexual abuse. You might also find someone who was orphaned as a child.”
“You keep using the pronoun ‘he’,” I said. “Are all serial killers male?”
“That reminds me of the joke about privacy rights and biotechnology,” George said, his enthusiasm back in force. “There is, in fact, a genetic marker that is present in well over ninety percent of serial killers. The question is to what extent should society act when a baby is born with this genetic marker?” George paused, grinning. “Of course, the genetic marker is the presence of the Y chromosome.” George grinned again. “We don’t yet know the reason for it, but serial killers and arsonists are overwhelmingly male.”
“Why would the arsonist send us these notes?”
“Grandstanding. Boasting. Taunting. He is saying, ‘look how smart and clever I am. I can alert you before I light the fire and you still can’t catch me.’”
“But the notes might make it easier for us to eventually catch him.”
“True,” George said. “But that is part of the appeal of the dare. It makes it more exciting for the firestarter.”
“The day I was hired, the paper made a small note of it. The next day someone left a toy stuffed dog on my doorstep. It was a Great Dane, the same as my dog. The toy was badly burned. Does that sound like a warning?”
George’s face became serious. “Yes, it does. One can’t know for certain, but I think you should take it as a serious threat.”
“Any standard way of removing the danger of such a threat?
“Give up the case. Make it public that you are no longer looking for the arsonist. That will be quite a feather in his cap and he would likely leave you alone.”
“And if I don’t give up the case?”
George thought a moment. “The burned stuffed animal on your doorstep was a warning just like the notes. The killer has demonstrated that he acts after his warnings. I would expect that your dog is probably in danger.”
“You mean like tossing poisoned hamburger into my yard? After all, my dog is large. Almost no one would dare to physically come after him.”
“No, I wouldn’t expect poisoning, although that is certainly possible. From what you’ve told me, I would look for a much more active threat.”
“Like?”
“Like a fire,” George said.
The thought made me suddenly nauseous.
“Are you okay?” George said.
“What you said is frightening. I left my dog home alone.”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but that is probably not a good idea until this is over,” George said. “This killer might not limit himself to fire. If your home is in a place where it is not easy to sneak up and throw a Molotov cocktail, he can just as well sit a long distance away with a high-powered rifle.”
I thought of Pussy Cat being shot and it made my throat constrict painfully. “Would it be okay if I used your phone? I left mine in my car. I’ll put the call on my card.”
“Of course, only don’t worry about the card,” George said. He gestured toward a small writing desk that had a phone on it. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said and then left the room.
I called Street and briefly explained where I was. I told her what the psychologist had said and asked if she’d be willing to go up to my cabin and take Spot back down to her condo.
“Of course,” she said.
“Thanks, Street.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to his largeness.”
“I appreciate it. I’ll be home this evening.”
I hung up the phone and George returned a minute later.
“I thought it would be smart to have my sweetheart look in on my dog.”
“Good idea,” George said.
“Your mention of the arsonist possibly using a gun brings up another situation we’ve had that might be unrelated, but also might fall into the animal torture component of the homicidal trinity.”
“Oh?”
I told him the story of Pussy Cat.
George got very concerned, his face a network of worry lines. “I think you are dealing with a very disturbed individual,” he said. “My guess is there will be more fires and more deaths. And I think that not only is your dog in significant danger, but you may be as well.”
I thought about it as we sat in silence. “Do you have any ideas about how to catch this guy?”
“As far as serial killers go, there are no tricks. Standard police work is the best you have to go on. But as far as arson goes, there is one thing that often helps identify the man who torches for thrills as opposed to the other kind. And that is, the thrill-seeking firestarter stays around to watch.”
I pondered that. “In the group of gawkers that always appears at any fire?”
“Yes,” George said. “Very often the firestarter will be there, mingling with the crowd.”
“I could review photos,” I said. “Reporters and lots of other people take pictures of the fire. They might include the bystanders in their shots.”
“Additionally,” George said, “there are other people besides bystanders who watch a fire.”
I looked at him hard. “You mean firemen,” I said. I’d heard of the correlation, but it was still disturbing.
George nodded. “If you sort arsonists by occupation you find little or no deviation from an average sampling, except in one area. A slightly higher percentage of firemen are arsonists than one finds in the general population.” He added, “Of course, this is a very small factor.”
I finished my beer and George immediately stood up to get me another. “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve still got another gentleman to talk to and the drive home after that. You’ve been very helpful,” I said, shaking his hand. I added that he should send his bill to Douglas County, Nevada, then thanked him again and left.
EIGHTEEN
Because parking is such a problem in The City, I left the Jeep where it was, hiked down Russian Hill to Columbus, then walked to North Beach. I reached Telegraph Hill just as five o’clock drew near.
Arthur Jones Middleton the Sixth, the man Terry Drier
called a wacko environmentalist, lived in an apartment building that would have been very modern back in the ’50s and still looked contemporary today. According to the names engraved in shiny brass and mounted on the marble wall in the big entrance foyer, Middleton had the top floor.
There was an Art Deco brass security gate in front of a large front door made of hundreds of small beveled glass panels in a design that looked like a Picasso nude. Two video cameras watched me from above. I pushed the button opposite Middleton’s name.
“Good afternoon, sir,” a high voice said in what sounded like a Middle Eastern accent. “May I help you?”
“Owen McKenna here to see Mr. Middleton. I have an appointment.”
“One minute, please.”
I waited to be buzzed in. Instead I saw a bright sparkle of movement through the beveled glass door. It opened and a small, sturdy woman who matched the accent reached through and opened the brass security gate. “Mr. Middleton will see you now,” she said.
She escorted me into a gold-plated elevator and we rode whisper-quiet to the top of the building. When the door opened and we walked into the entry, it was like taking a time machine back a couple of centuries. The floor was polished, rose-colored marble. Golden wall sconces had a swirling motif that mimicked the gold stitching in the tapestries on the walls. Next to a tiny table with gold legs sat one of those chairs that Louis the Sixteenth used in his entrance room at his chateau. The chair had bowed legs and a back so straight that one wouldn’t actually sit in it except when posing for a formal portrait. Above the chair hung a portrait, although not the kind where the subject sat in a chair. An oil about ten feet high, it was of a man wearing military regalia riding a white steed who was rearing up and pawing at the air. I didn’t know the artist, but the detail and craftsmanship were impressive. The frame, an ornate gold molding eight inches wide, added to the drama.
“Sir,” the woman said.
“Oh, sorry, just admiring the painting.” I followed her through an arched opening into a living room which, in both art and decor, was the opposite of the elegant, traditional entry. The room was starkly modern with a lowered ceiling from which dozens of recessed, high-tech lights shined ovals on the floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed all of downtown. The Transamerica pyramid pierced the sky and dominated the skyline.
