Dirty Fire

by Earl Merkel

  “But this is an arson-murder, Gil. Look, I won’t kid you. You probably saw more arson cases in a month with the Chicago Fire Department than anyone on our police force sees in an entire career. You have the expertise, and Evans wants us to use it. And when the city manager talks, I damn well listen.”

  He took a deep breath. “So. The reason we set up this meeting today is to see if you can give us a direction—anything—to break us out of this goddam logjam.” Nederlander looked at the policewoman seated alongside him and made an impatient motion with his hands.

  Posson cleared her throat; as lead investigator, listening to her boss ask for help from outside the department had to be sour medicine to swallow. “Gil, you’ve had a chance to review our case files as well as your people’s reports. If you, uh, would, can you give us some of your insights?”

  “Sure,” Gil said, as if she had asked him to pass the salt. “Let me start by saying that I’m limiting myself to my own field of expertise. That means the fire itself, and what it tells us.

  “Okay. First of all, this was a big job somebody took on. The burn patterns we’ve reconstructed, the speed of progression we’ve documented—three floors were systematically drenched in gasoline, room to room. It’s a big house, and it burned hot. We know what it did to Mrs. Levinstein.”

  He glanced at Nederlander, whose face wore a mask of polite interest.

  “A conservative guess is that the arsonist used as much as thirty gallons of gas, maybe more,” Cieloczki replied. “And that alone tells us the fire was almost certainly premeditated. He already had the gasoline—enough to not just burn it down, but to burn it down thoroughly and quickly. Our guy went in knowing what he was going to do to that house. You don’t just go to the corner Mobil station on an impulse and fill up a half-dozen gas cans.”

  “Could’ve gone out after the fact and bought it at different gas stations,” Bird objected. “Five gallons each stop, it takes him six stops.”

  “Uh-uh,” Posson told her partner. “The math’s right, but I don’t buy the logic. Guy pops two people, then rides all over town buying gas? Even if people don’t notice, it’s going to feel like somebody does.”

  “He goes to self-serve pumps; what’s to notice?” Bird argued.

  “Can’t buy a gas can at a self-service pump,” Posson retorted. “You gotta talk to a clerk for that.” She made a note on her pad. “In fact, unless you figure he went back to empty it in the house each time, he had to buy six cans. You don’t do that in any one place, either. So we got a guy who dealt with six clerks, maybe.”

  “It gives you something to look for,” Nederlander nodded. “You go back, canvass gas stations. Ask about people who bought one or more gas containers. Maybe we’ll pry something loose.”

  “Check it out,” Cieloczki agreed. He turned to Posson. “But don’t limit yourself to the day of the fire. If he had this planned out in advance, it makes sense that he would have had everything ready before he went in—a couple of days, possibly as much as a week.”

  “What makes you think he bought the stuff around here?” Bird’s voice was stubborn. “Why couldn’t he have brought it with him from—I dunno, someplace down in the city?”

  “That’s possible,” Gil conceded. “I just don’t think our arsonist would want to drive too far with all that gasoline. Plus, there’s the questions of the containers. In almost every arson case I’ve seen where gasoline was involved, you find an empty container nearby. Not a lot of people want to get caught walking away from a fire carrying even one empty gas can. How many cans did you find at the arson scene?”

  Neither Posson nor Bird spoke. Nederlander watched Cieloczki with the air of a man who has been asked a trick question.

  “None,” he said, finally.

  “Exactly. Our man went to the trouble of taking them with him. He didn’t want us to find them there. Why? Why risk it?” Gil shook his head. “There has to be something about them that we might find significant—something that might give us a lead.”

  Posson was chewing her pencil, her eyes unfocused at the wall above Cieloczki’s head. “Okay, here’s a thought. All those cans—yeah, that’s a lot of stuff to put in a car trunk. And I don’t think our guy would want to drive around with ‘em in his back seat, empty or full.”

  “So we’re looking for a van or more likely a panel truck,” Nederlander interjected. “Something with a lot of space and a minimum of windows.”

  “That’s probably a good supposition,” Cieloczki replied. “I think it bears looking into.”

  There was a moment of silence while the two plainclothes officers scribbled on their notepads. Nederlander’s fingers, I noted, tapped on the tabletop.

  “The question of premeditation bothers me,” Nederlander said, finally. “I see the point about the quantity of gasoline. But frankly, that’s a damn weak basis to build a whole theory around.” He raised an eyebrow, inviting the firefighter’s response.

  Cieloczki looked at me, briefly, and made a decision. “Well, Bob—we do have more than that to go on here, as a matter of fact. For one thing, I think we’ve found an indication in your case files that whoever set this fire had experience. Or got some coaching from someone who did.”

  He tugged a single typed sheet from the file. “Every fire alarm that comes in triggers a set of automatic actions from my people. The firefighters are dispatched, sure. But it’s also standard procedure to notify the police in case we need traffic or crowd control assistance. We’ll alert the hospital or trauma center closest to the fire in case we require medical support. And we contact the utility companies for an emergency shutoff of electricity and gas service.”

  Gil tapped on the report. “ComEd and the gas company arrived a minute or two after our first truck—that’s confirmed. ComEd cut electrical power from the main transformer serving the entire block. That’s standard procedure for them. But it’s different with the natural gas. Whenever possible, NI Gas tries to shut off the natural gas service from the outside valve that serves the individual house. At the Levinstein house, the valve is under an access cover about thirty feet from the house—but according to the report, he couldn’t shut it off this time. When he arrived, it was already turned off.

  “We’ve talked to the guy,” Gil said. “He said he figured one of the firefighters did it. Technically, that’s against procedures, but nobody wanted to make an issue out of it. Except we polled the firefighters who were on the scene first, and they were still pulling hoses when the gas company arrived.”

  Cieloczki paused to emphasize the significance. “Our arsonist took his time inside, soaking everything with gasoline. Gasoline fumes are heavier than air, so they flow down to the lowest point in the structure. The last thing this person wanted was to have a pilot light—for a stove, the furnace or water heater, whatever—touch off the fumes before he was done and out of there.”

  “So what?” said Bird. “I mean, how does that make our guy special? If I smell gasoline, I’m going to want to avoid open flames. Turning off the gas is the easiest way to make sure you get all the pilot lights turned off.”

  “That thought might occur to a lot of people,” Gil agreed. “But what most people forget are the electrical ignition sources. For instance, it was a cold day outside. Have you ever been around at night when your thermostat clicks on? In a dark room, when the mercury switch makes contact, you see a little flash. That’s more than enough to touch off gasoline fumes, once they reach the right level. You’ve also got refrigerators, blowers, sump pumps. Anything that has an electric motor is a potential ignition source. So what do you do?”

  “Our guy also cut the power to the house, right?” Posson said.

  Gil nodded. “And that’s not too surprising, either,” he added, anticipating Bird’s response. “At least, it wouldn’t be if there wasn’t a question about the timing.”

  Nederlander frowned. “What question?”

  “The Levinstein house had a pretty sophisticated alarm system,”
Gil said. “When the heat triggered it, a signal was sent simultaneously to the fire department and to the alarm service’s central monitoring system. Our signal is pretty basic. Location and time, essentially. But the alarm company gets much more information—including the status of the alarm system itself. I had them send us a copy of their printout for the incident.”

  Gil pushed two sheets of tractor-feed computer paper to Nederlander; Posson and Bird leaned over to look.

  Lines of type, tapped out by a dot matrix printer, marched down the fanfold sheet. The top line read:

  SYSTEM STATUS: ** OK ** 1215 1/23

  “Routinely, the alarm system does a diagnostic self check every fifteen minutes and automatically downloads to the alarm company’s computers,” Gil said. “That way, the company can monitor minor problems that might require maintenance.”

  Most of the other lines were identical except for the first set of numbers, which in each line increased by fifteen-minute intervals.

  But midway down the page, Cieloczki had used a red pen to circle a line that was printed in capital letters:

  SYSTEM STATUS: ** AUX POWER SUPPLY ON** 1723 1/23

  “That’s when the system went over to a battery backup,” Gil said. “A power failure isn’t considered a major breakdown. The system simply records when it happens. From 5:30 on, the system was working off the battery.”

  Finally, on the last page of the fanfold paper, Cieloczki had circled two lines several times:

  !! ALARM ** 10-73 ** 2119 1/23

  !! ALARM ** 10-70 ** 2119 1/23

  “The alarm service computer uses police ten-codes in its system. As you know, ten seventy-three is code for ‘smoke detected’ in the residence,” Gil said. “The initial alarm came at 9:19 p.m. Almost immediately—with gasoline as the initiator, probably only a few seconds later—the system reported a ten-seventy: flames detected,” Cieloczki said.

  “We assume that whoever cut gas and electric to the house also set the fire,” Gil said. “We know the system went on its standby battery power at seventeen twenty-three hours. But that’s 5:23 p.m., almost four hours before the fire set off the alarm.” He looked around the room. “So what happened during those four hours?”

  As Cieloczki spoke, I studied the faces of the three police officers. Nederlander was outwardly calm, though his eyes had narrowed noticeably throughout the presentation. Bird was frankly enthralled, his head bobbing as his eyes moved between Gil’s face and the papers on the conference table. Posson’s neck between the white turtleneck and the fringe of her close-cut black hair was already a deep crimson. I sat quietly, waiting for what would come next.

  It was not a long wait.

  “As you know, under Lake Tower ordinances arson investigations are formally the responsibility of the Fire Department,” Cieloczki said, his voice almost gentle. “The Police Department has been actively pursuing a murder investigation. As a matter of professional courtesy we’ve limited our official involvement. But with your investigation stalled—at a standstill, to use your term, Bob—I feel that I have no choice. I have to exercise my prerogative to assume the lead role here.”

  “Lead role?” Nederlander’s voice was tight with barely suppressed emotions I could guess did not include mirth. “Forget it, Gil. This is still a murder investigation. That’s police work, not…something for a fireman.”

  “I’m sorry, Bob,” Gil replied, his voice level. He reached down to his briefcase, which was leaning against the legs of his chair, and removed a folded letter. The paper was high quality bond, so heavy and crisp that it cracked slightly at the creases.

  “This is a memorandum from the City Manager’s Office,” Gil said. “Talmadge Evans has decided to create a joint task force to continue the investigation into the case. Police and fire departments and any outside support we require. The memo directs me to review the case files. At my discretion, I am instructed to assume the supervisory responsibility as it relates to the Levinstein investigation.”

  Cieloczki handed the memorandum to Nederlander as if it was a loaded weapon—which, from the police chief’s point of view, it was. Even from across the table, the precise, distinctive signature of the man who was both Nederlander’s and Cieloczki’s boss was unmistakable.

  “As Public Safety Director, of course, you remain my direct supervisor, Bob. You’re definitely in the loop on all reports, and I’ll brief you regularly. This is just an administrative action to streamline the investigation.”

  It was anything but, and Nederlander’s impassivity signaled that he knew it. But he was an experienced veteran of turf warfare, and he knew when to attack, when to dig in and when to pull back. He chose the latter.

  “I see,” he said, leaning back from the table. His voice was now almost casual, as if he had suggested the new arrangement. “Well, Gil—you’re the one with the training and experience in all of this.” He spread his hands. “Just tell me how we can support you. You want to keep Terry and Mel on the case, I assume.”

  “Definitely, if that’s all right with you,” Gil said. “They’re important members of the joint task force. But I’m also bringing in a consultant to work the investigation—someone with police experience who can help me understand the procedures involved. Davey here was working the case when he was…when he left the police force. He will be an acting fire marshal and report to me.”

  No one in the room had seen Nederlander speechless before. It did not last nearly long enough.

  “Are you serious?” he demanded. He looked at me fully for the first time since the meeting began. “This…person was dismissed from the police force—”

  “I resigned,” I interrupted. “Voluntarily.”

  “After you were led out of here by three county deputies, in cuffs,” Nederlander retorted, with heat. “You quit before I had the pleasure of firing you.”

  “I’ll be working this case,” I snapped. “Get used to it.”

  I realized that I was on my feet with no memory of having risen, leaning over the table, nose to nose with my former employer. Nederlander was standing too, and I doubted that anyone in the room could tell which of us had risen first.

  Cieloczki also stood. “Let’s keep it together here,” he said in a voice accustomed to commanding people in tense situations. “Bob, I have to say that Davey is uniquely suited for this job. I won’t go into specifics right now. But it’s my decision to make, and I’ve made it.”

  Nederlander straightened; in an act of sheer will, he forced his voice to become calm and level.

  “Yes,” he said to Cieloczki, though he was looking into my face. “You certainly have.”

  He pivoted and stalked out the door. Posson and Bird watched him leave, both their faces impassive masks. Only then did I realize I was breathing hard, and that my fists were balled white-knuckle tight at my sides.

  Cieloczki sat down, unruffled at the scene he had orchestrated.

  “Davey,” Gil Cieloczki said, looking down at the file on the table before him, “welcome to the team.”

  Chapter 5

  “Well, that went well, don’t you think?” Gil said, a little more than a half hour later. To me, walking with Cieloczki across the hall to the offices of Lake Tower’s fire department, the humor in his voice sounded unforced. It might have been facetiousness, or extreme relief.

  The meeting with Nederlander and his investigators had indeed gone well, in that it had followed a script Cieloczki had outlined barely two hours before. This earlier meeting had been very private indeed, with attendance limited to Cieloczki and three other people. One was me; another, a well-dressed man with hair that showed careful attention by an expert barber.

  The final member of our cabal was a tall, almost painfully thin man named Talmadge Evans.

  His eyes had studied me with extreme skepticism as he listened to a story that came from a dying convict. He had asked an occasional question, raised the expected objections. His disbelief had been obvious. Nonetheless, in the end he had signed
the memorandum that effectively removed his own police chief from the investigation.

  Then he had turned baleful eyes on me.

  “I’m not naive, Mr. Davey,” Evans had said. “I know your history here. I also know that you have not held a steady job since you left our police department. I will be honest: I believe you have come to us with this…story… for several reasons. But mainly because you need the money.”

  He held up his hand before I could speak.

  “Very well. You have a job, temporary as it may be. Gil feels strongly that you are needed to resolve this matter.” He nodded toward the other visitor in the room. “His view has the support of the FBI, it appears. That is correct, Agent Santori, is it not?”

  Then his voice grew steely, and I knew it for a warning.

  “But hear this clearly: I will not stand for a vendetta of any kind. If there is to be an investigation, it will be handled fairly and professionally. You will toe that line, sir; any behavior that does not meet that standard will cost you dearly. I will see to it. Personally.”

  Evans had folded the crisp, heavy paper and handed the memorandum to Cieloczki. He nodded in dismissal.

  As we started to leave the room—through the seldom-used side door, not the one that opened on the main administrative section of the City Manager’s Office—Evans spoke again.

  “Gil.”

  He paused, as if the act of framing his words would give Cieloczki a last chance to reconsider.

  “You are taking a chance—a serious chance—on the basis of this man’s credibility, Gil,” Evans told the firefighter. “And, I might add, on his stability. You are about to burn your bridges here, personally as well as professionally. I only hope you understand: if this turns out badly, I cannot protect you.”

  Cieloczki nodded. The message was clear and unequivocal.

  Evans had given him his support, grudging as it might have been. With it came more than enough rope to hang himself, and the rest of us too.