“Wow! The chief has spared no expense,” Matt said, loosening his tie before removing a can of soda from the fridge and popping the tab. “All I got was an old, scarred desk, a folding chair, and a filing cabinet. I even have to print in the bullpen. Something tells me he’s hoping to bring you onboard permanently.”
Jake chuckled. “I told him this was just temporary, but he can be a devious old dog.”
Matt nodded.
The man was in his mid-thirties, maybe a year or two younger than he was. He had short, brown hair, was clean shaven with a nose broken more than once, and puppy-dog eyes, big and brown, the kind of eyes that encouraged people to confide in him. At six-foot-two, he was a touch shorter than Jake, but just as well-muscled and far more tanned.
Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “If I understood what you were saying, are we looking at a potential serial killer here?”
“I hope we aren’t,” Jake said. “Like I told them, I haven’t got enough for a complete profile. If he knew that person was in the cabin and set the fire intentionally, then a serial killer is a possibility. For my money, one way or another, he’s going to keep upping the ante until we stop him.”
“He’s given you quite the challenge. A couple of barns, a boathouse, and a shack aren’t much to work with,” Matt said.
“Especially when the proof has been destroyed in three of the locations, but there could be more out there that we just haven’t found. I have a box of evidence in the car to review and analyze as well as the stuff we’ll get from the coroner as soon as he has a report ready. Pyromaniacs and arsonists, like sociopaths and serial killers, don’t suddenly appear out of nowhere. They’ve always been there—we just haven’t noticed them before.”
Matt took a drink. “Interesting theory. I want to help as much as I can. I know about your leg. I’m in Paradise three days a week—more if I’m needed. If you need boots on the ground, feel free to use mine. Tell me a little more about guys who play with fire. What are we really up against?”
Jake nodded and sat back in the chair. He’d been standing for almost an hour, and the stump, where what was left of his left leg fit into the prosthesis, was sore. Andrew’s new salve worked wonders, but he’d forgotten to use it this morning.
“Thanks for the offer. I’ll keep it in mind. There are two groups of people who start fires: arsonist and pyromaniacs. Pyromania is an impulse control disorder, but not all pyromaniacs set fires impulsively. They love fire as if it’s a living creature. When they watch things burn, they feel exhilarated—a few of them even experience sexual release. According to Health Canada, it’s considered a mental illness, so if and when we catch this guy, if that’s what he is, the chances are he’ll never see the inside of a courtroom.”
“And that would be a damn shame if he’s also a murderer,” Matt said, frowning. “We had a few unsolved cases when I was in Stratford, but none of them involved fire, although the profiler thought we were dealing with someone with mental health issues, too.”
“Too many sick people go untreated and that’s one of our society’s greatest failings. Arsonists aren’t mentally ill. They know exactly what they’re doing and why. For them, fire is a weapon, a means to an end. They perfect a method for setting fires and usually stick with it, their MOs become their signatures, their claims to fame, and they’re proud of them. Those guys set fires for one of four reasons: power and control, money from insurance, extortion, or being paid to do it, to cover up a crime like robbery or murder, or simply to get even with someone. Given the location of these three fires, the first two don’t fit, the third is iffy, but the last is definitely a possibility, but until we can identify the victim, all of this is just a theory. We still don’t know his MO—beyond the fact that his fires are tightly controlled—since we’ve just got the one crime scene to work with—and may or may not occur when there’s a full moon. I haven’t the faintest idea how he started it, but according to the forensic reports, he used turpentine as an accelerant. That’s not a common one.”
Matt pursed his lips and frowned. “Who’s the most dangerous?” he asked, finishing his soda and pitching the can into the recycling box next to the fridge.
“The pyromaniac turned revenge arsonist would be my greatest nightmare. Something’s happened and he’s determined to get vengeance. The injustice could be real or simply imagined and can range from a jilted lover to a disgruntled employee, or to a person who feels bullied, cheated, or abused by the system. There was a case down in Texas a few years back where a guy set fire to a church full of people simply because he objected to the minister’s sermon—claimed he’d encouraged his wife to leave him. There’s no one more dangerous than a man convinced of his own righteousness. If that’s the case, then our man’s looking for payback. As a pyromaniac, fire gives him the power and control he craves, but if he’s looking to get even, fire alone won’t be enough. He may need to see them suffer, too. We could be looking for one sick son of a bitch.”
Matt whistled. “That’s for damn sure. Let’s hope you figure it out soon.” He stood. “If you toss me your keys, I’ll get that box out of your car for you before I get back to work.”
Jake threw him the ring. “Thanks. If you don’t mind, there are two boxes. I need them both.”
“Sure thing.” Matt left the room, leaving Jake to his musings.
If this was a pyromaniac turned arsonist, then, as he’d told Minette, this might just be the beginning.
Ten minutes later, Jake unpacked his personal belongings. All but one of his profiling books went into the credenza, while the picture of Minette and Mia, short for Amelia, taken when his niece had graduated from pre-school and the other of his folks, himself, his sister Sally, and his brother David sat on his desk. Mia’s framed drawing, the one of him, Minette, and the child standing in front of the inn’s new sign hung on the nail above his credenza. He’d have to get her to draw something else since the picture looked a little lost all by itself on the large wall. The five-year-old loved to sketch, so convincing her to give him another drawing wouldn’t be a problem.
When he’d finished, he sat down once more, a can of ginger ale on the desk in front of him and wondered whether or not he had bitten off more than he could chew.
A high-profile active case, like this one, involved working here every day. Given how sore he was right now, that could be a real problem, especially when it also meant going out into the field to interview witnesses and take statements. That would involve following leads, tracking evidence, and visiting crime scenes, like the one in the bush, places with rugged terrain, uneven floors, and crumbling walls, places not fit for a man in a wheelchair or a man with a cane. It was too bad the new leg was still three months away, but while he might not be the man he was, he wasn’t a quitter. Grabbing the profiling book he needed, he turned to the section on pyromaniacs. Time to brush up on what he knew.
* * *
By Friday, Jake was more sore and tired than he’d been in months. He’d used the quad cane on his visit to the crime scene. Why anyone would want to live there year-round was a mystery to him. The place was isolated and lacked both plumbing and electricity. The old man had heated with wood and used propane to cook. It was amazing the tank hadn’t gone up in flames, too.
While he hadn’t been able to go everywhere thanks to the mud and crap all over, the tech had confirmed that the fire had started in the old stone fireplace. Maybe it was simply and accident like Ed Keller’s stable last year—some vagrant trying to keep warm on a rainy night. He’d fallen asleep and the fire had gotten out of control.
The magnetic whiteboard he’d asked for was covered with pictures from the four fire scenes and his notes. Ed Keller had filed an insurance claim and the investigators had been thorough. What he lacked was a rock-solid connection between the fires or some definite proof that the cabin fire hadn’t been an accident like Keller’s barn.
Lynette opened the door. “Got something for you from the Centre of Forensic Sciences in
Toronto. Maybe it’s that autopsy report you’ve been waiting for.”
“I sure hope so,” Jake said, reaching for the envelope. “Without it, I’m still spinning my wheels here. Thanks.”
Lynette nodded and closed the door.
Jake slit open the envelope and pulled out several sheets of paper. While they hadn’t identified the victim, they’d finished their preliminary autopsy on what was left of the man and had labelled the death as suspicious. He frowned. Why? According to the coroner who’d done the work, the victim, a Caucasian male around the same age Andrew had suggested, had died late August, early September. The cause of death was smoke inhalation. That was common enough when someone died in a fire. So why the designation? He flipped the page to check the toxicology report.
“What the hell?” He straightened in the chair and reread the information.
In addition to trace amounts of cannabis and alcohol, eighty micrograms of Rohypnol had been in his system. Nobody took that big a dose of the drug on purpose. That was enough to sedate a bull moose. The man wouldn’t have awoken if the whole damn forest had caught fire. Could this have been suicide? He kept reading. The consensus was murder, with arson to cover up the crime.
So, who the hell was this guy, and who wanted him dead?
Crossing the hall, he knocked on Ev’s open door and stepped inside.
“What’s up, Jake?” the chief asked, looking up from his paperwork.
“Got news from Toronto. We’re not talking pyromania now. It was murder. Somebody roofied the guy before setting the place on fire with him inside. Cause of death is smoke inhalation, although there was enough Rohypnol in his system and damage from breathing in the turpentine to have killed him, too. Whoever did this was one angry man.”
Ev dropped his pen onto the desk and huffed out a breath. “So what are we looking at?”
“Damned if I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The guy didn’t get there on his own, and there was no vehicle at the scene. Best guess, they arrived together, and one went home alone. Right now, we need to identify that man as fast as we can. There are four missing persons in this area, and I think our dead man is one of those. Once I know who he is and can figure out why he was killed, I can update the profile. We could be lucky, and it was a one-shot deal, the other fires practice sessions to make sure he got this one right. I’ve been through all the dossiers we have of vandalism and arson cases. I’ve checked with the warden and no one with a history of setting fires has been released in the last twenty-four months, so whoever set those fires has managed to stay off the radar. If getting even with that victim wasn’t his sole purpose, he’ll strike again soon.”
Ev nodded. “Have Lynette pull the files on those missing persons. I’ll send someone to bring Jack Willard in for questioning. Now that we know that man was murdered, I want to know more about his anonymous source. I’ll have George Lloyd look through motor vehicle records and crosscheck with those missing persons’ files. Finding that vehicle might be a long shot, but it could be the only one we have.”
“I’m on it,” Jake said, picking up the report and returning to his own office.
* * *
It was just after seven when Jake pulled into the parking lot of the inn. He’d spent the afternoon looking at the missing persons’ reports. Jack Willard was in Toronto until Monday, having some minor surgery, but they would question him as soon as they could. As far as the missing persons went, one of them was a runaway, barely sixteen, who’d been missing since early July, reminding him of another runaway who’d vanished twenty years ago.
Another was a small-time dealer, more of a gopher and delivery man for one of the biker gangs out of Montreal who’d apparently set up shop in North Bay. He’d moved into the area about two years ago. His mother had reported him missing early September. There was no information on whether or not he had a vehicle. The third man, white and in his early thirties, was a suspect in a convenience store robbery in North Bay near the end of August that had left the store owner in a coma. He’d vanished, but his white pick-up was in the police impound. The techs had gone over it with a fine-tooth comb, but had found no evidence to suggest the vehicle had been anywhere near the cabin. The last man, a Temagami in the right age group, had disappeared hunting, but he didn’t fit the coroner’s racial profile. His wife had reported him missing when he’d failed to come home. Jake had called the reserve about a possible vehicle, but no one had returned his call. Disappointed, he’d finally called it a day.
The rain expected to last until Wednesday had started mid-afternoon, and he prayed it would be enough to keep their arsonist from striking any time soon. All he wanted right now was a hot meal, a couple of glasses of scotch, the whirlpool, and his bed—especially his bed. Mia had some kind of fair at school tomorrow, and he’d offered to watch the front desk and man the phones so that Minette could attend. He could do that sitting down, thank God.
He twisted his head from side to side, the joints in his neck cracking. Matt and Ev had gone over the map, identifying likely targets and increasing patrols in the isolated areas where the perp might strike next. Unfortunately, until they knew more, they might as well be spitting into the wind. Sadly, it would take another fire for them to narrow it down and hopefully that wouldn’t involve another body.
* * *
Stumpy’s Sports Bar, the local watering hole, was packed, just as he knew it would be since the Blue Jays had won their division this year and were playing tonight. The game should be nearly finished, ensuring most of the patrons had had a few drinks. A few too many would guarantee memory loss.
The anticipation for tonight’s play, the Act Two of his revenge drama had his heart pumping and the adrenaline flowing. Without attracting undue attention to himself, he sidled over to the far corner where Leroy and Jethro sat.
“Hi, guys. How’s the game going?” he asked, pulling up a chair. This close he could smell the body odor that was always evident after the guys finished a job. Hadn’t the bastards ever heard of soap, water, and deodorant?
“Damn Jays are down by one in the top of the ninth. I got fifty bucks on this game. Don’t know what it is with that high-priced talent of theirs. Pitching sucks, but they’ve got one more at bat,” Leroy said, draining his beer, the glazed look in his eyes testifying to the fact he’d had more than enough.
“And the God damn beer pitchers have holes in them,” Jethro added, guffawing at his own lame joke. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while.”
“Don’t always make it back soon enough to stop in,” he answered.
The bar erupted in a loud cheer. Glancing up at the screen, he saw the Jays’ reliever had gotten his third out.
Sally, the big-busted waitress who always managed to find the right top to show off her assets, was racing around like an idiot, dodging people as she passed with her loaded trays, trying to fill orders as fast as she could to make sure she got the big tips. Leroy managed to get her attention and ordered another pitcher and a third mug.
“Let me get this one,” he offered, knowing it was expected of him. He pulled out a twenty and set it on the table, sliding it toward her.
Sally smiled. “Be right back.’
She was probably calculating her tip as she wove her way through the crowd.
Leroy smiled, showing off a mouthful of yellow, nicotine stained teeth.
“Wouldn’t mind tapping that one of these days.” he said, watching the waitress walk away. “Thanks, bud. I’m going to go out and have a smoke before the bottom of the ninth starts. Want to join me?”
The thought of a cigarette made his stomach cramp, but he shook his head.
“No, thanks. I quit years ago.” That was what his boss thought anyway, although he wasn’t doing much of that these days. The man shouldn’t have gotten so demanding.
“Suit yourself. I’ll be right back.” Leroy got up to go outside to the smoking area.
Sally delivered the pitcher of beer and picked up the cash.
“Keep the change, honey. Looks like you’re earning it tonight.”
“Thanks. You want anything else, just holler.” She turned and walked away.
“I’ve got to piss.” Jethro said, and headed toward the men’s room.
He smiled. Luck was on his side. After pouring himself a mug, he emptied the small vial into the pitcher and waited for the boys to return.
Leroy no sooner sat down then he refilled his mug, draining half of it in one gulp.
“Thanks,” he said, refilling his mug before Jethro got any of it. The man had always been a greedy bastard. Nice to see some things didn’t change.
Jethro had just sat down when the Jays’ clean-up man hit a double, scoring one run. He watched Leroy and Jethro chug the beer in celebration. Time for him to go.
“As much as I would love to see the end of this,” he said, “I have to leave. Got an early shift tomorrow. Enjoy.”
He knew they wouldn’t argue. With him gone, they had more for themselves. He chuckled. You could always count on a guy wanting a beer, and if it had more than its usual kick, who cared?
Hurrying out, he got into his truck and moved up the street a block, turning on the radio to listen to the game. Within minutes, it was over. The Jays had won. He would check Leroy’s pocket for that fifty bucks. Why not? The bastard wouldn’t need it, and there was bound to be someone out there who could use it. He would drop it into a United Way box someplace. Doing it anonymously would ensure it remained a mystery.
In his rearview mirror, he watched the bar empty, hoping those two hadn’t passed out on him. Five minutes later, they stumbled out, the drug no doubt taking effect, and staggered to the parking lot.
Within minutes, Leroy’s truck pulled onto the street, narrowly missing a parked car. He scrunched down low and waited for them to drive by, pulling out behind them. It had rained all day and given the wet roads and poor visibility thanks to the fog that had rolled in, it would be a miracle if they made it to the dump they called home. The way Leroy zigzagged all over the place, he was afraid the drunk driver would draw attention from the cops and get pulled over, ruining everything. He heaved a sigh of relief when the truck pulled into the driveway. The doors opened, and the two drunks fell out of the vehicle, barely able to walk to the door and unlock it. As soon as they were inside, he drove around the block, parked on the adjacent street, and walked back through the yards as he’d done this morning.
Fire Angel Page 4
