by Tripp Ellis
"That's too bad for you,” the runt smarted.
I forced a smile. "Enjoy the death penalty."
The chair screeched again as I pushed away from the table.
"Wait!" Dean cried in a panicked voice.
"If you're not going to talk to me, there's nothing I can do," I said.
"I can’t answer things I don't know."
"Who fronted you the product? You dipshits are too small-time to cobble up enough money to purchase that outright."
Dean bit his tongue.
"This is a one-time deal, my friend,” I reminded him.
"You haven't even offered me a deal."
“I’m sure the DAs office would entertain the idea of life, maybe even parole with good behavior? It's better than the death penalty. Are you a gambling man? Are you feeling lucky?”
"I can't do time, man. Right now, death doesn't sound like a bad option." His skin was pale, and his eyes looked like they were about to spin inside his skull.
“I’ve got news for you. You'll sit on death row for 10 to 15 years before they get around to your stupid ass. Plenty of time to get cozy with your new cellmate."
Dean swallowed hard.
I gave it another moment.
The runt said nothing.
I knocked on the door again. The door buzzed, and I pushed it open. JD and I stepped into the hallway.
"Think he knows anything?" JD asked.
"He knows everything. That innocent routine won't last long. A few nights in county lockup might make him more talkative."
"If they were selling that merchandise on consignment, somebody's not going to want him talking,” JD said. “Better put him in protective custody.”
I agreed.
We strolled down the hallway to the conference room and wrote up the after-action reports. There was a somber mood throughout the department. Phones rang, keyboards still clacked, and there was a steady hum of activity. But everyone went about their work without much fanfare. The usual banter was at a minimum. There was no word on McTaggart’s condition yet.
Daniels poked his head into the conference room with a sour look on his face. “The hits just keep on coming. We’ve got another situation.”
3
"When you finish up here, I need you boys to get over to 1625 Seadrift Avenue," Daniels said.
"What's going on?" JD asked.
"House burned down. Fire department found something interesting inside. Brenda is on her way there now."
We finished pushing pens across paper, then left the station and climbed into JD's lizard-green Porsche 911 Speedster. You could see the exotic sports car from a mile away. Black satin rims, leather interior with deviated stitching, and racing seats. It sounded like a caged lion when he cranked it up, and when he stepped on the gas, it was like opening the cage.
With the top down, we cruised across the island to Seadrift Avenue. The wind buffeted the cab and tousled my hair. JD cranked classic rock through the speakers, and the kick drum thumped my chest. The flat six howled as we sped down the highway.
We’d been in so many officer-involved shootings that Sheriff Daniels didn't bat an eye anymore. He reviewed the reports, told us to see the head shrinker, then take the rest of the day off after we went over to Seadrift. But he knew we wouldn't really listen.
If Brenda, the medical examiner, was on her way to the scene, I knew we'd find a body. But I imagined it wouldn't be a pretty sight.
The home on Seadrift Avenue was in Oceanside Estates—a nice neighborhood on the east side of the island. It was up-and-coming. There were new luxury builds next to smaller, older homes. It was probably a good time to buy into the area.
The black smoke billowing into the sky was visible from several blocks away. There were two fire trucks, an ambulance, and the medical examiner's van parked on the street when we arrived.
Red and white lights flickered. Residents gathered around to watch the spectacle. Firefighters doused the smoldering rubble. All that remained were a few charred, blackened studs and beams. The pungent smell of burning wood filled the air.
We parked a few houses away, then walked down the street, making our way through the crowd. Jack flashed his badge as we pushed into the scene.
"It's pretty gruesome," a lieutenant with the Fire Department said to us. He was decked out in full fire gear. His face was sooty and dripping with sweat. He took off his helmet and wiped his brow. "We found the body in a cast-iron bathtub in the home. Judging by the burn pattern, there was an accelerant in the tub. The damn thing must have been filled with gasoline."
He led us through the smoldering debris to what used to be the bathroom. Brenda was already there with a mask over her face and purple nitrile gloves on her hands.
The charred body in the old cast iron tub was burned beyond recognition. It didn't even look like it could have been human. More like a strange alien from another world. No human body should ever look that way. Pitch black, shriveled, and cracked—flesh melted and fused into some strange brittle consistency.
Brenda had a look of dismay on her face. "Any longer and the remains would have been cremated completely. I don't know what I will be able to learn from this. We might not be able to pull any usable DNA."
"Do we have any idea who this is?" I asked.
"The homeowner?" JD suggested.
"Doesn’t look like there was any furniture in the house,” the lieutenant said.
Brenda shook her head. “I guess you didn't pay attention to the for sale sign out front?"
I looked back into the yard. It was a straight shot. There weren't any walls in my way. I had noticed the sign for Douglas & Associates Realty on my way in, but it didn’t register. My heart leapt into my throat for a moment. Brynn Douglas was representing Madison in the sale of Diver Down. Could the charred corpse be her?"
"I think I might know who this is," I said. "I need to make a few phone calls."
The lieutenant hovered nearby. I asked him if this was where the fire started.
"In my estimation, the rest of the house was doused in gasoline. That tub will hold 50 to 60 gallons. I can't say how much was in there, but I'm guessing whoever did this poured in 10 to 15 gallons, then used another 5 gallon jug to sprinkle gasoline throughout the house. Tossed in a match, and the rest is history."
I pulled my phone from my pocket and called Brynn’s cell phone. To my surprise, she answered after a few rings. So much for my theory about who was in the tub.
"It's good to hear your voice," I said.
"I didn't think I was one of your favorite people, Mr. Wild?”
"Madison's the one selling Diver Down. You're just facilitating it.”
"What can I do for you? I don't suppose this is a social call?"
"I'm at one of your listings. 1625 Seadrift. What can you tell me about the property?"
"Are you interested in buying?"
"Not now, I'm not."
There was a curious tone in her voice. “So, what exactly are you doing there?"
“I’ve got some bad news. The house has burned down."
"Oh, my God!" Brynn gasped. "That's horrible. What happened?"
"We're trying to sort that out."
"Do you know how the fire started?" Brynn asked.
"We have an idea," I said, not wanting to give too much away.
"Was anyone living in the home?" I asked.
"No. It was empty." Brynn hesitated a moment. "Wait, I think Chelsea was showing that property today. I hope she's okay. Was anyone injured?"
"What can you tell me about Chelsea?" I asked.
"She is an associate of mine. Why? Did something happen?"
"What's Chelsea's last name?"
"Jones. Chelsea Jones. Tell me what happened!”
"This may be difficult to hear. We discovered remains on the premises. They haven't been identified yet."
Brynn was silent for a long moment. "Do you need someone to identify the body?"
I cringed. "I don't think that's
possible."
She gasped. "Oh, my God!"
"When was the last time you talked to Chelsea?"
"I'm not really sure. This morning, I think. I didn't really talk to her. She just left a message and said someone called and wanted to see the listing and she was showing it this afternoon."
"What kind of car does she drive?"
"A white Lexus SUV."
My eyes scanned the street. There was a car that matched the description at the curb. It wasn't conclusive proof, but all signs were pointing toward Chelsea as the remains in the bathtub.
“Do you happen to know who she was meeting here for the showing?" I asked.
"She didn't say in her message. I can look through her appointment calendar and see if she logged it. I'm sure she did, it's standard protocol."
"Please let me know what you find out."
"Sure thing," Brynn said.
"This is going to sound like an odd question, but was Chelsea suicidal in any way? Had she ever mentioned depression or taking her own life?"
"Not that I'm aware of," Brenda said.
It seemed unlikely that she would douse the home in gasoline, then set herself on fire in a tub, but I was trying to keep my mind open to all possibilities. "Did she have any enemies? Jealous boyfriend?"
Brynn paused for a moment. "I don't know. We weren't really close. We’d gone out for drinks a few times. A few corporate events. But I tried not to delve into her personal life. I try to keep a professional distance from the people who work for me. I don't like them snooping around my business, so I don't snoop around theirs.”
Glowing embers still floated in the air, and hot wood still popped and crackled. The sour smell of wet ash filled my nostrils. I could almost taste it in the back of my throat.
"I need to ask you a few more questions,” I said. “I’ll be in touch shortly."
"Absolutely. Anything I can do to help."
I hung up and slipped the phone back into my pocket. I told Brenda she, "Might want to pull the dental records of Chelsea Jones. I think that's our victim."
We strolled to the street and talked to one of the deputies.
"Hawthorne's going door-to-door," O'Malley said. "I've been asking around. Neighbor across the street saw a blonde park the SUV and go inside. A few minutes later, she noticed the house was on fire, called 911."
“Run the plates on this SUV. See if they’re registered to Chelsea Jones. Did the neighbor see anybody else?"
"Nope," O'Malley said.
"Who is she?"
O'Malley pointed to the woman. She was fit, in her early 40s, wearing yoga pants. She had shoulder-length brown hair and brown eyes. "Sarah Burnett is her name."
I thanked O'Malley and walked to the woman. She was talking to a firefighter. I introduced myself and spoke with her for a few moments. “How long after the real estate agent arrived did you notice the flames?”
She shrugged, uncertain. “Maybe 15 or 20 minutes.”
“And you didn’t see anyone else on the property?”
Sarah shook her head.
“What can you tell me about the previous owners?”
“Betty Morris. Really sweet older lady. She passed away a few months ago.”
I gave her my card and told Sarah to call me if she remembered any additional details.
We left the scene and climbed into JD's Porsche. He dropped it into gear, banked a u-turn, and navigated his way through the onlookers. We had left the charred remains behind, but the pungent odor stuck in my nostrils. I felt like I needed to take a shower, or blow my nose at the least. The smell had permeated my clothing. It wreaked of kerosene death. The rancid chemical odor of burned plastic and insulation, mixed with wood. The smell of a burned home is never pleasant.
"That was brutal," JD shouted over the wind and music. "Lucky the whole neighborhood didn't catch fire."
"Good thing we didn't have strong winds today," I said.
Jack shivered. "That gives me the willies just thinking about it. I can't think of a worse way to go. Burned alive?" He cringed. "No, thank you!”
"That takes planning," I said. "Somebody had to bring 4, 5 gallon jugs of gasoline onto the property. My guess… somebody killed her and burned her in the tub to cover up the crime."
"Why?" JD asked.
I shrugged. "Robbery? A real estate agent was robbed at gunpoint during a showing two weeks ago."
"Seems like a lot of trouble for a quick cash grab,” JD said.
"It seems like a lot of trouble for a rational person. But maybe we're not dealing with rational."
4
"Where are we going?" I asked with a confused face. We weren’t heading back to the station, or to the marina, or to the bars on Oyster Avenue. It was getting close to happy hour, and after a day like today, we could use a little time to unwind.
"I'm late," JD said. "I gotta do this thing. It won't take very long."
"What thing?"
"You'll see."
"Is it legal?"
Jack sneered at me.
We turned down Commerce Street and cruised past a row of warehouses. Jack pulled into a parking lot and parked the Porsche away from the main entrance—away from any other vehicles. Judging by the rest of the cars in the parking lot, I could see why. There were a couple of older vans that looked like they'd been through the wringer. A few cars with dented quarter panels, bad paint jobs, and lots of Bondo.
The dull thump of a drum set, and the sharp growl of a rock 'n' roll guitar, spilled out from the warehouse. The sound danced across the parking lot and echoed off the other buildings. After a few bars, the muffled sound of a vocalist screaming through a PA joined the mix.
It was painful.
The sound of the vocals hit my ears and made me cringe. I exchanged a glance with Jack.
He grinned, puffed up his chest, and strutted through the parking lot, his long blond hair flowing in the breeze. Sunglasses covered his eyes.
I had my suspicions about what was happening, but I wasn't totally sure.
There were a couple of guys lingering around the entrance, smoking cigarettes. They looked like metal-heads with long hair, leather pants, studded belts, and lots of tattoos.
They gave us a curious look as we passed.
We pushed into the main entrance, and the dull thump of the music got louder and clearer. The place smelled like incense and marijuana.
I didn't think we were here to make a bust.
The long, dim hallway was lined with doors. The old warehouse had been sectioned off into smaller practice spaces for bands. A couple of girls with teased hair, fishnet stockings, and heavy eyeliner hung out in the hallway talking to another rock 'n' roll dude that was tall and rail thin.
We waited outside the door of the practice room where all the ruckus was coming from. The band stopped playing abruptly, and the horrible singer kept belting out a few lyrics before he realized he had lost his accompaniment. There was some discussion amongst the band members within the room, but the sound was too muffled to make out what was being said.
The door to the practice room opened a few moments later, and a tall, lanky guy with long black hair stepped into the hallway, looking confident. He glanced back into the room and gave a thumbs-up to the rest of the band and said, “We're gonna rock it, man. I know I'll be hearing from you guys soon."
He strutted down the hall, his array of skull pendants around his neck jingling.
The guys in the band rolled their eyes.
Jack poked his head into the rehearsal room. "I'm here for the audition."
I arched a curious eyebrow at him.
The drummer, the bass player, and a guitarist all exchanged a sour look after scoping out Jack.
The drummer had long dark hair that was almost black. He sat behind a candy apple red drum set with lots of symbols and toms and a double bass drum.
The bass guitar player was tall and lanky. He wore a leather vest, no shirt, leather pants, and had dark hair as well.
&
nbsp; The guitar player was shorter with long dark hair. He played a Les Paul standard that was painted black with pearl inlay skulls in the rosewood fretboard. He wore a couple skull rings on his right hand.
They all had generous helpings of tattoos, chains, and accessories. These were kids in their 20s that had found '80s hair-metal and were fighting the good fight to revive it. JD was twice their age, and I don't think they were thrilled about the prospect of having a frontman who was in his 50s.
The drummer seemed to be the spokesperson for the band. "Sorry, dude. That guy was the last person we're auditioning today. I gotta get to work. Besides, I think we already found our singer."
"Not that guy, I hope," JD said. "I've heard farts that sounded better."
"No. Not that guy," the drummer said.
JD looked at his watch. "Give me 8 bars of anything you want to play. I'll sing along. If it sucks, stop playing."
The band exchanged glances, conferring almost telepathically.
"Okay, old-timer," the drummer said. "Eight bars."
Jack took his place behind the microphone, used his T-shirt to wipe the previous singer's spit from the surface of the silver domed windscreen, took a deep breath, and prepared to belt it out.
The drummer clicked his sticks together, counting off four beats, then the band launched into a metal hit from the '80s.
The wall of speakers behind the bass player and guitarist pushed sound waves across the tiny room like a freight train. It was way too loud for that small space. I put my fingers in my ears to save my hearing and watched the sideshow begin. The bass drum thumped my chest, and the chainsaw-like guitar sawed through the high frequencies. The bass drum rumbled, and the posters on the wall vibrated.
The two groupies on the couch grooved with the music, putting their hands in the air, almost like they were at a concert.
Jack let them play 4 bars, getting into the groove. Then he opened his mouth and screamed the vocals.
5
JD belted the lyrics in perfect pitch. He owned the microphone, and even though it was just a rehearsal studio, he strutted around the space like it was the stage of a giant arena. He flipped his long hair and hit the shrill tenor notes with ease.
