Arsonist (9 page)

CHAPTER 18

Jesse Brichard finished his shift and found his sedan in the airport parking lot. He sat in the car for a moment and then took out the silver flask that was in the glove compartment and threw back a few drinks, spilling some drops on his pilot’s uniform.

He remembered why he’d wanted to be a pilot: the idea of freedom. The bastards could take your house and car, your money…but they couldn’t take the sky from you. His father had been a pilot and his father before him. It was a family tradition. But with each successive generation the pay and benefits shrunk to the point that he now worked a second full-time job just to support his family. It’d gotten so he could make more managing a fast-food restaurant than he could making sure three hundred people landed safely and got home to their families. Ah, to hell with it, he thought. Maybe they would just replace him outright with robots?

He started the car and pulled away and before long was on Interstate 5 heading home to his family in Claremont. The air was warm as evening was falling and it was a salty ocean air that sat well on his tongue. He turned on the oldies station and Moody Blues’
Nights in White Satin
was playing.

He got home and pulled into his garage. His wife’s truck was already there and he took another swig of the b
eer in his hand and headed inside. His two boys, Hank and Dover, sprinted past him, Dover yelling something about Hank stealing the last orange juice.

“Hello to you too, boys,” Jesse said.

His wife was standing in the kitchen, stirring a bowl of fruit and whipped cream for the topping on an angel food cake. Jesse came over and stuck his finger in the bowl and came away with a big gob that he promptly stuck in his mouth.

“Wait till it’s done,” his wife said.

“What? No hello from you either?”

She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “How was your day?”

“Shit, but what’re you gonna do?” he said, going to the fridge and getting out a bottle of beer.

“Jess, I’ve told you about that language in front of the boys.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just Molly. She won’t let up. Today she told me,
me
, that my uniforms are too wrinkled and if I want to keep flying her planes I need to look professional. She’s like twenty and she’s my boss ‘cause she has some fucking degree?”

“Jess, the language.”

“I’m sorry, but I get excited about this.” He popped open the beer and took a long swig. “What’d you guys do today?”

“Nothing much. When the boys came home from school I took a nap and they played video games.”

“Those damn games. You didn’t have those when I was kid and you actually had to go out and play with other kids.”

She shrugged and went to the oven.

Jesse went into the living room and lay down as his boys ran up the stairs. He turned on the television and watched a random show on HBO as night fell outside.

Jesse Brichard had a dreamless sleep so it was odd when he heard voices. There was a male voice, calm and rusty, almost like it had a grain to it. His wife was crying and begging and the man was speaking to her softly. He’d heard this conversation before. His own father was a boozer: beer with breakfast and lunch and hard liquor for dinner. Sometimes on top of coming home drunk from the bar.
He remembered nights of his mother crying and him in the next room listening, hoping that they would stop fighting long enough to remember that they loved each other.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood and Jesse was awakened by the impression that someone was watching him.

He opened his eyes.

Above him stood a man
; bald and wearing a nicely cut Italian suit. He was handsome, or at least what would be considered handsome, except for the fact that his skin looked greasy and he had a thick forest of stubble on his cheeks and chin. The man smiled and tilted his head, like a dog observing something amusing.

“Hi
, Jesse. Bye, Jesse.”

The last thing Jesse felt was the thick metal hammer slamming into the top of his skull.

CHAPTER 19

Ocean Beach Park was nearly empty this early in the morning as the sun came up and roasted the sky a bright orange and pink. A couple of joggers were out, a few people walking dogs, but the majority of the dozen or so people out there were surfers. They were like a primitive tribe. With their own language, their own customs, and violently opposed to outsiders. In the fifties and sixties, even the police tolerated assaults against tourists in known local surfing spots. For the surfers, there was a spiritual aspect to surfing that made it different from all other, not just sports, but activities. It was communing with nature by submitting to its will. You were at the mercy of the ocean and if it chose to do so that day, it would show you the majesty of creation. And if it chose to that day, it would take your life as payment for your trespass.

Many of the surfers were rebellious youth. Religion and regular church attendance were not part of their lives. This—enveloping oneself in nature—was their form of worship. Nature demanded respect and nothing but the highest standards
, from both the surfers and those on the beach observing. But like everything else, standards had deteriorated.

Of
the new generation of surfers, half were drug addicts and half were maniacs. Fights were common and drug use on the beach followed by near-drowning in the sea as much so. Despite this, there were still those that, like descendants of some great ancestors from long ago, had faith in the ocean and saw surfing as those early surfers had. They were fewer, and didn’t come out when the beaches were packed to the brim with valley youth and tourists, but they were there.

Jon Stanton belonged to this latter group.

He waxed his board and zipped up his wetsuit. The sand was just warming and it felt silky as it ran through his toes. He stood and listened to the waves crackle against the shore for a long time before picking up his board and going in.

The water was cool, almost to the point of being cold. He sat quietly and adjusted and then began paddling out. When he was far enough, he turned toward shore, and waited for his set.

The waves were low at first but as time went on they grew. Eventually, all the surfers that were asleep in their cars or lying on beach towels waiting for their set filled the water. They dotted the massive waves like seals fleeing some predator, zipping back and forth and taking massive falls as their boards flew in one direction and they flew in another.

Stanton hit his stride on one wave in particular. It was a smooth ride and he was steady on it. He pointed his toes over the board and stood straight, as if the wave was a regal caravan carrying him back to shore. It lasted only thirty or so seconds, but it felt like years. He thought of his children, his two sons that he hadn’t seen in
months, and wondered whether they thought about him anymore. He tried so hard to see them and be their father, but he knew his ex-wife was pouring poison in their ears. His sons saw him out of an obligation, some duty they’d learned at school, but they had turned to their stepfather for the guidance and love he was supposed to provide.

When he got back to shore after a good hour, he went to his towel and lay down. The sun was bright now and hot and it felt good against his face. There was a shadow nearby and he looked to see Billy Sakamoto zipping up his suit.

“You’re still wearing your badge,” Stanton shouted.

“Oh,” Billy said, noticing the detective shield around his neck. “You goin’ back in?”

“Not for a while. I’ll hold it.”

Billy tossed it to him, finished zipping up, and then walked over with the board under his arm.

“I’m actually glad I ran into you, Jon. I wanted to ask you how you and your new partner are doing.”

“Fine.”

“Stephen’s been treating you good?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Any reason they put you two together? At least any reason they told you?”

“No. They just said it was a random pairing.”

“Hm, it could be I guess. Did you know his last three partners asked for transfers or new assignments?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Stephen’s got a reputation. He’s kinda crazy, Jon. One of his partners was Jensen over in Missing Persons. You should talk to him. He told me Stephen once beat the shit outta this perp they were interrogating ‘cause he wouldn’t tell them where the kid he’d snatched was. It was a bad enough beating that the guy had to go to the hospital afterwards. He’d broken several bones and fractured his skull.”

Stanton shrugged. “Sounds like a product of the rumor mill.”

“Maybe. Just watch your back is all I’m saying. Partnerships are like marriages. What happens to him happens to you and what he does you do.”

“I appreciate it, Billy. Thanks.”

Billy nodded and then headed for the sea as Stanton lay back, letting the sun cook his face and dry his wet skin.

It was nearly an hour later when Billy came out and got his badge and said goodbye. Stanton had fallen asleep. Though he’d been out here two hours he wasn’t worried about a sunburn; for some reason, he never burned.

He rose and stretched before gathering up his towel. A message was on his cell phone; it was from Childs.

Call me back, bye
.

Stanton dialed his number.

“Jon, where you at?”

“Heading in after a shower. What’s up?”

“We got something for you and Gunn. Another arson.”

“What about Sell and Wharton. They just cleared two of their cases.”

“You too busy?”

“No, it’s just that arsons aren’t really my thing. I think Wharton used to be a firefighter.”

“This is…this is something else. I want you on it. Drop everything else and come down. Gunn’s already on his way.”

“All right, text me the address.”

As Stanton got into his car, he received a text message. He thought it was the address but then he received another one. When he opened his texts, there was the address from Childs and then a text from Gunn:

Already down here. Pretty bad. Sick fuck killed whole family
.

CHAPTER 20

Stanton stopped in front of the home and saw several firefighters walking around; some of their faces were caked with dark soot.
A group of them was on the lawn passing around a jug of water and Gunn stood with them. He wasn’t laughing or cracking jokes as he usually did around a macho crowd. All of them looked sullen and angry.

As Stanton walked up, Gunn said something to the firefighters and they nodded. He walked over to Stanton and shook his head.

“Fucking bastard,” Gunn said, looking at the charred remains of what was once a house.

The entire frame had burnt to the ground. The only thing standing was the chimney, and oddly enough, part of the door frame.

“How many?” Stanton said.

“Whole damn family. Parents and two kids. They’re tied up in the middle of what we think was the living room. Fucker even tied the dog to ‘em.”

“I need to see it.”

Finding
one of the forensic techs, they took out two pairs of sterile booties from their bag, placing them over their shoes. Stanton slapped on latex gloves and a mask over his mouth and nose. They entered the house through what would have been the wall next to the front door. Stanton could see furniture melted to the floors. Every inch of carpet had burned away and it had gotten down to bare cement as there was no basement.

Up what Stanton guessed was once a hallway and to the right, there was a mass of charred remains. Two techs from CSI were there
, snapping photos and taking measurements of various angles in the room. Benny, the department’s in-house arson investigator, was standing behind them watching.

“Get him out of here,” Stanton said to Gunn.

Gunn responded without asking for a reason. He walked over to Benny and whispered something in his ear. Stanton could hear Benny say, “What? What the fuck for?” Gunn whispered something else and Benny packed up his gear and left.

“I hope you got another arson investigator
‘cause I ain’t got no idea what I’m lookin’ at,” Gunn said, walking back toward Stanton.

“Yeah, I texted her on the way down here. She should be calling me.”

“Oh, your little filly, huh? Trying to pad her hours a little bit?”

“She didn’t charge us for last time. I don’t think she cares about money. Do we have IDs yet?”

“Yeah,” Gunn said, taking out his iPhone and retrieving a notepad app, “Jesse and Darlene Brichard. Their two boys, aged ten and eleven. He’s an airline pilot and she’s a stay at home mom. Neighbors said they’re a good family. No shady people ever comin’ over or nothin’ like that. Pulled their criminal histories, nothing but a few speeding tickets.”

Stanton walked over to
one of the forensic techs standing over the bodies. He was holding a camera and leaning over, trying to snap a photo of some teeth on one of the corpses.

“Jon, Stephen,” the tech said without looking up from what he was doing, “how are you guys?”

“Better than these poor fucks,” Gunn said.

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

“Fuck me, you CSIs always have to be such fucking nerds?”

“Matty,” Stanton interrupted, “we need to preserve everything for the arson investigator. Don’t let the ME’s guys take the bodies until she has a look.”

“Not sure I can help you with that, Detective. These bodies are barely held together. I’ve never seen a fire burn so hot. It was like an incinerator in here. Even some of the bones are little more than ash. Big ones, the tibula and fibula, spine, they’re still there, but the bones in all the hands and feet are done. The two little ones might break down and go with the wind any second. I’ve never seen a fire so hot.”

“You already said that,” Gunn said, annoyed. “Just do your best and don’t fuck
anythin’ up until Jon’s girlfriend gets here.”

Stanton ignored him and leaned down. The bodies were burned to an absolute black. On many burn victims, there would be patches of flesh color or the red muscle exposed underneath skin that had been seared away.
Nothing like that with these victims. They were burned so thoroughly that there wasn’t a single inch of flesh that hadn’t turned to ash. He had never seen anything like it.

“Any of the neighbors see anything?”

Gunn shrugged. “We canvased up and down but not that many people home from work yet. We’ll try again tonight; see if anyone saw anything when they was heading out to work this morning.”

Stanton’s phone rang; it was Emma.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Jon. I got your text. Look I’m sorry but I only did that one favor for you guys to help out that kid. I can’t come to your scene.”

“I’ve never even heard of anything like this, Emma. Even the bones have turned to ash. The fire must’ve been two or three thousand degrees. How can a fire burn that hot?”

“
Specific spots in flashpoints can certainly get up that high. I’ve never heard of an entire house getting that temperature, though. The victim must’ve been close to a fuel source during flashpoint.”

“Victims. They’re bound with chain. It’s melted
but I can see remnants of it on the ground surrounding them.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I can’t help you. I’ve told you before; I don’t work with law enforcement.”

“Could you just come supervise our guy and make sure he doesn’t screw it up?”

“Sorry, Jon. But if he nails the wrong suspect again, I will testify for the defense about his incompetence. In fact, I’ve contacted the
fire marshal. He shouldn’t be investigating fires anymore.”

“Let me guess; the
fire marshal’s assistant said they’ll get the message to him and give you a call back, but so far no one’s contacted you?”

“That’s just normal—”

“Yes, it is normal. And your complaint went into a trash bin. Benny’s going to retire on this job and when he leaves, he picks his successor who’ll be just as bad as he is. That’s how government works. I’m asking for your help.”

“I know, and you have no idea how much I would like to help you. But I can’t. I’m sorry. I understand if you want to cancel our date.”

“No,” Stanton said, “no, our work shouldn’t interfere with that. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay, bye.”

Gunn said, “No go, huh?”

“Get Benny back here. But don’t let him out of your sight for a second.”