Count to Ten (3 page)

“My daughter’s in college,” Larry returned, his voice rough.

And mine will be soon enough,
Reed thought, then banished the thought from his mind. Thoughts like that would drive a man crazy. “I’ll get the medical examiner out here,” he said. “Along with my team. You look like shit, Larry. Both of you do. Let’s go outside so I can debrief your crew, then go back to the station and get some rest.”

Larry nodded dully. “You forgot to say ‘sir.’” It was an attempt at levity that fell miserably flat. “You never said ‘sir,’ not in all the years you rode with me.”

They’d been good years. Larry was one of the best -captains he’d ever had. “Sir,” Reed corrected himself -gently. He pulled Larry’s arm, making his old friend move away from the charred obscenity that had once housed a young woman’s soul. “Let’s go.”

Sunday, November 26, 2:55 A.M.

“I’ve got the lights set up, Reed.”

Reed looked up from the notes he’d been making sitting in the cab of his SUV. Ben Trammell stood a few feet away, his eyes troubled. Ben was the newest member of his team and like most of the team members, had been a firefighter for years before joining the fire marshal’s office. This was, however, Ben’s first death as an investigator and the strain was already visible in his eyes.

“You okay?” Reed asked and Ben jerked a nod. “Good.” Reed gestured to his photographer who waited in the warmth of his own car. Foster got out, his camera in his hands and a camcorder hanging around his neck.

“Let’s go,” Reed said briskly, walking up the driveway, around the debris left by the firefighters. They’d work on processing everything outside when it was daylight. “For now we touch nothing. We’re going to document the scene and I’m going to take some readings. Then we’ll see what we have.”

“Did you call for a warrant?” Foster asked.

“Not yet. I want to make sure whatever warrant I request covers the right things.” He had a very bad feeling about the body lying in the Doughertys’ kitchen and being a meticulous man, he was mentally preparing for all the legal angles. “We’re good to go in for origin and cause. Any more and I want a court order, especially since the owners aren’t here to give us permission to enter.”

Reed led them through the foyer, past the staircase and into the kitchen where the lights shone bright as day. The room was destroyed. The glass had blown from the windows and the ceiling had collapsed in one spot, making it difficult to cross the room without climbing over fallen roof supports. A thick layer of ash covered the tile floor. But most riveting was the victim, who lay where Larry Fletcher had first discovered her.

For a long moment all three men stood motionless, staring down at the victim, forcing their minds to process what was more horrific in the light than it had been in the dark. With a deep breath, Reed finally pushed himself into action, pulling on a pair of latex gloves before pulling his mini-tape-recorder from his pocket. “Foster, start with the camcorder. We’ll get stills once we’ve done our first walk-through.”

He lifted his own recorder to his mouth as Foster began to shoot tape. “This is Lieutenant Reed Solliday, accompanied by Marshals Ben Trammell and Foster Richards. This is the Dougherty household, twenty-six November, oh-three-hundred. Outside conditions, twenty-one degrees Fahrenheit with winds from the northeast at fifteen miles per hour.” He drew a breath. “A single victim has been found in the kitchen. The skin is charred. Facial detail has been destroyed. Gender is not immediately apparent. Small stature indicates a female which is consistent with witness accounts.”

Reed crouched next to the body and with his free hand pulled the sniffer from the bag he wore slung over one shoulder. Carefully he passed the instrument over the body, the sniffer’s tone instantly switching to a high-pitched whine. He wasn’t surprised. He glanced up at Ben. He could make it a trainable moment at least. “Ben?”

“High concentrations of hydrocarbons,” Ben said tightly. “Indicates presence of accelerants.”

“Good. Which suggests?”

“Which suggests the victim was doused in gasoline before being lit.”

“Gasoline, or something.” Reed focused, not allowing the stench to cloud his senses or the image of the dead young girl to tear at his heart. The first was nearly impossible, the second completely so. Still, he had a job to do. “The ME will be able to tell us exactly what was used on her. Good, Ben.”

Ben cleared his throat. “Do you want me to call for the dog?”

“I did already. Larramie’s on duty tonight. He should have Buddy here in twenty minutes.” Reed straightened. “Foster, get the victim from the other side, will you?”

“Yep.” Foster videotaped the scene from several more angles. “What else?”

Reed had moved to the wall. “Get a shot of this entire wall, then close-ups of all these marks.” He leaned closer with a frown. “What the hell?”

“Narrow ‘V,’” Ben noted, steadier now. “The fire started down at the baseboard then moved up the wall fast.” He looked over at Reed. “Really fast. Like with a fuse?”

Reed nodded. “Yeah.” He ran the sniffer across the wall and once again they heard its high-pitched whine. “Accelerant up the wall. A chemical fuse.” Unsettled, he studied the wall. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that before.”

“He used gas from the stove,” Foster commented, turning the camera toward what was left of the appliances. He leaned closer, capturing the area between the stove and the wall. “The bolt’s been removed. Had to have been deliberate.”

“I thought so,” Reed murmured, then brought his recorder back to his mouth. “The gas was flowing into the room, rising to the ceiling. The fire was ignited low to the floor, then traveled up this line of accelerant. We’ll take samples here. But what about this?” He stepped back and took in the pockmarks that mottled the width of the wall.

“Something exploded,” Ben said.

“You’re right.” Reed ran the sniffer along the wall. Short screeching bursts emerged, but no long whine as before. “It’s like napalm, the way it sticks to the wall.”

“Look.” Ben was crouching near the door that connected the kitchen to the laundry room. “Plastic pieces.” He looked up, puzzled. “They’re blue.”

Reed bent down to look. They did look blue. Quickly his eyes took in several more pieces scattered across the floor and a picture formed in his mind. It was a photo in a book. An arson investigation manual, at least fifteen years old. “Plastic eggs.”

Ben blinked. “Eggs?”

“I’ve seen this before. I bet if we can get enough pieces, the lab will be able to put them together like a plastic egg, like kids hunt at Easter. The arsonist fills it with accelerant, either solid or a viscous liquid like polyurethane, runs a fuse through a hole in one end. He lights the fuse and the pressure from the blast blows the egg apart, spewing the accelerant all over.”

Ben looked impressed. “That explains the burn patterns.”

“It does. It also goes to show if you do this job long enough, you’ll see it all. Foster, get all the pieces and their location on tape, then close-up stills of everything in the room. I’m going to call in for a warrant to cover us on the origin and source samples, too. I don’t want any lawyer -telling us we can use the search samples for the arson, but not for the assault on that poor girl.”

“Cover your ass,” Foster muttered. “Damn lawyers.”

“We’ll get the plastic pieces after Larramie and the dog are finished. Maybe there’s a piece big enough for Latent to get a print.”

“You optimist, you,” Foster said, still muttering.

“Just take the pictures. Also get pictures of the doors and first-floor windows, especially the locks. I want to know how he got in here.”

Foster moved his camera away from his face long enough to stare at Reed. “You know if that girl’s a homicide, they’re going to yank this case right out from under you.”

He’d already thought of that. “I don’t think so. I’ll have to share, but there’s plenty enough arson here for us to keep our hands in the pot. For now, we’re here. We’ve got the ball. So move it into field-goal territory, okay?”

Foster rolled his eyes. He wasn’t a sports fan. “Fine.”

“Ben, there are two cars in the garage. The old ladies said the Doughertys had the Buick. Find out who owned the other one. And, Foster, at first light, I want you out there snapping pictures of the ground. With all this mud, he’s bound to have left us something.”

“Optimist,” Foster muttered once again.

Sunday, November 26, 2:55 P.M.

His thoughts had cleared after a good night’s sleep and now he could consider exactly what he had accomplished. And what he had not. He sat with his hands neatly folded on his desk, staring out the window, analyzing the events of the night. This was the time to determine what went well so that he could do those things again. Conversely, he needed to decide what had not gone well and whether to fix or eliminate those things. Or perhaps even add something new. He’d take it point by point. Keeping it in order. It was the best way.

The first point was the explosion. His mouth curved. That had gone
very
well, art and science all rolled into one. His little firebomb worked perfectly, the design easy to implement. Not a single moving part. Elegant in its simplicity.

And very successful. He grimaced a little as he tested his sore knee. Maybe a little too successful, he thought, remembering the force of the blast. It had knocked him off his feet, throwing him to his hands and knees as he’d run down the Doughertys’ front walk. He guessed he’d cut that fuse a little too close. He’d wanted ten seconds to get out of the house and down to the street. Mentally he counted it out. It had been more like seven seconds. He needed ten. Ten was very important.

The next time, he’d cut the fuse a little longer.

The first egg he’d put in the kitchen worked beautifully, just like his prototype. The second egg, the one he’d put on the Doughertys’ bed... He’d intended to kill the old man and his wife, then burn them in their own bed. When he’d discovered they weren’t there, the second bomb became symbolic, but ultimately not a viable part of his plan.

He’d realized as he stood ready to light its fuse that by the time he ran downstairs and lit the fuse for the kitchen egg that the upstairs one would already have blown. That blast might have set off the gas before he was out of the house, trapping him inside. So he’d left it there, hoping it would blow when the fire spread. Judging from the way the fire had burned through the roof of the house, he believed that had happened. But had it not, the police may have found it and learned more than he wanted them to.

So even though the concept of two bombs was sweet, lighting them simultaneously was impractical, the risk too great. From now on, he’d stick with one. Everything else about the explosion itself had been a textbook success. Everything had gone just as he’d planned. Well, not entirely.

Which brought him to the second point. The girl. His smile widened to a grin, wicked and... powerful. Just thinking about her made his body tighten.

When she begged, when she tried to fight, something inside him had snapped and he’d used her. Completely. -Savagely. Until she lay on the floor quivering, unable to say a word.
That’s the way it should be. The way they all should be. Quiet.
If not voluntarily, then by force. His grin faded. But he’d used her without a condom, which was incredibly stupid. He hadn’t considered it then, he’d been too wrapped up in the moment. Once again, he’d been lucky. The fire would take care of any evidence. At least he’d had the presence of mind to douse her with gasoline before he ran. She’d be destroyed, along with anything of his own he’d left behind when he’d run.

Which left point three. His escape. He hadn’t been seen running to his own car. Lucky, lucky. Next time he couldn’t count on that kind of luck. He’d have to come up with a better means of escape. One that, even were he spotted, would do the police no good. He smiled. He knew just what to do there.

He considered his plan. It was good. But, he had to admit, it was the sex that had made the evening complete. He’d killed before. He’d taken sex before. But now, having experienced murder and sex together, he couldn’t imagine one without the other.

It should come as no surprise, really. It was, he supposed, his one... weakness. And perhaps his greatest strength. Of all the weapons he’d ever wielded, sex was the finest. The most basic.

Of all the ways to put a woman in her place, it was the very best. Young, old... it didn’t really matter. The enjoyment, the release, was in the taking—and knowing they would never go a day without remembering that they were weak. And he was strong.

His biggest problem was that he’d let them live. It was almost what had gotten him caught before. It was almost what had earned him a punishment far greater than he’d experienced in the laughable juvenile detention system. He’d learned from that, too, as evidenced by Caitlin Burnette. If one planned to rape a woman, make sure she didn’t live to tell the tale.

But he had to be completely honest. Technically, the night had gone off much better than he’d dared hope. Realistically, he’d failed. He’d missed his target. In the light of day, the fire, even taking Caitlin, paled. This couldn’t be about fire. The fire could only be the tool. This was about payment. Retribution. Old lady Dougherty had escaped her fate. She was out of town. For Thanksgiving. He’d gotten that much from the girl. But she’d come back and when she did, he’d be waiting.