Fireproof (11 page)

She was back. He was surprised. Even more surprised by the flush of sexual excitement he felt. That hadn’t happened in a long time.

He had spent the morning watching the investigators parade in and out of the alley. A rare treat. Something he didn’t get to do very often. And the risk he’d taken to dump the body was reaping greater rewards than he’d expected.

He wished he could see what they were bringing out in the brown paper bags. How could there possibly be so much? But of course they would be collecting evidence for the fire. They were even checking the Dumpster, going through the garbage piece by piece. He wanted to venture closer. He wanted to see everything.

He had an insatiable curiosity. That was partly what had gotten him to start his little habit. More like a hobby, really. Though it wasn’t until recently that he’d begun keeping track of some details after discovering what a sense of accomplishment it gave him to go over the kills weeks later.

In his logbook, he tried to record as many interesting tidbits as he could. Changing things up was so much easier when you
could look back on the details and think about them. Sometimes remembering was almost as exciting as doing.

Well, not really as satisfying. But it placated him during those days or weeks—sometimes months—when he knew he’d have a dry spell and wouldn’t be able to get on the road.

Just this morning, after they found the body in the alley, he had pulled out his logbook and flipped to a page from another kill about a month ago. He had read his notes, memorizing the passage as if it were a poem or a psalm: “Cold night. Steam rises when you pull the guts out of the body. The blood is so warm on my hands.”

Actually, it did sound poetic.

The log helped control his curiosity. Allowed him to have patience. Even now, remembering that image and recalling how the blood felt on his skin were enough to soothe him. Enough to stop him from letting his curiosity push him to do something reckless just to get more information. After all, he knew how close he could get to a scene, where he could stand, how many different places he could move around to without drawing attention. There was a point where blending in crossed over to suspicion, and he had always been very good at sensing where that line was.

He watched the alley until they took away the body. Interesting how it looked in that bag, like a long black cocoon. He liked the look of body bags. They were so much better than garbage bags—strong, more efficient. Definitely wouldn’t leak. Sure would keep his vehicle cleaner. He was wondering where he could buy one of those when he saw the woman cop back on the scene.

Earlier he’d seen her getting into an ambulance. It made him smile because he was close enough to get a glimpse of her face. She
hadn’t been pleased with the tall guy in the trench coat helping her. And she wasn’t pleased about getting inside the ambulance either.

Confident and stubborn
. Sort of like him. A rebel. A kindred spirit.

He definitely needed a closer look at her.

Tully didn’t like what he saw. Maggie looked battered, her skin washed out, her eyes a bit glassy. He could tell Racine noticed, too. Maggie claimed she had “grabbed some breakfast with Platt.” He was the one who had dropped her back at the crime scene, but Tully could hardly believe that either. How could Benjamin Platt, army colonel, MD, Mr. Button-down, have decided Maggie was good to go?

But then Tully reminded himself that no one—not even the good doctor—could tell Maggie what to do. That she had listened to Tully earlier and gone to the hospital had been some kind of fluke, a blip on the O’Dell stubborn scale.

He had kept his eyes on her while she talked with Kunze. He watched as their boss took her on his usual roller-coaster ride before depositing her back on the ground, dizzy and spitting mad. Actually, spitting mad was preferable to the hollowed-out look that had preceded it.

“You knew he wouldn’t let you off the hook,” Tully said. “He made me do the same thing last year. Just as well to get it over with.”

Yet the whole time he was telling Maggie this, Tully was thinking
Kunze couldn’t have chosen an absolute worst time. She still looked vulnerable and now was dealing with new wounds. Seemed like a low blow.

After Assistant Director Cunningham’s death, Tully had been on mandatory suspension for shooting and killing the man responsible for exposing Cunningham and Maggie—as well as hundreds of others—to the Ebola virus. It was Tully who Kunze should have been upset with. The killer, an old rival of Tully’s, had meant for Tully to be the target. He’d even sent a note at the bottom of a box of doughnuts, knowing his old friend wouldn’t resist the temptation, especially since it had been sent to their offices at Quantico.

But Tully hadn’t been there that morning and Raymond Kunze—Cunningham’s replacement—felt it necessary to remind Tully of his absence as often as he possibly could. If that’s what he wanted to do, that was fine. But Tully wished Kunze would leave Maggie out of it. He could take care of himself. He couldn’t take care of Maggie—she’d never let him.

Gwen said that both he and Maggie were suffering from survivor’s guilt. That’s what they called it. Seeing a shrink wouldn’t rinse it from the system. Even Kunze had to understand that. It was just another form of punishment on the assistant director’s long list.

“But James Kernan,” Maggie said, still obviously rattled by Kunze’s order. “The man was ancient and loony when I had him for Psychology 101.”

“He knows the guy can get under your skin. So don’t let him.”

“Who’s James Kernan?” Racine wanted to know.

The three of them were making their way back to the alley and the Dumpster.

“He’s a psychiatrist. Old school. His method of analysis is to badger, trick, and insult his patients.”

“Isn’t that what all psychiatrists do? Some are just more subtle than others.”

“She has a point,” Tully said, thinking how Gwen could get him to admit to things without his realizing it—and he was her lover, not her patient.

The barricades erected that morning remained. Crime scene technicians and fire investigators still worked both buildings. Small groups of law enforcement officers huddled by the vehicles. Some packed evidence bags for transport. Others were on their cell phones. Several took cigarette breaks, the smoke rising into a cloud that Tully found himself thinking was just a bit too reminiscent of the one that had just been put out.

Keith Ganza stood at the back of his van, which was parked in the entry to the alley. He looked ready to leave, back in street clothes, his Tyvek coveralls wadded up under his arm as he loaded brown paper bags sealed with bright red evidence labels.

“Did you find anything that might ID the victim?” Tully pointed to the stash of bags already packed in the van.

“Ask me tomorrow,” Ganza said. “Right now it’s just a bunch of charred garbage. I think I got a couple good chunks of material I can test for residues. He obviously poured gasoline back there. Wood, fabric, insulation are highly absorbent. Chromatography should break down the chemical composition of the hydrocarbons.”

Tully pretended he understood the technical mumbo-jumbo, but he was tired. It’d been a long day and he was sure his face registered that his mind was blank.

“So you’ll be able to give us a blueprint of what exactly he used to start the fire?” Tully asked.

“If it’s gasoline, the chromatography is so accurate I should be able to differentiate between makes and grades.” Ganza said
this matter-of-factly. “Each grade has a different chromatography fingerprint, depending on the proportion of various chemicals present. Refineries make gasoline according to café standards for a variety of state and federal regulations.”

“Are you saying you’ll be able to tell where the gasoline was refined and possibly where it was distributed from?” Racine asked.

“In some cases the chemical breakdown can be so accurate we’ve been able to identify and trace the gasoline to a specific gas station. In one case we were able to trace it to a particular vehicle.”

“Smells like diesel,” Maggie said, walking around Ganza’s van.

Tully sniffed the air. Smelled like the bottom of his kitchen oven. One of these days he needed to learn how to clean that burned crispy gunk that stuck to the rack.

“Good nose,” Ganza said. “If it is diesel that’ll explain why the body didn’t burn. Diesel fuel is combustible, not flammable. Doesn’t burn as easily. Soaks in or dissipates before giving off enough vapor to ignite. Also narrows it down a bit. Not as many inner cities sell diesel. But the interstate is close by.”

“Interesting choice. Why make harder for him and easier for us?” Racine asked.

“Maybe he just used what was handy,” Tully guessed. “Most criminals don’t go out of their way to buy something special. They use what’s available. What they already have.”

“Or find at the scene,” Maggie added.

“But someone who’s done it before and is most likely planning on doing it again?” Racine didn’t buy their explanation. “Wouldn’t he be more careful?”

“Serial criminals don’t expect to be caught,” Maggie told her. “The fact that they’ve gotten away with it several times usually
makes them more reckless, not more cautious.” She turned toward the alley. “Can you show me exactly where the body was?”

Tully led the way. Everyone else had gone. Ganza was the last to collect his samples. That’s why the movement at the other end of the alley was so easy to spot.

The man was hunched down, sneaking underneath the rusted stairs of a fire escape, staying along the far wall. He was about twenty feet from the alley’s exit. He froze and stayed low in the shadows, apparently unaware that Tully had seen him.

Maggie thumped the back of her hand into Tully’s arm. Racine stopped cold.

“So the body was by the Dumpster,” Maggie said casually, keeping her gait steady, her voice even.

Each of their steps came with a crunch, telegraphing their approach. Had the arsonist come back? It wouldn’t be the first time. He must have been waiting around and thought they were finally finished.

Racine reached inside her jacket. Maggie touched her elbow and shook her head. She waved her thumb over her shoulder and Racine got the hint.

“Hey, I’ve got to make a call,” she said. “I’ll catch up with you two later.”

She turned a bit too quickly on the balls of her feet, but otherwise Tully thought she did a fine acting job. Racine had just cleared the corner to the entrance when they got to the Dumpster.

The guy started slithering along the wall again, and Tully wanted to stop him. If he got to the exit a few strides ahead, he might get away. Tully tried to remember what was on the other side of the alley. Another street. He could hear the traffic.

He didn’t need to make the decision. The guy stood and broke into a full-throttled run. Tully did, too. The guy was fast. Not so fast that he couldn’t sling a backpack under Tully’s feet, and Tully came down hard. His elbow smashed against the pavement with a sick crack. Pain shot up his shoulder, all the way to his back molars.

Maggie hurdled over Tully’s long sprawled legs. She glanced back and heard him yell, “Go, go. I’m okay.”

His face was contorted in pain and Maggie knew he wasn’t okay, but she kept going.

“FBI, stop,” she yelled at the man as he got to the end of the alley.

He didn’t even flinch. Slowed just enough to skid around the corner.

Maggie followed. Depending on which building Racine was coming around it could be Maggie’s footrace to lose.

The man looked over his shoulder. He saw how close she was and jolted into the street. He danced through traffic. Brakes screeched. Horns blasted. The hydraulics of a Metro bus whined and the man bounced off its bumper. He didn’t look hurt. If anything, it had propelled him a few steps more ahead of her.

Once back on the sidewalk the guy broke into a sprint, weaving and shoving his way through. There weren’t many people. Most were homeless. They moved slowly or simply stood and watched. Maggie was a runner, tracking ten to twenty miles a week. Ordinarily
this footrace would be a cakewalk. Not today. The thump in her head was accompanied now by a ringing in her ears. But she stayed with him.