Archer Mayor - St. Albans Fire

His boss shrugged. “I know Johnson’s on vacation from your office. How’s Ross doing with the Wilkens homicide?”

Michael knew Gunther was merely being polite. It was unlikely he hadn’t been keeping tabs, but again, the man had his own style. “He’s pretty busy. I doubt anyone’s nose’ll be put out of joint if you pitch in, and I’d appreciate the help. I’m more of a hardware man. Not too crazy about dealing with grieving families.”

Gunther nodded as if he’d just been invited, instead of having driven all this way to participate. “Okay, if you’re sure. Is it definitely arson?”

“Yup. I got multiple sources, trailer lines, what I think is glue spread on the walls to carry the fire down from upstairs.”

“It started up there?” Gunther asked, surprised.

“Yeah, the hayloft. I found the remains of some sort of chemical squib near where all the bales were stacked-that and an odor of sulfuric acid. I collected samples for the lab, but right now I’m thinking a one-two ignition on opposite ends of the hayloft, involving chem timers, what looks like a potassium chlorate/sugar mix, and a series of trailer lines made of gas and/or glue, depending. They carried the fire down here and spread it to a series of secondary ignition sources-potato chips and piles of hay or whatever was lying around. Pretty organized work.”

“Potato chips?”

Michael smiled grimly. “People don’t realize it, but if they get the right brand, what they’re munching on is a primo combustible-better than an oily rag and easier to get hold of.”

“But why start upstairs?” Gunther asked. “Fire spreads up. Seems kind of complicated to fight Mother Nature.”

Jonathon Michael looked vaguely uncomfortable. He preferred facts and evidence over speculation, which was one of the reasons he’d stuck with arson as a specialty. “More flammable materials?”

“Implying an inexperienced torch?”

Here Michael felt himself on firmer ground. “Not from what I’ve put together. This was no rookie.”

Gunther was thoughtful for a few moments, while Michael quietly waited. Joe had an impressive record for closing complicated cases, after all-a man after Jonathon’s own heart. He wasn’t about to rush him.

“Anything familiar about his handiwork?” Joe finally asked. “You’ve done most of the big fires in the state.”

Michael had already considered that. “Nope. I’ll be running him through the computer, but I’ve never seen any of this before.”

Another pause.

“How ’bout the family?”

“Could one of them have done it?” Michael asked. “Anything’s possible, I guess. Farmers can pretty much do what they put their minds to, at least mechanically, and I haven’t had a chance to check out the insurance on this. But if you’re looking for a gut reaction, I’d say no. They seem too shook up. And the word so far is they’re super tight-knit.”

Joe Gunther stared down at his soot-smeared boots for a moment before looking back up. “Guess we got an old-fashioned murder, then,” he said sadly.

Joe Gunther sat on the edge of his car's open trunk, slipping his coveralls off and storing them behind him. He was parked among a half dozen other official vehicles in the farm’s dooryard, between the remains of the barn and the farmhouse across the road. The contrast was harsh and resonant-on the one side, the picturesque, if worn, well-loved shelter of a hardworking family, and on the other, the still-smoking heap of what had once been their livelihood. If ever there was a snapshot defining the financial tightrope such people walked, this was it.

He stood, slammed the trunk, and headed toward the house, on the front porch of which stood a very large sheriff’s deputy, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. Gunther stepped carefully, mindful of the slippery hard-packed snow beneath his feet. He was wearing boots, as most everyone did in this county, which was still no guarantee against the odd slider.

“Deputy,” he greeted the man at the door, displaying his badge.

The man nodded silently in acknowledgment, not really checking.

“The whole family inside?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want to take the chill off and get some coffee, they’ve got a thermos in the back of one of the pickup trucks near the forensics van. I’ll take responsibility.”

The deputy’s face broke into a grateful smile. “Think I will. Thanks.”

Joe entered the house quietly and stood in the foyer for a moment, listening. To his left was what appeared to be a small library or office, before him a bathroom and staircase leading up, and to his right were two doors, one to a living room, the other to the kitchen. Sounds of crying and muted consoling came from the former; the kitchen had someone rattling dishes and speaking softly. He headed there first.

Around the corner, he discovered two small children, a boy and a girl, sitting at a long wooden dinner table. The girl was drawing with crayons, the boy picking at a bowl of dry Cheerios.

Across the room, with his back turned toward them, a young man stood before the sink, running water over some plates and saying in a low voice, “Cindy, you sure you don’t want something to eat?”

The boy saw Joe instantly.

“Are you a policeman?” he asked, causing both the girl and the man at the sink to look at him.

Gunther smiled slightly. “Yes. My name’s Joe.”

“You have a badge?”

The man stepped away from the sink, drying his palms on his jeans. “Quiet, Mike.” He stuck out a damp hand as he approached. “Sorry. Jeff Padgett.”

Joe shook Padgett’s hand. “Joe Gunther. Vermont Bureau of Investigation.” He pulled out his badge and laid it on the table before the boy. “Honest.”

The two men watched the children peer at the gold shield as if it might suddenly move.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Joe murmured to Padgett, who he knew from Jonathon to be the deceased’s brother-in-law.

The young man shook his head in disbelief. “It’s like I’m dreaming, you know?”

“You going to find out why Bobby died?” the boy asked suddenly, looking up, his scrutiny over. His sister had already gone back to her drawing.

“That’s why I’m here,” Joe answered, pocketing the badge. He glanced at Padgett. “Is this an okay time to talk?”

Jeff Padgett hesitated a moment before asking his son, “Mike, you want to work on the model a little?”

Mike was clearly surprised. “Without you?”

“Sure. You can sort out the pieces. Make sure we got everything.”

The boy’s face lit up. “Sure, Dad. Thanks.” He left the table at a run and disappeared out the door. They could hear his feet on the stairs.

Satisfied, Padgett nodded toward his daughter, the younger of the two. “She’ll be happy forever doing that. We can talk over here.” He pointed at a small gathering of worn armchairs near a far bow window overlooking the back field.

“You want coffee or anything?” the young man asked as he led the way.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

They settled down opposite each other under the window, bathed in the sunlight coming off the pure white field.

“What do you want to know?” Padgett asked.

“I guess for starters, what was Bobby doing in the barn late at night? Was that normal for him?”

Padgett shrugged. “Depends. Would be if he heard something. You sleep with one ear open in this business, you know?”

In fact, Gunther did know, having been brought up in a house just like this. “What might he have heard? You been having problems?”

“Not particularly, but you know how it goes. Shi-I mean, stuff happens all the time. Something goes wrong with one of the cows and she lets out a yell, that might’ve woken him up. Or something falling ’cause it gets knocked over. Maybe he just couldn’t sleep. I go out there once in a while when Linda and I aren’t gettin’ along. Helps quiet me down.”