Ridley Pearson - Beyond Recognition

“Yes.”

In her eyes he saw a deep-seated sympathy. They both understood perfectly well what this meant, but Boldt had no desire to voice it, as if by doing so might give it more weight. Nonetheless, his imagination fixed on the thought of another Dorothy Enwright out there, at home, minding her own business, about to come face to face with the gates of Hell. They had recovered only a single bone of her body. It seemed all but impossible.

“Why?” Boldt asked Daphne, still withholding any mention of what this second note represented-another fire, another victim.

“The fire or the note?” she asked.

“Is there a difference?”

“You bet there is.” She sipped the wine, though she didn’t seem to enjoy its taste. She looked a little less pretty all of a sudden, tired and under the same relentless pressure that Boldt found himself. Investigating a violent crime was one thing; anticipating and stopping such a crime, another thing entirely. With the arrival of the second note, their charge was to prevent a death. It was an undeserved burden-unwarranted in many ways-but inescapable. They had been here before, the two of them, and this went unmentioned as well, for lives had been lost; other lives changed forever, not the least of them their own.

She continued, “The first note, as we discussed, could have been anything from a cry for help to a poorly timed coincidence. This note changes all that. Remember,” she cautioned, “this is only an opinion, an educated guess.”

“I’m with you.”

“These quotations are warnings, Lou.” Boldt felt a chill. “Forget the cry for help. He’s going to strike for a second time. By mailing them, he dated both poems, don’t forget. If I’m right, that means the fire is today or tonight. It’s immediate. He’s not giving Garman any time to figure this out. He warns; he strikes-which means that by the time the card arrives, he has already targeted his victim, perhaps even rigged the house to burn.”

“Jesus!” Boldt expelled his breath. “With only one victim, we hardly have what could be considered a pattern.”

“It’s premeditated, and he’s enjoying it. But his intended victim may not be the resident, don’t forget,” she warned. “May not even be human. He may be after the work of a particular architect, the structure itself that he’s trying to ‘kill.’ More likely, it could be Garman he’s after. The pressure you’re feeling-that I’m feeling, for that matter-may be solely intended for Garman. He’s a fire inspector, Lou. His evidence puts arsonists in jail. Revenge is potent motivation.”

“Fidler is checking out Garman.”

“Well, that will help,” she said, knowing Fidler’s reputation for detail.

“I’ve got Bahan working the technical end, the chemistry of the arsons.” He sensed her unease. “What’s up?”

“Firemen,” she answered. “Fidler, Bahan, Garman, all of them. Cops are one step away from being the bad guys-we’ve discussed this before-far too many of us are in it for the power. Present company excepted, of course. Firemen are no better. Putting out a fire is only one step away from setting it. In fact, as we both know, firemen set structure fires all the time to train the new boys. They love torching places.” She met his skeptical expression. “I’m generalizing, admittedly, but I don’t think even the firemen would argue this point too hard. My point being, if we’re looking for an arsonist, we might not have to look very far.”

Boldt said inquisitively, “Who better than a fire inspector to go torching places and sending himself notes? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Anyone in turnouts, Lou. They all have the bug. How busy has this fire season been? How much budgetary pressure is on the department to start cutting costs? These things have to be answered. Who goes first if the cuts are made? He or she could be our torch.”

“She?” Boldt asked.

“Poison and fire, a girl’s best friends.”

“Prior convictions and current firemen. Quite a list. Anyone else?” Boldt felt an impending urgency; the second note was like a fuse burning inside him. “What about victims? How do we stop a second death?”

“How do we stop potential copycat fires?” she asked, avoiding an answer. Arsons were notorious for spawning copycats; it was something they all knew but no one wanted to discuss. “How do we ask the press to hold off to stop the chances of a copycat?” she asked rhetorically. “It can’t be done, Lou. Let’s hope we’ve got it wrong. Maybe there is no second fire. Maybe that first note wasn’t tied to Enwright. Who knows?” She added, “And if there is a second fire, a second victim, we don’t collapse under the weight, we don’t allow the city-or even the brass, for that matter-to run the investigation. It’s your case, Lou. Everyone should be grateful for that.”

Pep talks and compliments, they traded them often. She seemed to sense when he most needed them. Their friendship had started that way. That it had developed into a single night of frantic sex six years earlier was their business and theirs alone. He had a line of sarcasm on the tip of his tongue, but he withheld it-she meant well enough. But just the fact that she would attempt to pump him up troubled him. It meant she was as scared about a second fire, a second victim, as was he.

She added, in a frail voice that confirmed his concern, “No one wants a second victim. I’m not suggesting that.”

Boldt had dealt with a peer of Daphne’s, a forensic psychiatrist from the East brought in to profile an earlier case. The man had once told Boldt, “The more they kill, the more we learn, the greater the chance we’ll catch them.” It had been one of those hard pieces of truth that Boldt wanted nothing to do with, yet it had lingered in the back of his mind. The psychiatrist was a strange man, but his message simple: An investigator could not afford to allow an increasing body count to kill the investigation over guilt and grief; he had to rise to the challenge and gather as much additional evidence as possible. He had to persevere.

“We can put the fire department on alert,” Boldt suggested, trying to find something to do other than sit around and wait for another body to burn. “We can contact the Marshal Fives-the Arson Task Force-and ask them to pump their sources for information. This guy isn’t operating in a void.”

She offered, “We’ve had a few calls from psychics wanting to sell us information. I haven’t followed up, but I’d like to.”

Boldt winced. He had no room for psychics in his cases. “Not for me,” he reminded her.

“I’d like to run with them. At least a follow-up.”

“Your stuff, not mine.”

“Don’t start with me,” she cautioned. “They may have something to offer. We take tips from junkies , Lou! Are you trying to tell me a psychic is less believable than a junkie?”

“You handle the psychics,” he quipped. “I’ll take the junkies.”

She fumed, exhaling heavily. Daphne rarely lost her cool. They sat in silence.

She focused on the glass of wine, her long fingers running up and down the stem. She changed the subject, asking, “Did you catch the sound bite they ran in the news. Shoswitz threatening the arsonist?”

“I caught it. They ran it on PLU.” Shoswitz was the lieutenant. He was terrible with the press, but there was no stopping him.

“He may have baited him, Lou: ‘Madman … nut case.’ He even mentioned you by name.”

“Lead detectives are often mentioned,” he reminded her, unconcerned.

“In ongoing cases? It’s wrong. I wish he wouldn’t do that.”

“The lieutenant dances to his own drums.”

Boldt’s pager sounded. He and Daphne exchanged looks. There was danger in hers. They both knew it was a fire before Boldt ever made the phone call.