Karen Rose - Silent Scream

“Leave it open,” he said. “Dr. Donahue will be joining us.”

Olivia’s shoulders went rigid. Donahue was the department shrink. The one who wasn’t helping after three mandated visits. She sat back down. Great.

“I want a profile of this arsonist,” Abbott went on and Olivia could feel his eyes on her. To be accurate, everyone’s eyes were on her, even Barlow’s. Meddling bastard. “Donahue’s got time and experience with arsonists. And here she is.”

The psychiatrist came through the door, dressed in a trim blue suit that looked like it had been tailored just for her. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Dr. Donahue,” Abbott said as she took her seat. “Do you know everyone?”

“Everyone but you.” She smiled at Barlow. “I’m Jessie Donahue.”

“Micah Barlow, arson investigator. Don’t eat the cookies,” Barlow added dryly.

The confusion on Donahue’s face under other circumstances would have made Olivia smile, but the very presence of the woman had her on edge. She shook off the discomfort. “Let’s get this done, okay? What do we know, Mick? Any ID on the girl?”

“Nothing so far. The girl’s prints aren’t in AFIS, so no criminal record, at least one that isn’t sealed. No response yet from the Missing Children database, but I’m expecting an answer any hour now. No Amber Alerts, so as of this minute, no ID.”

“I sent her morgue photo to the Florida Highway Patrol,” Olivia said. “I hope the Gator nail decals pan out, even if she’s not in the databases. What about the gel?”

“I won’t get those results till after lunch,” Micki said, “but I do have something on the ball. We wanted to preserve it, just the way the firefighter found it until we knew what the gel was. So we did an image of what was underneath all that gel. This came through just as I was leaving to come up here.” She put a photograph on the table.

The ball was a glass globe of the world. Etched onto the glass were the continents.

“It looks like a paperweight,” Olivia said cautiously, although her mind was already stringing globe, world, and arson together, creating a very bad feeling.

Beside her, Micah Barlow swore softly and grabbed the photograph, staring at it in consternation. “No, it’s a signature. One that hasn’t been seen for ten years.”

“Twelve,” Micki said. “I cross-referenced glass globes with arson.”

Barlow rubbed his hands over his eyes in a tired gesture. “And you came up with SPOT-Societus Patronus Orbis Terra. Shit.”

“Fellowship of the protectors of the earth,” Dr. Donahue murmured.

Olivia sat back, frowning. The bad feeling just got worse. “Ecoterrorists? Hell.”

“With bad Latin grammar,” Donahue said, almost to herself, then looked up at the group. “It’s an interesting addition to the profile.”

“Grammar aside,” Abbott said, “what are we dealing with?”

“A group of environmental activists we believed had disbanded,” Barlow said. “They were at their most active in the early nineties. SPOT operated on the leaderless resistance model-small cells that allegedly have no lateral connection to one another or vertical connection to a ‘boss.’ They targeted commercial development of wildlife habitats, like the wetlands bordered by last night’s condo.”

Abbott had leaned forward, chin on his folded hands. “M.O.?”

“Usually smart,” Barlow said. “They used electronic timers to start their fires and always left behind a glass globe paperweight, but not covered in any gel. They’d wrap it in fire-resistant fabrics, usually pieces of firefighters’ protective gear, coats, et cetera.”

“They wanted it found,” Olivia murmured. “Intact.”

“Absolutely,” Barlow said, brows crunched. “But they always, always contacted the local news minutes after the firefighters were called to the scene.”

“They didn’t this time,” Kane said. “Why?”

Barlow shook his head. “I don’t know. They also never used guns.”

“Was this a smart fire?” Olivia asked.

“Aspects were. Like shutting down the camera systems and shutting off the water to the sprinklers. That took planning. They also had access to the guard’s schedule and they knew to open all the fire doors. If the girl tried to get out via the stairwell, she would have been stopped by the smoke and the heat. But in other ways they were stupid. They used the carpet adhesive, which is incredibly flammable. The fire would have spread quickly. It’s a wonder they made it out alive. Their M.O. last night wasn’t consistent with their M.O. before.”

“What are you saying?” Olivia asked. “They’ve reopened under new management?”

Barlow lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a front. If someone knew about SPOT and wanted to deflect attention from their real motive, they could leave the globe behind and have us chasing our tails.”

“Or that could be wishful thinking and they really are ecoterrorists,” Kane said.

“Meaning, we call in the Feds,” Abbott said flatly.

Olivia’s jaw tightened. “I had to tell Henry Weems’s widow that he wasn’t ever coming home again. Weems was MPD, one of ours. So whoever shot him is ours, too.”

“I agree,” Abbott said grimly. “For now, we call the Feds, just to check on anything new they might have on this group. If these are eco-nuts, I don’t want my ass on the line for sitting on information. But if these SPOT assholes claim responsibility, we will bring the Feds in. No arguments.”

He was right, Olivia knew, just as she knew she was being emotional. “No arguments. Besides, the differences far outweigh the similarities.”

Barlow was frowning. “Maybe not. There is one other similarity. In their last arson twelve years ago, a woman died. Nobody was supposed to be in the building, but this woman was working late and had fallen asleep at her desk. After that, the group went dormant. It was assumed they’d gone their separate ways.”

“That was SPOT?” Abbott asked. “I remember that fire now.”

“That’s a disturbing coincidence,” Jess Donahue said. “If they knew this girl was in the condo last night and set the fire anyway… that’s a whole different ball game.”

“Find them first, then find out what they knew and when,” Abbott said, then turned to Barlow. “Leaderless resistance groups often have a symbolic leader. Did SPOT?”

“Yeah, but I think I’m too tired to think of his name now.”

“Preston Moss,” Micki supplied. “I pulled a few articles from Google. Moss grew up here, in the Twin Cities, but during the nineties was a professor in some private college in Oregon. He authored a few books on preserving forest habitats. His first few books were more mainstream, but he got more radical. He’s believed to have founded SPOT-with appropriate Latin grammar, Dr. Donahue. His followers bastardized the name as they formed their own cells across the northwest and east into Wisconsin. Later he came back to teach in Minnesota. The wetlands were one of his causes, and Moss was believed to have been directly involved in that last fire. He dropped out of sight after the woman’s death and hasn’t been seen again.”

Barlow smiled, but wearily. “You did your homework. Anything else I forgot?”

“No, you covered it,” Micki said kindly. “You have a good memory.”

“How did you remember this, Sergeant?” Donahue asked. “This SPOT group was active before you joined the force.”

Olivia shot a quick look at the shrink, impressed and wary at the same time. That Donahue had known Barlow was on the case and had already checked his personnel file seemed to have floated over the man’s head, because he replied without a blink.