Erica Spindler - In Silence

She squeezed her eyes shut. Get outside the box, Avery. Let go of what you think you know.

Get the pieces. Then place them in the puzzle.

She opened her eyes; picked up the pen. Her next step was to find out as much as she could about her dad's death. Talk to Ben Mitchell. The coroner. Buddy about his investigation.

And while she was at it, she would see what she could discover about Elaine St. Claire's murder to ascertain whether there was a connection between the two.

Later that morning, Avery paid a visit to Ben Mitchell at the state fire marshal's office in Baton Rouge. She had discovered that arson investigators were assigned by region, for the entire parish. Cypress Springs fell into region eight. She had also learned arson investigators had the authority to arrest those suspected of arson and to carry firearms.

Ben Mitchell, a middle-aged man with dark brown hair sprinkled with gray, was that investigator.

He greeted her warmly. "Have a seat, Ms. Chauvin."

She took the one directly across from his, laid her reporter's notebook on her lap and smiled. "Please, call me Avery."

He inclined his head. "Your dad was a good man."

"You knew him?"

"I think everybody in the parish did, in one capacity or another. He helped my sister through a tough time." He lowered his voice. "Cervical cancer. Even after she switched to an oncologist, he stood by her every step of the way."

He'd been that kind of a doctor. It had always been about the patients as people, about their health. Never about money.

"Thank you," she said. "I think he was a good man, too."

His gaze dropped to the tablet, then returned to hers. "How can I help you?"

She laced her fingers. "As I mentioned, I spoke with John Price at my father's wake. He suggested I contact you. I'm curious about…about my father's death."

"I don't understand."

She met his gaze evenly. "May I be completely honest with you?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." She took a deep breath, preparing her words, intending to be anything but completely honest. "I'm having some difficulty dealing with my father's death. With…understanding it. I thought if you could…share what you found at the scene…I might be able to…that it would help me."

His expression softened with sympathy. "What do you want to know."

"What you saw at the scene. The path your investigation took. Your official findings."

"Are you certain you want to hear this?" he asked.

She tightened her fingers. "Yes."

"Arson investigators study what caused a fire. Where it started and how long it burned. We can tell what kind of fuel was used by the fire's path, how hot and how long it burned."

"And what did my father's fire tell you?"

"Your father used diesel fuel, which, unlike gasoline, ignites on contact rather than on vapors. To do what he did, the diesel fuel was a better choice."

"Any other fuel do the same thing?"

"Jet fuel. JP-5 to the trade. Burns hotter, too. Harder to get." He paused as if to collect his thoughts. Or carefully choose his words. "Are you at all familiar with death by burning?"

"Refamiliarize me." He hesitated and she leaned forward. "I'm a journalist. Give me the facts. I can handle them."

"All right. First off, the human body doesn't actually burn to ash, the way it would if cremated. A house fire, for example, burns at about one thousand degrees. To completely incinerate, a body re- quires heat of around seventeen hundred degrees. The body main- tains its form. The skin basically melts but doesn't disintegrate. It's not uncommon for areas of soft tissue to survive the fire.

"There's a shrinking that occurs," he continued. "For example, a two-hundred-pound man will weigh one hundred fifty pounds burned. The clothes, flesh and hair burn. The features, including the lips, remain. All solid black. Generic. Meaning the person no longer resembles themselves."

Her father couldn't have done this. Could he?

"How often do you see suicide committed this way?"

"Almost never."

"Why not?" she asked, though she had her own idea why. Through her profession she had learned the importance of not putting words in other people's mouths.

"Understand, I' m not a psychologist. I' m an expert on fire. Anything I offer would be my opinion, one not necessarily based on fact."

"I'd like to hear it anyway."

"Most people who choose to take their own life, want to get the job done. They want to go fast and as painlessly as possible."

"And burning to death is the antithesis of that."

"In my opinion."

"Yes." Avery glanced at her tablet, then back at the man. "Do you believe my father knew the difference in the way diesel fuel and gasoline burns?"

"Don't know. Could have been he chose the diesel fuel because he had it on hand."

"He siphoned the gas from his Mercedes."

"Yes."

"You ruled out arson? No question in your mind?"

He nodded. "As I mentioned earlier, following a fire's path tells us its story. With arson, the source of the fire is typically an outside perimeter. In addition, we find the gas can, rags, whatever the arsonist used to set the fire. People are funny, they think we won't find them or something. 'Course, some don't care."

"But my dad's case wasn't like that?"

"No. The fire started with your father and moved out from there. The remnants of the syphoning hose were found with him."

"Was there anything unusual about the scene? Anything that gave-you pause?"

He drew his eyebrows together, as if carefully sifting through his memory. "Found one of your dad's bedroom slippers on the path between the house and the garage."

"And the other one?"

"There was no sign of it. I suspect he was wearing it."

"Where on the path?"

He thought a moment. "A few feet from the kitchen door."

Her dad had always worn slip-on-style slippers. He'd lost one just outside the door. Why hadn't he stopped for it? That didn't make sense. She wasn't an expert in human behavior, but it seemed to her that stopping for it would be an automatic response.

"You don't find that odd?" she asked.

"Odd?"

"Have you ever tried to walk in one shoe, Ben? It feels wrong. A kind of sensory disruption."

"But I imagine a man in your father's emotional state would be totally focused on what he intended to do. Although never in that position myself, I suspect it would be all consuming."

Avery wasn't convinced but dropped the subject anyway. "Anything else?"

He shifted his gaze slightly. "It appeared as if he crawled a couple feet toward the door. After he was aflame."

He'd changed his mind. He tried to crawl for help.

It had been too late.

She struggled to keep her despair from showing. Failing miserably, she knew.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said-"

"No." She held up a hand. It trembled. "I appreciate your candor. It may be hard for you to understand, but knowing the facts will help me deal with this. I have to know exactly what happened."

"I do understand, being that kind of person myself." He glanced at his watch. "Have you talked to Buddy about his investigation? Or to the coroner about his findings?"

"Buddy, though not in great detail. I haven't spoken to the coroner yet. But I plan to."

He stood and held out his hand. "Good luck, Avery."

She followed him up. Took his hand. "Thanks, Ben. I appreciate the time." She started for the door, then stopped and looked back at him. "Ben, one last question. Do you have any doubt he committed suicide?"

From his expression she saw that the question surprised him. He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. "My job is to determine how and where a fire starts. Cause and circumstance of death fall to the coroner and police."

"Of course," she said, turning toward the door once more.