Beyond Recognition

16

Arson investigator Neil Bahan notified Boldt by cellular phone that the ATF chemist had arrived at the fire site. Boldt hung a U-turn at an intersection on Aurora and cut across Walling-ford on 45th, passing a movie theater marquee that advertised a Richard Dreyfuss film.

He hadn’t been to a movie in over two years. Before the birth of Miles, he and Liz had seen three movies a week. He called his wife on her cellular phone, because the cabin didn’t have a phone, but got the message service recording of her voice. He told her he missed her and the kids, how he couldn’t wait for them to come home. He left out any mention of a second body, of the anxiety compressing his chest and restricting his breathing, of the nagging sensation that yet a third victim was being targeted at that very moment, and that he, the investigator, had only a couple of ladder impressions and some fibers to go on. Any mention of that and Liz might decide to call the bank and take a week’s vacation. He ached to see his kids.

Dr. Howard Casterstein looked like one of the profs over at the U where Boldt occasionally guestlectured for a criminology series. He wore a white shirt and tie with an undershirt showing beneath. He had a military cut, making it difficult to judge his hair color, and the square shoulders of a man in shape. Boldt didn’t like him on first glance. He resented the federal involvement before he heard a word of explanation. He introduced himself on the edge of the property where the fire-gutted house remained under police watch. It was no longer smoldering, and only two patrolmen were to be seen.

Casterstein had penetrating eyes and a firm handshake. He introduced himself as Howie and said immediately, “If the body you found was Melissa Heifitz-the owner, as we believe will prove to be the case-then the match violated an act of interstate commerce by torching the place. Heifitz made huckleberry jam and did catalog mailings out of her house; that qualifies as interstate commerce. It allows us in, no problemo. I’m here strictly as a chemist. I mean no invasion of your investigation whatsoever, Sergeant. Just so we’re clear on that. Let the desk jockeys fight it out over who’s running the show-not for this boy to hassle with.” He added, “One of your arson dicks, a guy named Bahan, contacted us concerning the Enwright evidence. Your lab up here wasn’t picking up hydrocarbons in the samples. We didn’t pick them up either, so when we got a whiff of this one on the wire last night my boss sends me up as a solo NRT man-National Response Team.” Boldt couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “The NRT is for Podunk towns that don’t have fire investigation units, or for massive hits like Oklahoma City. We can be on any fire, anywhere in the country, in twenty-four hours or less. That’s me. That’s my story. What can you tell me?”

Boldt wasn’t sure where to start. “I’m Homicide,” he said.

“I know who you are,” Casterstein said, perfecting the art of compliments. “Me and a couple of the boys attended that talk in Portland a few years ago. The thing about the victim. It was good work.”

“Oh, yeah, ‘the thing about the victim,’” Boldt muttered, offended. Off to a bad start. He attempted to clarify. “You’re here as a chemist or a spy? At what point do you boys move in and take over?”

Howard-call me Howie-Casterstein grinned artificially. “It’s not like that. Bahan wants our lab involved. We’ve got the neat toys,” he said. “That’s all it is, Sergeant, nothing more.”

For now, Boldt was thinking. Trying for a new start, he said, “Well, we need all the help we can get. If Melissa Heifitz was in that fire, we’ve got two homicides and precious little evidence. Anything you can supply is greatly appreciated.” How did the Feds know the victim’s name before he, the investigating officer, did? He felt humiliated. “And if she’s single, we have a city of terrified women on our hands. The press is making this front-page.”

“So we get to work,” he said, holding up a pair of shiny metal paint cans used to collect fire evidence. “This match of yours has us puzzled. And by God, Sergeant, that’s something we just won’t tolerate.” He turned toward the burned-out structure. “If you’d care to join me, I’d appreciate the company. These road trips suck.”

Lou Boldt followed in step, ready to learn something. Howie Casterstein had that look about him.

Boldt spoke loudly enough to be heard over the whine of a passing motorcycle. “If you value your shoes,” he warned, “I wouldn’t go in there.”