Blood Vines

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Friday, March 12

8:20 A.M.

Reed made his way through the still smoldering remains of Max Cragan’s cottage. The irony of the situation hadn’t struck him until this moment-he’d left his and Alex’s still smoldering fire to be routed to this one.

The fire had begun sometime after midnight. Though the firefighters had been unable to save the house, they had kept the fire from spreading to neighboring properties. A feat considering the dry conditions and brisk wind.

An accelerant had been used to start the blaze; the fire investigator had officially called it arson and it’d become the Sheriff’s Department’s baby.

Reed frowned. When a home was deliberately torched, it was typically for one of two reasons: insurance fraud or an attempt to hide a crime. Several other motivations cropped up from time to time, like revenge, racial hatred, or pyromania.

So why did somebody torch the old man’s cottage?

Something shiny winked up at him from the blackened debris and he bent and picked it up. He turned it over in his hands, a feat made difficult by the bulky protective gloves he wore. An eyeglass lens.

Tanner had arrived and finished suiting up. The protective gear swallowed her, but without it neither of them would have been able to investigate the scene for hours.

She made her way to his side. “What’s it looking like?” she asked, voice muffled by her respirator.

“Arson investigator found a fuel can in back. Looks to him like that was the point of origin.”

“Any victims?”

He replied that there hadn’t been and held out the lens. “Found this just now.”

She took it. “The old guy wear glasses?”

“Don’t know, though it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“That maybe Alex and the old man’s daughter are right. Maybe Cragan didn’t kill himself after all.”

A high, thin wail of grief pierced the morning air. Reed turned and saw Angie Wilson being consoled by a man he didn’t recognize. Her husband, Reed guessed.

He looked back at Tanner. “Do your thing. I’ll catch up with you later.”

He picked his way through the blackened rubble, heading toward the sobbing woman. When he had cleared the scene, he removed his helmet and respirator.

The daughter caught sight of him and broke away from her husband’s grasp. “You!” she cried, stumbling toward him. “Do you believe me now?”

Reed faced her stoically. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Wilson.”

“To hell with that! I told you! You wouldn’t listen! Are you listening now? All my father’s things… our family photographs, all his designs… everything I had left of him, gone now!”

The man slipped his arm around her. “Honey,” he said, “calm down. It’s only stuff. Just things.”

“To you!” She struggled free of his arms. “He was my father, I grew up here. All my childhood photographs and my memor-” The words caught on a sob. “Do you believe me now, Detective Reed? My father didn’t kill himself, he was murdered!”

She broke down then. Sobbing against her husband’s chest, obviously heartbroken. The man met Reed’s eyes. In them he saw apology-and condemnation.

“I’m Sean, Angie’s husband. Do we know yet, was this accidental or-”

“It was deliberately set. What we don’t know is who did it or why.” He turned his gaze to the woman. “Mrs. Wilson, do you have any idea who might be responsible for this?”

“Whoever killed him. They did this.”

He tried another tack. “Did your father have any enemies?”

“None that I know of. Everybody liked him.” She looked up at her husband. “Right, Sean?”

“Right,” her husband agreed, then looked at him. “Did you ever meet him, Detective?”

“I’m sorry to say I did not.”

“If you had, you’d understand. He was loved by everyone.”

“What about his house. Any idea why someone would want to torch it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could he have been involved in something illegal?”

The question elicited vehement denials from them both. Reed tried again. “The house’s contents, anything of great value? Perhaps the fire was used to cover up a burglary?”

The two looked at one another in question, then simultaneously replied in the negative.

“No art or jewelry? Rare coins or books?”

“My dad lived on his Social Security, Detective. To do that, he needed our help from time to time.”

“Help we were happy to offer,” her husband added. “He was always there for us, to help with the girls, whatever.”

“You believe strongly he was murdered, yet you say everyone liked him. Somebody torched his house, yet you can’t think of a reason why.”

“Maybe it was just some wacko,” she offered. “Some sick stranger. It happens, right?”

“It does, Mrs. Wilson, but frankly it’s rare. Murder is a crime most often committed by a friend, family member or an acquaintance.”

She started to cry again and pressed her face against her husband’s chest. He wrapped his arms protectively around her. “Tell us what to do, Detective Reed. Anything that might help.”

He wished he had something to offer them, something that would give them a sense of purpose. He had nothing. “If you think of anything later, even if it seems like nothing, call me.”

He said he would and Reed started off, then stopped and looked back. “Did your dad wear glasses. Mrs. Wilson?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “He was blind as a bat without them.”

____________________

Twenty minutes later, Reed approached the medical group’s receptionist. He provided his shield for her review. “Detective Reed, Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department. I need to have a word with Dr. Whitney.”

The woman studied the badge, then lifted her gaze to his. “He’s with a patient right now. Could I help you?”

“Afraid not. I’ll need to speak with him directly. When he’s finished, could you let him know I’m waiting?”

She said she would, and as often happened, he didn’t wait long. The badge served as an automatic bump to the front of the line. He received several unhappy glares as, moments later, the nurse called his name.

The doctor stood as Reed entered his office. “Dr. Whitney,” the physician said, extending his hand.

Reed took it. The other man had red hair, thinning at the temples. Even so, he didn’t look much older than thirty. “Detective Daniel Reed. Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”

“I have a full book today, so if you don’t mind getting to it?”

“Of course. You had a patient named Max Cragan?”

“Still do, as far as I know.”

“He died Tuesday night. I’m investigating his death.”

The doctor blinked and cleared his throat. “I had no idea. How did he… I’m sorry. I’m just so surprised.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Cragan? Professionally.”

He thought a moment. “I’d have to look that up to give you an exact date, but it wasn’t that long ago. Less than a month.”

“What was his condition?”

“I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m bound by patient privacy laws.”

“Let me ask you this instead. In your professional opinion, was Mr. Cragan strong enough to hang himself?

He looked startled. “He hung himself?”

“That surprises you.”

“Yes. He was a delightful man. Always positive, with a kind word for everyone.”

“And physically? Could he have set up a stepladder, climbed it, looped and fastened a rope over an exposed beam, then slipped the noose over his head and kicked the ladder away?”

The physician thought a moment, then slowly shook his head. “In my professional opinion, no. Can I say absolutely no or that it would’ve been impossible? No, I can’t.” He leaned toward Reed. “The truth is, every day I’m humbled and awed by the power of the human spirit over the limitations of the body. Everyday miracles, Detective.”