Fireproof

CHAPTER 43

By the time Maggie arrived, the cross at the top of the steeple blazed against a smoke-filled sky. She could see a second black plume several blocks away.

She showed her badge at the first barricade, a half block from the fire. The uniformed officer lifted the yellow tape for her and pointed out Detective Racine. Here across the river, Racine would be out of her jurisdiction. That was the only reason she stood back and tolerated the man beside her. Maggie recognized Brad Ivan, the ATF fire investigator.

“Were there any church services being held?” Maggie asked as she joined them. There were three ambulances parked at odd angles. One had driven onto the church lawn.

“No services,” Racine told her, “but there was an altar society meeting in the basement of this one.”

“Fatalities?”

Racine didn’t answer, looked instead to Ivan. Technically ATF would be the point agency now that the fires had moved out of the District.

“We don’t know yet. They’re still inside,” Ivan said as he hitched his trousers up, then stopped almost abruptly and kept the belt just below his waist.

Maggie guessed the gesture was an old habit but that a new paunch still surprised him. Ivan looked like a man who had kept himself in shape until recently. Maybe a change of schedule or, Maggie speculated, a change in living routine, perhaps a separation or divorce. Curious to prove her theory, she glanced at his left hand and saw a subtle streak of lighter skin where a ring had been.

Maggie waited for Ivan to continue filling her in, but there was nothing after the pants hitch. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored aviator sunglasses. Odd that he’d need sunglasses, since the smoke blocked out the sun.

“The middle of the afternoon goes against his MO,” she said. “How do we know this is the same guy?”

“It would be nice if we had some kind of a profile.”

His sarcasm surprised Maggie. She didn’t think the man had it in him to muster up something as complex as sarcasm. Racine raised an eyebrow. Looked like he’d surprised her as well.

“The murders at the last scene throw off any typical profile of a serial arsonist.” Maggie told him this as a matter of fact. “If you remove the two victims from the equation, he becomes a repeat nuisance offender.”

“Yeah, under twenty-five, male, white, history of family dysfunction, father abusive or absent, blue-collar job if he has a job, low self-esteem, low IQ, social misfit, yadda yadda. I’ve seen these profiles before. They don’t tell us jack-shit.”

“Sounds like you already have your own profile,” Racine said, but Maggie could see Racine’s sarcasm was lost on Ivan. She even thought she saw the detective take a step forward as if in Maggie’s defense. Maybe she could hear the throbbing in Maggie’s head. It had started as soon as she’d left Ganza.

“I think he’s older,” Maggie said when she knew Ivan wasn’t expecting her to say anything. Maybe that’s why she continued, “The fire chief’s report mentioned a chemical reaction being the starting point.”

“That’s right. The fires have been too quick and the heat too intense. There haven’t been any other accelerants used.”

“But it smelled like gasoline was poured in the alley.”

“That’s the exception. Incidentally, he didn’t start the fire on that side of the building. He uses materials he finds at the site. But he brings whatever the hell he’s using to start the chemical reaction.”

“No timing device?”

“Haven’t found one yet. But all that fits a pyromaniac’s profile, right?” Ivan said with a smirk, as if goading Maggie. “Goes along with an impulse disorder. He gathers whatever he finds to start the fire—rags, newspapers, garbage. Doesn’t really think about it or plan it. Just needs to satisfy his impulse, relieve his sexual tension and his desire for the thrill.”

Maggie suppressed a sigh of frustration. Was he serious or simply having fun with her? She studied his face and decided he was making fun of her and of profiling. “Pyromania” was a term psychiatrists and defense attorneys loved to use. In reality, few arsons on this scale had been blamed on an uncontrollable impulse or an irresistible urge to start fires to “relieve sexual tension,” as Ivan put it.

“But you said he has to bring the chemicals,” she pointed out. “Hardly impulsive if he’s toting around whatever it takes to create such a combustion.”

Ivan shrugged. “So what’s your profile?”

He looked pleased to put her on the spot, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. Behind them sirens wailed along the streets. Police whistles directed traffic. Overhead, they could hear a helicopter, still too far away to tell if it was a life flight or cable news crew.

“He’s educated,” Maggie said. “A chemical reaction that includes that sort of timing, as well as the correct proportions, is not something he learned in the Boy Scouts or surfing the Internet. I’d guess it was part of his job at one time. Maybe it still is. He’s someone who doesn’t attract attention. He can blend in. He looks like he belongs.”

“Right. And what kind of job combines chemicals to start fires?” Ivan was skeptical.

This time Maggie shrugged. She wasn’t the arson expert. She wanted to say that perhaps someone with the ATF—perhaps a fire investigator like himself—should be able to examine and determine that part of the puzzle.

“So what does he drive?”

She almost rolled her eyes. They were always so hung up on a vehicle that they could stop by throwing up blockades. Maggie shook her head. “It won’t matter because I think he parks away from the site and walks several blocks.”

“Humph. You’re not giving me anything.”

“Okay, here’s something. Have you checked the surrounding ERs?”

“Emergency rooms?”

“Check for chemical burns. Whatever he’s using might burn his skin or even discolor it.”

“Great. So we look for a guy older than twenty-five who’s educated, in good enough shape to walk several blocks, and maybe has—what, like purple fingers or something? That’s supposed to help me?”

“Hey,” Racine said. “It’s more than we had an hour ago.”

“Except these two fires change things a bit,” Maggie continued.

“What are you talking about?”

“Churches instead of warehouses. And in the middle of the day. If he knew there were people inside he’s no longer a nuisance offender who likes to stand back and watch the chaos or read the headlines the next day. The fact that there were people inside changes his motive.”

“What about the victims in the last fire?” Ivan asked.

“He may not have known about the person inside.” Although Maggie knew that if the skull was bashed in the way the woman’s face was in the alley, then chances were the victim inside the building was not an accident.

“We still haven’t figured out who the woman was,” Racine added. “She definitely wasn’t killed there. Her murder may have had nothing to do with the fires.”

“Interesting,” Ivan said, shifting his feet again and practically stomping them. “But you still haven’t given me a solid description of this guy.”

“What exactly do you expect?” Maggie asked. “That I tell you he wears double-breasted suits and talks with a stutter? That he walks with a limp and drives a white paneled van?” She purposely mixed several famous profiles. First, the Mad Bomber of the 1940s. Second, the vehicle that was supposed to lead them to the Beltway sniper.

Ivan stared at her—or, rather, his mirrored glasses did. Then recognition came as a smile crept over his lips. “That’s right. The profile of the Beltway sniper was totally wrong. The type of vehicle was just one mistake. You’re only proving my point, Agent O’Dell.”

“You need to give me some facts, too, Investigator Ivan. Agent Tully and I were asked to profile this case, but we were given very little information from your department. By now you must know or at least can speculate what chemicals are being used to start the fires.”

“Wait a minute,” Racine said. “The District PD is under the impression that the ATF and FBI are coordinating this effort and working together.”

Maggie saw Ivan clench his teeth and suck in a breath as his head swiveled away from her. In the mirrored reflection she watched flames dance where his eyes should have been. There was something unsettling about the sight.

“Our lab’s still working on that.”

“Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

The mirrors came back.

“Send whatever trace you’ve collected to Keith Ganza. When he tells me what the chemicals are, I’ll have a detailed profile for you within twenty-four hours.”

Another fire engine wailed to a stop about a hundred yards behind them. In Ivan’s glasses Maggie could see two firefighters jump out. Ivan was still stonewalling when Maggie heard someone call her name. It took her almost a minute to recognize the arriving firefighter in his full gear, his hat brim pulled down low over his brow.

It was Patrick.