White Fire

20

The chief had held press conferences before, usually when some bad-boy celebrity got in trouble. But this was different — and worse. As he observed the audience from the wings, he felt a rising apprehension. These people were seething, demanding answers. Because the old police station building only had a small conference room, they were back in the City Hall meeting room — site of his recent humiliation — and the reminder was not a pleasant one.

On the other hand, he had Pendergast on his side. The man who had started out as his nemesis was now — he might as well admit it — his crutch. Chivers was furious, and half his own department was in revolt, but Morris didn’t care. The man was brilliant, even if he was a bit strange, and he was damn grateful to have him in his corner. But Pendergast wasn’t going to be able to help him with this crowd. This was something he had to do on his own. He had to go in there looking like the Man in Charge.

He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to two — the hubbub of voices was like an ominous growl. Grow a pair. Fair enough: he would try his best.

Reviewing his notes one last time, he stepped out on stage, walking briskly to the podium. As the sound of voices dropped, he took another moment to observe the audience. The room was packed, standing-room only, and it looked like more were outside. The press gallery, too, was crammed. His eye easily picked out the black blot of Pendergast, sitting anonymously in the public area in front. And in the reserved section, he could see the ranks of officials, the mayor, fire chief, senior members of his department, the M.E., Chivers, and the town attorney. Conspicuously absent was Mrs. Kermode. Thank God.

He leaned over, tapped the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen.”

The room fell silent.

“For those who may not know me,” he said, “I’m Chief Stanley Morris of the Roaring Fork Police Department. I’m going to read a statement, and then I will take questions from the press and the public.”

He squared his papers and began to read, keeping his voice stern and neutral. It was a short statement that confined itself to the indisputable facts: the time of the fire, the number and identity of the victims, the determination it was a homicide, the status of the investigation. No speculation. He ended with an appeal for all persons to come forward with any information they might have, no matter how trivial. He of course did not mention Pendergast’s suggestion that there might be more such events; that would be far too incendiary. Besides, there was no evidence for it — as Chivers had said, it was mere speculation.

He looked up. “Questions?”

An immediate tumult from the press gallery. Morris had already decided whom he was going to call on and in what order, and he now pointed to his number one journalist, an old pal from the Roaring Fork Times.

“Chief Morris, thank you for your statement. Do you have any suspects?”

“We have some important leads we’re following up,” Morris replied. “I can’t say more than that.” Because we don’t have shit, he thought grimly.

“Any idea if the perp is local?”

“We don’t know,” said Morris. “We’ve gotten guest lists from all the hotels and rentals, we’ve got lift ticket sales, and we’ve enlisted the help of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, which is currently searching their databases for previous arson convictions.”

“Any possible motive?”

“Nothing concrete. We’re looking into various possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“Burglary, revenge, perverted kicks.”

“Wasn’t it true that one of the victims worked in your office?”

God, he had hoped to avoid that line of questioning. “Jenny Baker was an intern in my office, working over her winter break.” He swallowed, tried to go on despite the sudden fuzziness in his voice. “She was a wonderful girl who had aspirations to a career in law enforcement. It was…a devastating loss.”

“There’s a rumor that one of the victims was tied to a bed and doused with gasoline,” another reporter interjected.

Son of a bitch. Did Chivers leak that? “That is true,” said the chief, after a hesitation.

This caused a sensation.

“And another victim was found burned to death in a bathtub?”

“Yes,” said the chief, without elaborating.

More uproar. This was getting ugly.

“Were the girls molested?”

The press would ask anything; they had no shame. “The M.E. hasn’t concluded his examination. But it may not be possible to know, given the state of the remains.”

“Was anything taken?”

“We don’t know.”

“Were they burned alive?”

Rising furor.

“It’ll be at least a week before most of the evidence has been analyzed. All right — please — enough questions from the press — we’ll move on to the public.” The chief dearly hoped this would be easier.

The entire section was on its feet, hands waving. Not a good sign. He pointed to someone he didn’t know, a meek-looking elderly woman, but a person in front of her misunderstood — deliberately or not — and immediately responded in a booming voice. Christ, it was Sonja Marie Dutoit, the semi-retired actress, infamous in Roaring Fork for her obnoxious behavior in shops and restaurants and for her face, which had been lifted and Botoxed so many times it bore a perpetual grin.

“Thank you for choosing me,” she said in a smoke-cured voice. “I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say how shocked and horrified I am about this crime.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Morris. “Your question, please?”

“It’s been thirty-six hours since this terrible, horrible, frightening fire. We all saw it. And judging from what you just said, you haven’t made much progress — if any.”

Chief Morris said, calmly, “Do you have a question, Ms. Dutoit?”

“I certainly do. Why haven’t you caught the killer yet? This isn’t New York City: we’ve only got two thousand people in this town. There’s only one road in and out. So what’s the problem?”

“As I said, we’ve brought tremendous resources to bear, bringing in specialists from as far away as Grand Junction, as well as the involvement of the NCAVC. Now, I’m sure other people have questions—”

“I’m not done,” Dutoit went on. “When’s the next house going to get burned down?”

This led to a susurrus of muttering. Some people were rolling their eyes in reaction to Dutoit’s questions; others were beginning to look ever so slightly nervous.

“There’s not a shred of evidence that we’re dealing with a serial arsonist,” the chief said, eager to cut off this avenue of speculation.

But Dutoit, it seemed, was not yet through. “Which one of us is going to wake up in flames in their own bed tonight? And what in the name of God are you doing about it?”