White Fire

32

It was like a persistent nightmare, which terrifies you one night, then returns the next in an even more malevolent form. At least, so it seemed to Chief Morris as he walked through what was left of the Dutoit house. The smoldering ruins stood on the shoulder of a hill, with sweeping views of the town below and the surrounding ring of snowy mountains. He could hardly bear it: walking along the same corridors of plastic tape; smelling the same stench of burnt wood, plastic, and rubber; seeing the charred walls and melted puddles of glass, the scorched beds and heat-shattered toilets and sinks. And then there were the little things that had weirdly survived: a drinking glass, a bottle of perfume, a sodden teddy bear, and a poster of the movie Marching Band, Dutoit’s most famous film, still pinned to a gutted wall.

It had taken most of the night to extinguish the fire and beat it down to this damp, steaming pile. The forensic specialists and the M.E. had gone in at dawn, and had identified the victims as best they could. They hadn’t been burned quite as badly as the Baker family — which only added to the horror. At least, the chief thought, he didn’t have to deal with Chivers this time, who had already been through the crime scene and was now off preparing his report — a report that Chief Morris was doubtful of. Chivers was clearly in over his head.

He was, however, grateful for Pendergast’s presence. The man was strangely reassuring to the chief, despite his eccentricities — and despite the fact that everyone else was put out by his presence. Pendergast wandered ahead of Morris, dressed in his inappropriate formal black coat and white silk scarf, with that same strange hat on his head, silent as the grave. The sun was obscured by heavy winter clouds, and the temperature outside the ruin was hovering in the low teens. Inside, though, the residual heat and plumes of steam created a humid, stinking microclimate.

They finally reached the first victim, which the M.E. had tentatively identified as Dutoit herself. The remains looked more or less like an oversize, blackened fetus nestled in a pile of springs, metal plates, screws, carpet tacks, and burnt layers of cotton batting, with bits of melted plastic and wire here and there. The skull was whole, the jaws gaping in a frozen scream, the arms burned to the bone, the finger bones clenched, the body curled in upon itself by the heat.

Pendergast halted and spent a long time just looking at the victim. He did not pull out test tubes and tweezers and take samples. All he did was look. Then, slowly, he circled the hideous thing. A hand lens came out, and he used it to peer at traces of melted plastic and other, obscure points of interest. While he was doing this, the wind shifted and the chief got a noseful of roasted meat, causing an instant gagging sensation. God, he wished Pendergast would hurry it up.

Finally the FBI agent rose and they continued their perambulation of the gigantic ruin, heading inexorably toward the second victim — the young girl. This was even worse. The chief had deliberately skipped breakfast in preparation, and there was nothing in his stomach to lose, but nevertheless he could feel the dry heaves coming on.

The victim, Dutoit’s daughter, Sallie, had been ten years old. She went to school with the chief’s own daughter. The two children had not been friends — Sallie had been a withdrawn child, and no wonder, with a mother like that. Now, as they approached the corpse, the chief ventured a glance. The girl’s body was in a sitting position, burned only on one side. She had been handcuffed to the pipes under a sink.

He felt the first dry heave, which came like a hiccup, then another, and quickly looked away.

Again, Pendergast spent what seemed a lifetime examining the remains. The chief didn’t even begin to understand how he could do it. Another heave came, and he tried to think of something else—anything else — to get himself under control.

“It’s so perplexing,” Morris said, more to distract himself than for any other reason. “I just don’t understand.”

“In what way?”

“How…well, how the perp selects his victims. I mean, what do the victims have in common? It all seems so random.”

Pendergast rose. “The crime scene is indeed challenging. You are correct that the victims are random. However, the attacks are not.”

“How so?”

“The killer did not choose victims. He — or she, as the etiology of the attacks does not yet indicate gender — chose houses.”

The chief frowned. “Houses?”

“Yes. Both houses share one trait: they are spectacularly visible from town. The next house will no doubt be equally conspicuous.”

“You mean, they were selected for show? In God’s name, why?”

“To send a message, perhaps.” Pendergast turned away. “Now back to the matter at hand. This crime scene is primarily interesting for the light it sheds on the mind of the killer.” Pendergast spoke slowly as he peered around. “The perpetrator would appear to meet the Millon definition of a sadistic personality of the ‘explosive’ subtype. He seeks extreme measures of control; he takes pleasure — perhaps sexual pleasure — in the intense suffering of others. This disorder presents violently in an individual who would otherwise seem normal. In other words, the person we seek might appear to be an ordinary, productive member of the community.”

“How can you know that?”

“It is based on my reconstruction of the crime.”

“Which is?”

Pendergast looked around the ruins again before letting his eyes settle on the chief. “First, the perpetrator entered through an upstairs window.”

The chief refrained from asking how Pendergast could determine this, especially since there was no second floor left.

“We know this because the house doors were massive and the locks were all engaged. To be expected, given the fear recently generated by the first fire and, perhaps, by the relative isolation of the structure. In addition, the first-floor windows are of massive, multi-light construction, glazed with expensive, high-R-value triple-paned glass with anodized aluminum cladding over oak. The ones I examined were all locked, and we can assume the rest were shut and locked as well, given the low temperatures and, as I said, the fear generated by the first attack. Such a window is extremely hard to break, and any attempt would be noisy and time consuming. It would alarm the house. Someone would have called nine-one-one or hit a panic button, with which this house was equipped. But the two victims were caught unawares — upstairs, probably while sleeping. The upstairs windows were less robust, double-paned, and furthermore not all locked — as is evident from this one, here.” Pendergast pointed at a tracery of ash and metal at his feet. “Thus, I conclude that the killer came and left by an upstairs window. The two victims were subdued, then brought downstairs for the, ah, denouement.”

The chief found it hard to concentrate on what Pendergast was saying. The wind had shifted again, and he was breathing assiduously through his mouth.

“This tells us not only the killer’s state of mind, but also some of his physical characteristics. He or she is certainly an athletic individual, perhaps with some rock climbing or other strenuous field experience.”

“Rock climbing experience?”

“My dear Chief, it follows directly from the fact there is no evidence of a ladder or rope.”

Chief Morris swallowed. “And the, ah, ‘explosive’ sadism?”

“The woman, Dutoit, was duct-taped to the downstairs sofa. The tape was wrapped all the way around the sofa — quite a job — rendering her immobile. She appears to have been doused with gasoline and burned alive. Most significantly, this occurred without the victim being gagged.”

“Which means?”

“The perpetrator wanted to talk to her, to hear her plead for her life, and then, after the fire began…to hear her scream.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” Morris remembered Dutoit’s strident voice at the press conference. He felt another dry heave.

“But the sadism evident here—” Pendergast made a gentle gesture in the direction of the remains of the dead girl— “is even more extreme.”

Morris didn’t want to know more, but Pendergast went on. “This girl was not doused with gasoline. That would have been too quick for our perpetrator. Instead, he started a fire to the right of her, there, and let it burn toward her. Now, if you will examine the pipes that the victim was handcuffed to, you will notice that they are bent. She was pulling on them with all her might in an effort to escape.”

“I see.” But the chief didn’t even make a pretense of looking.

“But note the direction in which they are bent.”

“Tell me,” said Chief Morris, covering his face, no longer able to take it.

“They are bent in the direction of the fire.”

A silence fell. “I’m sorry,” the chief said. “I don’t understand.”

“Whatever she was trying to get away from — it was even worse than the fire.”