Chapter 1
The figure did a macabre dance as flames leapt to engulf
it. Screams knifed through the night shadows, hideous and
agonizing. The smell of gasoline lingered strong and heavy
in the air, mingling with the stomach turning stench of
seared flesh and hair. Garbled pleas for mercy
interspersed the screams.
But there would be no mercy from the watcher.
Nude, he stood just close enough to feel the searing heat
on his bare skin. The flames beckoned madly, enticing him
to join them. Just a step closer, they seemed to hiss.
Feel it. Share it. Make us one.
He withstood the furnace like blast as long as he could
before moving further away, his gaze transfixed by the
writhing human torch. Fire was endlessly fascinating.
Unstopped, it would gild the body, melt skin, and singe
bone until it was sated. By that time, the figure would be
little more than charred fragments of teeth and bone.
Flames purified, cleansed the act of evil until only the
motivation mattered.
And no one had better motivation than him.
He flung out his arms like a preacher inciting the
heavens, his form silhouetted against the brilliant glow.
Justice had been a long time coming. And it couldn’t be
evaded any longer.
Marisa Chandler fought through the weight of sleep in a
desperate bid for consciousness. Rolling from the bed, she
immediately dropped to the floor, her limbs unresponsive.
But the jolt yanked her firmly from dream to waking, and
for that alone she was grateful.
A bit painfully, she pushed herself to sit upright,
leaning against the side of the bed. Sweat slicked her
body, as if the flames in her nightmares had emitted real
heat.
It had felt real. They always did.
She took a moment to will away the shudders that still
racked her body. It hadn’t been the same nightmare that
had plagued her for four long months. She could give
thanks for that, even as she fought to shrug off fear of
what the vision might portend.
Resting her head against the mattress, she closed her
eyes. Dreams like this one didn’t mean anything. Not
anymore.
The recognition brought both relief and despair.
The peal of the doorbell shrilled though her thoughts.
Risa opened her eyes. Thought about ignoring it. But there
was faint light edging the shades over the window,
heralding dawn’s approach. Her mother would have just
gotten off her cleaning shift a few hours ago. She
deserved the sleep.
The bell rang again insistently. Heaving herself to her
feet, she padded barefoot to the door, checked the judas
hole. The image of the stranger on the front porch was
tiny, but she didn’t need a larger image to identify him
as a plain-clothes cop. Faintly intrigued, she pulled the
door open, leaving the screen door latched in case she was
wrong.
Her instincts hadn’t been exactly foolproof recently.
“Marisa Chandler?”
She took her time answering, scanning first the detective
shield he held up for her perusal, then, more slowly, him.
Caucasian, six feet, about one-eighty, all of it muscle.
Black hair and eyes. Hard jaw, uncompromising chin. Only
visible identifying mark was the small crescent shaped
scar above one eyebrow. And despite his lack of
expression, impatience was all but bouncing off him.
“Yes.”
“Detective Nate McGuire, Philadelphia Police Department.”
He slipped his shield inside his jacket. “I’m on my way to
a possible crime scene. My captain passed along a request
from the Chief Inspector of the Detective Bureau that I
extend you an invite to ride along. In an unofficial
capacity, of course.”
A chill broke out over her skin, chasing away the remnants
of heat that still lingered from the nightmare. “Why would
he do that?”
McGuire lifted a dark brow. “I figured you’d know.”
She shoved her heavy mass of hair from her face and shook
her head. Risa hadn’t looked up any old friends from the
force since coming home four months ago. Had avoided news
like the plague. That hadn’t been difficult given her
mother’s penchant for watching only game shows and
inspirational broadcasting.
“Apparently your employer, Adam Raiker spoke to Chief
Inspector Wessels about it.” His midnight dark gaze did a
fast once over, clearly wondering what it was about the
woman in faded yoga pants and an ancient Penn State T-
shirt that would catch the attention of the head of the
detectives. “So I was told to stop and ask if you’re
interested. I’m asking.”
She swallowed, just managed to avoid shrinking away from
the door. “No.”
He nodded, clearly not disappointed. “Sorry to wake you.”
Turning, he began down the stairs, leaving her to stare
after him, fingers clutching the doorjamb.
Raiker. Damn him, her boss wouldn’t leave her in peace.
Wouldn’t accept what she’d already accepted herself.
Guilt, well earned, had rendered her useless. To him. To
his forensics consulting company. And certainly to this
detective.
The small house didn’t have a driveway or garage. McGuire
was halfway to the street where he’d left his ride, a
discreet black Crown Vic. He moved like an athlete, his
stride quick and effortless. She had the impression she’d
already been forgotten as he mentally shifted gears to his
first priority, his response to the call out.
“What’s the crime?” For a moment she was frozen, hardly
believing the voice had come from her. She didn’t do this
anymore. Hadn’t for months. Likely never would again.
But still she waited, breath held, until he hesitated,
half turned to call over his shoulder, “Possible homicide.
A burned corpse was found about fifteen minutes ago.”
The air clogged in her lungs. Blood stopped chugging
through veins. Organs froze in suspended animation. The
figure in the dream danced in her mind again, the
engulfing flames spearing skyward.
But those dreams had become meaningless. Hadn’t they?
Oxygen returned in a rush. “Wait!”
McGuire had reached the car now. And he made no attempt to
mask his irReneetion. “For what?”
“Give me five minutes.”
His response followed her as she turned away to dash
toward the bathroom. “You’ve already used three.” So she
paused only to brush her teeth, drag a comb through her
hair and shove her bare feet into sneakers. Then she
headed out again, snatching her coat and purse in one
practiced move as she passed the closet. Risa took a
moment to lock the door behind her before jogging down the
steps toward his vehicle, already regretting her decision.
She didn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t do it anymore.
Which didn’t explain why her legs kept moving her in the
direction of the car.
She’d barely slid inside the vehicle before he was pulling
away from the curb. Shooting the detective a quick look,
she pulled the door shut and reached for the seat
belt. “What’s the location?”
“Body was found in a wooded area in the northern part of
the city,” he said in clipped tones.
“So you’re from the Northeast Detective Division? Or the
homicide unit?” She busied herself buttoning her navy
jacket. It had occurred to her that the day was likely to
be long and chilly. The temps had been unseasonably cool
for May.
“Homicide.”
It was what he didn’t say that caught her attention. “If
you’re homicide, the call must have sounded fairly certain
that there was foul play involved. Or else the crime bears
some resemblance to one you’re already working. Which is
it?”
Dawn was spilling soft pastels across the horizon, but the
interior of the car was still shadowy. Even so, she would
have to be blind to miss the mutinous jut to his
jaw. “What’s your story, anyway?”
His attitude managed to slice through her self-doubt and
land her squarely into familiar territory. She was well
acquainted with suspicious cops. They would be the one
element of her job she wouldn’t miss if she left it. When
she left it.
“I assume Inspector Wessels told you whatever he wanted
you to know.”
The sound he made was suspiciously close to a snort. “The
chief doesn’t talk to me. And Captain Morales wasn’t in
the mood for details when we spoke.”
She was sidetracked by his words. “Captain Morales?
Eduardo Morales?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Surprised delight filled her. “When’d he get his bars? I
hadn’t heard about his promotion.” If she’d looked up old
friends while she’d be in town maybe she’d have caught up
on department gossip. But first she’d been focused on
recovery and rehab for the physical wounds and then…the
thought skittered across her mind before she had a chance
to slam that mental door shut.
Then she’d been licking her emotional wounds.
“How do you know Morales?” He did a quick right on red in
an effort, she suspected, to avoid waiting for the light.
“I was eight years on the force here before joining Raiker
Forensics five years ago. Worked out of the Major Crimes
Unit—Robbery and Burglary.” Amazing that the words would
be accompanied by a tug of nostalgia. “Morales and I were
tapped for special duty on a Violent Offenders task force
for several months. He’s a good cop. How long have you
worked with him?”
“Just a couple months.” And it was clear that he was
nowhere close yet to deciding if he shared her opinion of
the captain. He shot her another sidelong glance. “You
don’t look like a cop.”
“Chances are if I’d been knocking at your door at the
crack of dawn, you wouldn’t roll out of bed looking much
like one either.” She gave him a bland smile. “Unless you
sleep with your shield pinned to your. . .chest.”
Amazingly, his teeth flashed, although he didn’t shift his
attention away from his driving. “So you were on the job.
But not homicide. Makes me wonder why Wessels wants you
tagging along for this.”
“My experience has broadened since leaving the force.” And
now it was her turn to go silent and brooding. Nothing
could be gained from this outing, unless it was ammunition
for her ongoing argument with Raiker. She was done with
this work. The only question was why her boss remained
unconvinced.
Risa recognized the area of town he drove to as one that
used to be the haven of young drug users who wanted a
remote place to get high. But it was deserted now, save
for the police presence. The crime scene unit van was
parked next to an unmarked car, and there were four other
black and whites nearby. They got out of the car and made
their way through a heavily wooded area before entering a
clearing. It looked like the scene was secured and taped
off, but those details were noted with a distant part of
her brain.
Her focus was fixed on the blackened corpse lying inside
the police tape.
A CSU tech was snapping photographs, and another man was
kneeling next to the body fiddling with a machine she
couldn’t make out from here. But those observations
registered only dimly. It was the victim who consumed her
attention.
Because her palms had gone suddenly, inexplicably damp,
she wiped them on her pants as she walked with more than a
little reluctance to the scene. And wished once more that
she were anywhere but here.
“Which one of you took the call?” McGuire stopped outside
the tape and scanned the half dozen uniforms in the
vicinity.
“That’d be us.” Two men stepped forward, both of them
casting Risa a questioning gaze. One was tall and beefy, a
good six inches taller than McGuire. The speaker was
several inches shy of Risa’s five ten height. With his
thick neck, skinny limbs and sturdy torso, he bore an
unfortunate resemblance to SpongeBob, of cartoon
fame. “Officer’s Tready and Lutz.” A jerk of his thumb
indicated his partner as the former.
“Detective Nate McGuire. Homicide.”
The flash of Nate’s shield seemed to only partially pacify
the man. He was still eyeing Risa quizzically.
“So run it down for me.” McGuire’s tone held enough of an
edge that it captured Lutz’s total focus.
“The lady who found it—Heather Bixby’s her name--was out
walking her dog. Wasn’t sure what it was, but the body was
still smoking when she came upon it. She called 9-1-1.
Tready took her statement. She’s waiting over in the car
there.”
“Walking her dog in this area? Alone, while it was still
dark?” Doubt dripped from McGuire’s tone as he shot a look
at the car the officer had indicated. Risa seconded his
disbelief. Philadelphia had dozens of parks, many of them
updated with miles of paved trails. There was one within
walking distance of here. While this spot, if anything,
had grown seedier since her time on the force. The trees
and bushes were overgrown, and it didn’t appear as if
public dollars were going to be spent anytime soon on
creating recreation paths for joggers.
Lutz lifted his shoulders. “That’s what she claimed, and
she’s sticking with the story. Making noises about needing
to get to work, so if you want to talk to her, might need
to make it quick.”
“Did you see anything else? Anyone else in the area?”
This time it was Tready who spoke. His low rumbling voice
matched his craggy features. “No one. But the usual freaks
who hang out here would have taken off first sign of a
uniform.”
Nate nodded and dug in his pocket for a card. Handed it to
Lutz. “Take the other officers and canvass the nearest
neighbors. Write it up and send it to me at the homicide
unit.” He headed in the direction of the witness, who was
sitting on the edge of the back seat in one of the squad
cars, feet on the ground, with the huge brindle mastiff
planted squarely between them.
Risa hesitated. No matter how much she hadn’t wanted to
come, she was stuck for the moment. And following the
detective took her further away from the blackened figured
in the scorched grass. The distance would be welcome. She
trailed after McGuire, who was already speaking to the
witness.
“Mrs.,” she was correcting him, one hand on the dog’s
neck. “Like I told them officers, I brought Buster out for
a run. I just live over on Kellogg.”
If Risa remembered correctly, Kellogg was a street of
tired row houses, in a neighborhood still clinging to a
fraying aura of respectability. Of course, that had been
five years ago. Things changed fast in urban centers, and
north Philly had long been one of the roughest areas of
the city.
“You live there alone?”
Impatience settled on the woman’s face. “I’ve been through
this once already. I live with my husband. He drives
truck. I work a split shift at Stacy’s Diner, on
Seventeenth and Spruce, and I’m way late. Hal-that’s my
boss-is going to be a total prick about it, too. So if you
could write me something, maybe on police letterhead,
telling him I was helping you, it would go a long way.”
“We can work something out. So you were heading to work
earlier?”
Letting out a stream of breath, Bixby leaned forward to
give the dog an affectionate pat. “I came to run Buster
like I do every morning. My shift starts at eight, so we
left the house at five or so.”
“And you always come here?”
The woman’s hesitation was infinitesimal. “In winter we
stick to the sidewalks. But yeah, when it’s nice we come
here sometimes.”
“Reason I ask, it’s not the best area.” McGuire seemed
impervious to the morning chill in the air, although it
had Marisa turning up the collar of her spring coat. “This
is a known spot for drugs.”
The woman lifted a shoulder. “Users, not dealers. And not
this time of day, anyway. Doesn’t matter. No one bothers
me when I have Buster with me.” She gave the animal a
vigorous ear rub, which had it closing its eyes in canine
ecstasy.
The woman was lying. McGuire had to realize it. But his
voice was easy when he asked, “Did you see anyone else
around this morning?” When she shook her head vigorously,
he pressed, “Even in the distance? Someone running off,
maybe?”
“No, it was just me and Buster. He was straining at the
leash, dragging me toward…that.” Marisa resisted the
impulse to turn her head in the direction the woman
pointed. The longer she could put off looking at the
victim, the longer she could dodge recalling elements from
the dream. “I got close enough to realize it was something
dead. Burned. Didn’t know if it was human but I called 9-1-
1 anyway.” Her heavily made up eyes gleamed avidly. “It
is, though, isn’t it? Human. You all wouldn’t be so
interested otherwise.”
The detective reached in his pocket and withdrew a
business card to give to her. “If your boss gives you any
trouble, let me know and I’ll call him.” He accurately
read the doubt flickering on the woman’s face. “The cell
is department issued. It’ll show up on his ID screen.”
Shrugging, she slipped it into her pocket. “So I can
leave?”
“Has a tech taken a sample of the dog’s hair yet?”
McGuire slid Risa a narrowed look. Clearly she was
supposed to be seen and not heard on this outing. When the
woman shook her head, the detective said only, “Wait here.
I’ll send someone over right away.”
Bixby’s voice was plaintive as Nate walked away. “But why?
I really gotta get to work.”
Following a hunch she didn’t question, Risa stayed
behind. “It’s in case they find hair on the scene. They
need a sample from your dog, so they can eliminate it in
the identification process.”
“I didn’t let Buster get close enough for there to be any
of his hair on that…thing.” If Bixby didn’t seemed
resigned to waiting, the dog did. It flopped down on its
belly, drooling copiously.
Risa shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat and gave
the woman a knowing smile. “So what time were you supposed
to meet him?”
“Who?” Heather frowned.
“The guy you were planning to meet this morning. What time
did you have scheduled?”
She had the woman’s attention now. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about. I said I didn’t see anyone. You
heard me tell that to the detective, right?”
“But you were lying. Or least not telling the whole
story.” Risa squatted down on her haunches and offered the
dog her hand to sniff. “If you left the house at five you
would have had to get up shortly after four. Because first
you showered, dressed, put on makeup before taking the dog
out to a place you had to know would be a bit messy.” She
nodded at the woman’s attire. Her sneakers were muddy, as
was the hem of her tight jeans. “You’re not a runner, at
least not today. You aren’t dressed for it.”
“Jesus, I got ready for work first, okay?” Bixby folded
her arms over her ample chest.
“You said.” Risa nodded. “Dressed and ready to go three
hours before your shift. Stacy’s Diner is only a few miles
from here. Walking the dog for thirty minutes still has
you back home at five-thirty, two and a half hours before
your shift begins. Plenty of time to sleep in for another
hour or two and wait for daylight. So I’ll ask you again,
who were you meeting here?”
The woman smirked. “Can tell you’re no cop. Your detective
skills suck. And I know when a person is just fishing. So
go to hell.”
Buster was much friendlier than his owner. He gave her
hand a lick and Risa stroked his massive head. “No
problem. What time does your husband go to work? Maybe
I’ll have better luck fishing with him.” She didn’t relish
the flicker of panic on the woman’s face but she’d also
never been fond of being lied to.
“There’s no reason to bother Hal. He drives all night and
needs some rest before going on the road again.”
Rising, she contemplated the other woman. “Then don’t make
me.”
Moistening her lips, Heather said, “He never even showed
up. We were supposed to meet but he was running late. I
called him when I found…that. He said call 9-1-1 but he
turned around and went home.”
Instincts she’d thought lost and buried were humming
now. “Because he didn’t want to be around when police
showed up.”
“It’s not like that.” But she could tell from Bixby’s
expression it was exactly like that. “He’s still on
parole. Just a misunderstanding,” she hastened to
explain. “He used some of the company’s money for a couple
weeks, and even though he put it back later, when the head
of accounting figured it out, they nailed him on it.
Bastards cost him two years in prison.”
Risa didn’t point out that two years was practically a
gift for embezzlement charges. “His name.”
Heather’s mouth set in mutinous lines. “That’s all I’m
going to say. I don’t want to jam him up. He wasn’t even
here and doesn’t know anything about this.”
“Your husband is Hal Bixby, right? On Kellogg Street?”
Risa turned away. “Thanks for your time.”
“Wait!”
When Risa faced her again, the woman was staring at her
with open dislike. “You’re a real bitch, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea.”
After several moments obviously spent waging an internal
war with herself, Bixby finally said, “His name is Sam
Crowley. But I swear, if you make trouble for him, I’ll
hunt you down and kick your ass.” She smiled thinly. “I
can be a bitch, too.
“I don’t doubt it.”
It had been far easier, Risa thought grimly, as she
approached the crime, to play Bixby than it was to force
herself closer to the charred remains in the grass. With
every step closer her heart increased its tempo until it
was a beating a rapid tattoo she feared could be heard by
the officers at the perimeter.
Was that nearby tree familiar, with its branches growing
in an X shape, studded with leafy buds? Perspiration
dampened her brow. Her palms. What about that building
beyond the trees to the west, with its boarded up windows
and tar paper roof?
“Hey, lady, you can’t go in there.” The hand on her elbow
sliced through the sticky haze of memory and had her
jumping in surprise. The officer released her when she
shot him a look, but stood his ground. “Crime tape is up
for a reason. You need to stay back.”
She was tempted, more than she should have been, to do
just that. To wait quietly for the detective back at his
car. To forget the dreams that seemed far too entangled
with the scene inside the tape.
The dreams that had been blessedly absent for four long
months.
Instead, she scanned the area for McGuire and
pointed. “I’m with him. You saw us come together, didn’t
you?”
The officer, with a fresh youthful face that pegged him as
barely out of the academy, looked uneasy. “Well, yeah. But
I thought…”
Mystified, Risa waited for him to go on. “You thought…”
The kid—and he really was little more than that—actually
shuffled his feet. “Ah…look! The detective is waving you
over.” The relief on his face was almost comical. “Guess
it’s his call if he wants you to go inside.”
Still confused, she gave a little shake of her head before
bending down to snag shoe covers from the opened box at
her feet. Donning them, she grabbed a pair of latex gloves
from the other opened box and ducked beneath the tape. She
was halfway to where McGuire stood speaking to a slender
blond man standing next to the remains--
--charred bones, melted flesh—
--when comprehension belatedly struck.
The officer had thought her presence here was due to a
personal relationship with McGuire, rather than a
professional one. Under normal circumstances, the
realization would have had her grinning. But her chest was
tight. Her throat closed. The closer she drew to the body,
the more conscious effort it took to keep oxygen moving
through her lungs. To resist the urge to sprint, far and
fast, in the opposite direction.
“…use an accelerant?” McGuire was saying.
“Like I was saying…” The man broke off as Marisa
approached. “Well, hello-o beautiful.”
Resisting an urge to look for someone he might be
addressing behind her, she focused instead on the gas
chromatograph the man was using. “What’d the VTA indicate?”
“Jett Brandau.”
Because it seemed churlish to refuse the hand the man
thrust out, she took it for a moment. “Marisa Chandler.”
When she would have pulled away, he made a point of
squeezing her fingers for a moment longer before releasing
them.
“Arson investigator?”
He sent a quick glance to Nate before responding. “That’s
right. For the PPD.”
She nodded. As the fourth largest police department in the
country, the force was plenty large enough to employ their
own arson investigators who were also trained police
officers. “And the VTA results?”
Brandau patted the side of the Vapor Trace Analyzer’s
heating element. “Did three samples of the air over and
around the body. Each yielded a substantial bump in
temperature.”
“Meaning a flammable residue is present in the area,” she
murmured, intrigued despite herself. It made sense.
Starting someone on fire—if that’s what had happened here—
was more difficult than it sounded. Fire required fuel.
The fabric of the victim’s clothing would provide some,
but with the wide range of fibers used, couldn’t be relied
upon to burn evenly. If total conflagration were the
intent, an accelerant would guarantee it.
“Let me know when you’re done getting the samples you need
off the body so I can let the ME in. Then you can take
comparison samples in the area as we finish searching each
grid.”
“Will do.” The investigator shot her a smile that was
probably supposed to be boyish, but to her jaundiced eye
looked more than a little smarmy. “You’re welcome to stay
and help.”
“I’ll pass.”
Her response didn’t seem to faze him. He set down the VTA
on one corner of the concrete pad before approaching the
body with an evidence kit. “Hey, where’s Cass?” The
comment was directed at Nate and brought, to Risa’s mind,
a definite reaction.
The detective’s lips tightened momentarily before he
turned away. “She’s running late.”
“Reason I ask, I thought maybe the lovely Miss Chandler
was her replacement.” Brandau deftly managed flirting with
his other duties. He was already kneeling beside the body
and opening his kit before looking up at her again. “It is
miss, isn’t it? As in unmarried? Or really really
unhappily married?”
“No, it’s dis.” When both men looked at her she gave them
a small smile. “As in disinterested.”
“Ouch.” But there was no offense in the man’s tone as he
carefully cut off a sample of charred fabric from the
corpse and dropped it in a glass container. “On the other
hand, I miss Cass.”
“I’ll wave Chin over since you seem so desperate for
companionship.” Nate turned and gestured toward a slight
Asian woman leaning against the medical examiner’s van who
headed toward them with surprisingly long strides.
“No.” The panic on the man’s face was mirrored in his
frantic movements as he sped up his collection
process. “Seriously, no. I’m going as fast as I can here.”
“Concentrate,” McGuire advised blandly.
“You try to concentrate when you’ve got a pint-sized she-
devil standing over you…hey, Liz.” His movements were
almost a blur of motion as he quickened his pace even
further.
The ME stared down at him with her hands on her hips, eyes
narrowed. “How long are you going to be, Brandau? We’ve
only got about a dozen hours of daylight. I’d like to
start my examination before nightfall, so if you can just
give me an approximate timeline…”
“A few minutes. Ten at the most.”
The diminutive woman cast a quick look at Risa then at
Nate. “Where’s Cass?”
“Running late.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mystified, Risa was getting the distinct impression there
was something in the air regarding the absent Cass, but it
was apparent no one was going to enlighten her about it.
“I appreciate you coming yourself, Liz.”
Nate’s words spiked Risa’s interest. Normally an assistant
from the ME’s office was sent to collect the bodies. The
appearance of the ME herself was unusual. Not for the
first time, Risa considered that this homicide might be
one in a series.
He went on. “When Jett’s done here you can start your
examination. Pinning down time of death would be very
helpful to us, so the sooner…”
The medical examiner shot him a look that would have
scorched metal. “You want me to pronounce time of death
before I even get back to the lab with this? No problem,
I’m a magician. I also pull elephants out of my ass in my
free time. Which trick do you want to see first?”
“I don’t have to eat sarcasm to recognize the flavor,
Chin. I was just saying.”
“You know I don’t deal in assumptions. After I get the
remains back to the morgue and do a proper exam, you’ll be
the first to know.”
“But they’re still warm, right, Jett?”
“Air around the corpse is about one hundred thirty-six
degrees. Liz is going to have to use a shovel to transfer
them to the gurney. You find the ID yet?”
“I just got here, remember?”
From the easy banter between them it was clear they’d
worked together before. Risa was the outsider here. And
that was fine with her. She was still regretting the
impulse that had made her accept McGuire’s invitation to
begin with.
And fighting a similar impulse to gaze at the steaming
remains on the cracked cement pad beside her.
Back in her rookie days, she’d responded to her share of
house fires or fiery car accidents. It was impossible to
forget the sickeningly sweet, metallic smell of burnt
flesh. She would have recognized it even had she not known
the circumstances surrounding the call out today.
The pitted concrete square on which the body lay had once
been roofed, and meant to hold a couple picnic tables. But
roof and tables had disappeared long ago, leaving only
skeletal wooden posts and rafters. The rafters were
completely scorched, and fragments from them littered the
cement pad. The pavement had kept the fire from spreading
into the neighboring trees and brush. Risa wondered if the
choice had been intentional.
She forced herself to gaze at the burnt figure clinically.
This close, there was no mistaking it for anything other
than human. Its limbs were drawn up in a hideous fetal
position, wrists and ankles close together.
Intrigued despite herself, she sank to crouch beside
it. “Were the wrists and ankles bound?”
The ME threw her a quick glance. “You mean because of the
positioning? I won’t know for sure until I get back to the
morgue. But the limbs will shrivel on a burn victim, and
they’ll draw up toward the body.”
“Pretty damn hard to set someone on fire if they aren’t
bound,” Nate observed.
She thought of the agonized dance of the victim in her
dream. From its movements, at least the legs had seemed to
be unfettered. But those visions might have nothing to do
with this homicide. Especially if this death were related
to other similar ones.
“Even if his limbs were completely secured he could still
roll, trying to put out the fire.” She nodded toward the
area in question. “There’s no evidence of that. Which
makes me wonder--”
The detective followed the direction of her gaze, and her
thoughts. “--if he were kept in place by a rope thrown
over those rafters.”
“We’ll know more when after the body cools down and I can
examine all sides.”
Risa nodded at the ME’s words. Had the person been burned
while lying down, it would be reasonable to expect the
burns to be uneven. It wasn’t unusual for burn victims to
look relatively normal on the side pressed against the
ground, where the flames had been unable to wreak their
damage.
But the figure in the dream hadn’t been prone.
She looked at the detective. “How many others like this
have you found?”
At first she thought he wasn’t going to respond. Instead
he watched as the ME rose and strode rapidly toward the
city van, snapping out orders to her assistants. But
finally he responded, “This makes the third, although it’s
too soon to tell if it’s connected to the others.”
“What linked the first two?”
He shot her a grim smile as he rose. “The first victims
were found in remote areas. A combination of gasoline and
diesel fuel was used as an accelerant. Both had their
hands bound with duct tape but not their feet. They
weren’t gagged.” His frown sounded in his voice. “That’s
hard for me to figure. It’s easier to control the victims
if they’re completely secured. Gagging them would ensure
their cries wouldn’t summon help.”
“But neither would be as satisfying.” Her voice was soft,
but from the sharpness of his gaze she knew he’d heard
her. “The remote locations give a guarantee of privacy.
And even if someone comes…by that time it will be much to
late to save them.”
“You think he needs that? Their screams? But that still
doesn’t explain why he wouldn’t bind their feet.”
“Maybe he needs that, too.” The death dance, she thought
sickly, her eyes on the charred victim once again. The
frenzied movements of panic and agony. She’d felt the
watcher’s ecstasy as he surveyed the spectacle. The near-
orgasmic exultation from seeing what’d he’d wrought. “It
might be part of his signature.”
Something shifted in the detective’s expression, leaving
it impassive. “Signature. You’re a profiler then?”
She rose, scanning the area. “All of Raiker’s
investigators are trained in profiling, too.” Memory of
the dream skated along the hem of her mind and she sought
to gather it in, to examine the details more closely.
That had been the last thing she’d been thinking of when
she’d wakened from it this morning. Although she had art
supplies in her bedroom closet, she’d gotten out of the
habit of keeping an easel in her room with fresh drawing
pencils and paper, to sketch the visual elements.
The dreams had been gone for months. She hadn’t missed
them.
And although Risa was far from accepting this one as
anything more than a sub-conscious mind bump, it was
second nature to draw on it to wring any useful
information from it that she could.
If it were the victim’s death alone that had so satisfied
the watcher, a gun or knife could have been used with far
less effort. Her shoulder throbbed, as if in agreement.
No, his pleasure had been linked to the particular type of
death he’d arranged. The flames had driven him delirious
with delight and he’d stayed as close to them as he’d
dared.
Like there was an affinity there. Not just a murderer, but
also one who chose fire deliberately because it satisfied
a need inside him.
“It has to be death by fire,” she said finally. “And he
needs to watch.” To experience it, deriving a sort of
vicarious thrill from the flames. One of the crime scene
investigators was photographing the area. Another was
sketching it. Two others appeared to be waiting for
direction from McGuire. “What’d the crime scene techs turn
up in the other two deaths?”
“No wallets but IDs were left nearby.” When she turned to
him, brows raised, he said, “Yeah, just far enough away to
be sure they weren’t destroyed in the flames. Whoever the
son-of-a-bitch is, he wants to make it easy on us.”
His jaw was clenched and Risa suddenly realized there was
more going on here than a killer choosing random victims.
“So you’ve established a pattern in the victimology?”
Nate’s face was a grim mask. “Pretty hard to miss. If this
one follows the same pattern, we’ll discover the victim is
either currently on the job, or he used to be on the
force.”