Deadly Grace. Taylor Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ The other was younger, heavyset and perspiring, despite the cold, so that his black-framed glasses kept slipping down the slick incline of his nose, which was black from the repetition of his sooty hand pushing them back.

      “This is Agent Cruz from the FBI,” Berglund told them.

      They nodded, and the older of the two men held out a dirty hand. He then thought better of it and transformed the shake to a quick wave. “I don’t think you want to touch this hand,” he said. “I’m Don Beadle from the State Bureau of Investigation. This is Bill Oppenhalt from the Arson Investigation Unit. I guess it was you who originated the request for us to come out here and take a look, Agent Cruz?”

      Cruz nodded. “That’s right. Appreciate the cooperation.”

      “No problem. That’s why we’re here.”

      “So, how does it look? Do you think this was deliberately set?”

      Beadle deferred to Oppenhalt, who pushed his heavy glasses up his nose once more and nodded. “Oh, yeah, not much question of that, I’d say. Things were a little stirred around before we got here, mind you, but we were able to spot a fair number of physical indicators just the same.”

      “Like what?” Berglund asked.

      “Well, you got your multiple high burn points and several localized heavy burn patterns indicating that there was more than one point of origin. Some spalling in the concrete foundation, too, which some would say indicates an accelerant, although it’s not a real reliable indicator, in my experience. We took some carpet and underpad samples, though, and those were a little more conclusive. I’ll want to run them through a gas chromatograph back at the lab just to be sure, but in the end,” he said, tapping the side of his blackened nose before pushing his glasses up yet again, “the nose knows.”

      “What do you mean?”

      Oppenhalt grunted as he bent to scoop a sample of dirt, which he rubbed between his fingers, then held under his nostrils. “Gasoline,” he said. “On a cold day like this, it’s real easy to pick it up. You guys don’t smell it? It’s all over the place here.”

      Berglund shook his head. “I can’t smell anything except charcoal, and that’s been stuck in my nostrils since the night of the fire. And anyway,” he added, nodding to the gravel driveway beneath their feet, “what you’re smelling here is probably several years worth of dripping oil from all the cars that have been parked in this drive.”

      “Well, sure, but it’s not just in the drive, Deputy,” Beadle said, cocking his thumb back over his shoulder. “It’s all over the scene. Really strong in the carpet samples we found, like Bill here said. Even I picked it up, and my nose isn’t nearly as well trained as his is.”

      The broad shoulders of Berglund’s green parka hefted, sending a shower of what looked at first glance to be dandruff flying to the ground, until Cruz realized it was actually a fine layer of ash that was still settling almost forty-eight hours after the blaze.

      “You guys happen to come across any spent cartridges or slugs while you were sifting through the ash?” Cruz asked. “Deputy Berglund says the autopsy on the lady who died here indicates she may have taken a shot to the chest from a fairly large-caliber weapon, like maybe a forty-five or a nine millimeter.”

      Beadle shook his head. “No, we were on the lookout for it, but nothing showed up. If your killer was the careful sort, he might have picked up his spent cartridges before he left the scene.”

      “That would make him one very careful drug-crazed hippie drifter looking for a quick score,” Cruz said dryly, glancing at Berglund.

      “I never said that was the only explanation for what went down here,” the deputy said irritably. “That was the chief’s thought, and it’s as good as any other at the moment. On the other hand, somebody that calculating…” His voice drifted off.

      Berglund’s face was drawn and showing signs of weariness and strain. It was obvious he was also ticked off at being second-guessed by meddling strangers. Fair enough, Cruz thought. If it was him in the deputy’s place and some stranger had dropped into the middle of one if his cases, pulling rank and calling in outside investigators, he’d probably be just as pissed. But that didn’t change the fact that, frankly, the guy needed the help.

      “You seen all you need to here?” Berglund asked.

      Cruz glanced back at the rubble and nodded. “I guess I have. You guys?”

      Beadle also nodded. “We’ll get our preliminary report out to you both within a couple of days. Final has to wait for the chemical tests on the samples we took, but like Bill said, our view is that you’ve definitely got an arson case on your hands here, guys, so you’ll want to bear that in mind as your investigation proceeds. Anything else you need from us?”

      “Not for now. I’ll let you know if I do,” Berglund said glumly.

      CHAPTER 7

      That doctor stopped by to see me again—a couple of hours ago, I think. I wasn’t quite as doped up as I’ve been the last few times she was in. (And how many times is that, I wonder? I have no idea.) But it’s quiet now. No one has been in for quite a while. They seem to have decided to leave me with nothing but this notebook for company. That’s fine with me. I just want to be left alone.

      I hear the murmur of voices out in the hall, sounding low and disapproving as they pause occasionally at the window of this room. They consider me stark raving mad, I suppose, and dangerous to boot.

      The doctor never actually came out and said so, but I suspect she’s a psychiatrist. It makes sense, after what I tried to do in the ER—after everything else, too. Maybe she really does want to help. But it’s more likely, I think, that this is part of the process they’re going through now—determining my competency before they decide what to do with me. I’m beyond help, in any case. Though I’m sure I will be judged, it won’t be in this lifetime.

      I never even looked at the doctor, although she did her best to engage me in conversation. She’s good, too. Pulled out all the tricks—open-ended questions. Empathy. Those long, pregnant silences that normal people feel obliged to fill with nervous chatter. She seemed disappointed when I didn’t respond.

      “Perhaps you’ll feel like talking tomorrow, Jillian,” she said just before she left.

      Well, no, I could have told her, I won’t. It may be her business, if she is a shrink, to get people to talk about their deepest feelings, but I can’t do that. She’s a stranger to me. I’m not the kind of person who confides, even to people I’ve known for many years. I never was. I know there are those who see it as evidence that I feel somehow superior, but the truth is just the opposite. I’ve always been embarrassed to talk about myself. I can’t imagine a duller subject, or why anyone would be interested. I’m a good listener, though. I suppose it’s why I chose to do the work I do, gathering oral histories, recording the reminiscences of mostly older people about the great events they’ve lived through. Their lives are so much more exciting than mine.

      This doctor is stubborn, though. I can tell. I know she’ll be back. To be honest, she seems like a very nice person. I feel guilty about ignoring her, but I simply don’t want what she has to offer. How can I convince her I’m a waste of her time and skills? That she’d be better served expending her energies elsewhere, on someone who wants—deserves—to СКАЧАТЬ