Crush

Brix lifted the wall phone and punched in an extension. “Yeah, it’s Brix. Send in Matt.” He replaced the handset, then said, “Before Gordon and Rooney arrive, I’ve got a few updates for you. First, we’ve got an ID on the body we excavated from the collapsed wine cave.”

The door opened and in walked a lanky, balding man in a lab coat. Matthew Aaron stepped in and Brix introduced him to the attendees.

“Well,” Aaron said, clapping his hands together. “This was a very challenging case because of the state of decomp of the body. Dental x-rays didn’t give us any hits and missing persons reports were a dead end because we lacked identifying characteristics to establish a match. And since the body wasn’t prepared for burial, most of the flesh was a goner long ago.”

“But,” Aaron said, raising an index finger, “the skin on one of her hands was partially preserved, for some reason. Still, I couldn’t figure out how to lift a fingerprint we could put in the system. Then I remembered this case I read about involving a 1948 military plane crash.

For decades, one of the victims went unidentified. They tried everything, including DNA. But a George Washington University forensic science professor soaked the man’s hand in a chemical they used to ID Katrina victims. Eventually, he was able to rehydrate the skin and secure a print from the index pad.”

“And . . .” Brix said.

Aaron smiled and leaned back. “And that’s what I did. And presto. We have an ID.”

Brix raised his eyebrows, asking the question silently.

“Oh—the victim’s name is Ursula Robbins.” Aaron reached into his deep pocket and pulled out a notepad. Flipped a page and said, “Robbins went missing and was presumed dead a little over two years ago. No children, early fifties. I’m working on getting a photo for all of you. All I know is she was the chief executive of a winery in the Georges Valley District.”

“Okay,” Brix said, “Ray, that’s yours.”

“A few more things, then I’ll be out of your way,” Aaron said. “About that toenail thing—very interesting, actually. I’ve never seen that before. But it takes a few years for a buried body, one that’s not prepared or preserved in any way, to skeletalize completely. By that I mean for it to turn completely to bone, no soft tissue left. Nails are protein, keratin to be precise, like hair, so they stick around for a while. In this case, your victim had nail polish on her toes, preserving them and keeping them intact. Otherwise, once putrefaction gets underway, the skin on the hands and feet can slip off intact, a process called degloving.”

“Degloving, cool,” Fuller said.

Aaron looked over at Fuller and squinted confusion. “Yeah, okay. Well, the fact that the victim used nail polish means the other nails remained intact.”

Vail said, “Hang on a minute. We don’t know if the victim put on the nail polish or if the killer did it. If the killer has some knowledge of forensic anthropology, he might’ve known the skin and nails would slough off, so he put the nail polish on to keep all the nails intact—except for the one he pulled off.”

Brix lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not sure what to do with that. Let’s keep that in mind. Our UNSUB might have a knowledge of forensic anthropology. So he could be a pathologist.”

Vail shrugged. “Possible. Or a forensic scientist.”

A few heads turned toward Aaron.

Brix pointed at Lugo. “Ray, you’ve got that too. Get some help if you need it. Run all the people in the area who’ve had training in those fields. Including the ones in our office.” He glanced at Aaron. “See if any have a record—mental illness, drug habits, propensity toward violence—”

“Got it,” Lugo said.

Fuller said, “We already know that these two vics, and the one in Vallejo, were done by the same guy. If we can find some commonalities in these three women’s victimologies, I say we got this UNSUB.”

Vail scrunched her face. “Well . . . let’s just say that these vics are probably done by the same guy and that evaluating the victimologies might help us identify him.”

Fuller rolled his eyes, as if to say Vail’s comment was merely a difference in semantics.

“But I come back to access,” Vail said. “Access might be the commonality we’re looking for.”

There was a knock at the door. It swung open and in walked Burt Gordon, followed by Art Rooney. Vail couldn’t help but smile. Seeing Rooney in this setting gave her a sense of warmth and comfort.

Brix nodded at Gordon and said, “Take a seat, gentlemen.” As they were complying, he turned to the whiteboard and wrote “Vic 2 Ursula Robbins-Ray Lugo.” He spun back to the conference table and said, “I want to thank Special Agent Rooney for taking the time to help us out.”

“Karen Vail is a very valuable member of our unit,” Rooney said in his southern drawl. “If someone tries to fry her ass, it really pisses me off. Since I’ve spent nineteen years studying arson and bombings, I think it’s fair to say there might be something I can offer that’ll help identify the type of person who did this.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Fuller said. “But why are you here? I mean, don’t you deal with serial arsonists? Looks likely he might’ve only set this one fire.”

“Only one fire,” Rooney said. He nodded slowly, as if he was considering Fuller’s point. “I see where you’re coming from. After all, it’s just one fire, why make such a big deal over it. Right?” Rooney grinned broadly, leaned back in his chair. His military style crew cut, chiseled features and trim body gave him a formidable appearance. He didn’t need to act intimidating to be intimidating. “What’s your name, son?”

“Scott Fuller. Detective.”

“Good to meet you, Detective. I can certainly understand your confusion over the need for me to be here. And I don’t think any less of you for asking such a misinformed question. So let me answer you, so you won’t make the same mistake again.” Rooney slowly rose from his chair. “I am with the ATF. That stands for Alcohol. Tobacco. And Firearms. See, we deal with alcohol—this here’s wine country, so you might think there’s a connection there. But no. No, that’s not why I’m here. And then there’s tobacco, and, clearly, tobacco’s not why I’m here, either. So we get to the last letter in the acronym. Firearms. That covers bombs, incendiary devices, terrorism related offenses, and criminally set fires.” Rooney grabbed the back of the chair with two large hands. “Now let me ask you something, son. Where did you hear the word ‘serial’ in that description?” He narrowed his eyes, kept his gaze fixed on Fuller, who was staring back, his jaw set, lips tight and thin.

Vail shared a glance with Rooney. She was thinking: Man, I wish I could do that as well as you can. Her look said: Boy, I’m glad you’re on my side.

“So,” Rooney said. “Let me get back to where I was headed. I’m an ATF agent, but I’m also trained as a profiler. That’s important because the FBI has no jurisdiction over arson, but obviously it falls right into the sweet spot of the ATF’s authority. For Detective Fuller’s edification, that would be the ‘firearms’ part.” He walked to the whiteboard and motioned to the marker. “May I?”

Brix handed it to him. Rooney uncapped it, and moved to a blank area on the board. “Let me give you some background on the type of person who is most likely to have committed this crime. Problem is, there haven’t been a whole lot of studies done on arson. But we’ve been able to pool all our knowledge based on the studies and offender interviews that have been done, and we’ve arrived at a typology of arsonists. It’s based primarily on motivation, the motives behind the crime. Now we’re categorizing this fire as arson because it meets the three established criteria.”

Rooney held up a hand and ticked off each item on a finger: “First, property has been burned; second, the burning is incendiary and a device of some sort has been found at the scene; and third, the act was committed with malice, with the intent to destroy. I’ve been to the crime scene with Detective Gordon, and based on what we saw there and what he saw last night, this officially qualifies as arson.” He swiveled toward Gordon and said, “Is that right, Detective?”

“Yes, it is.”

“So here’s what we know,” Rooney said. “Shortly after Detective Hernandez left Agent Vail alone, the place went up in flames. We found a gas can in the back, in a well-concealed area that’s not visible from another room, the parking lot, or adjacent property. We found a cigarette lighter, likely used to ignite the trigger—the gasoline. But we also found something that we can’t explain.” Rooney nodded at Gordon.

Gordon scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, it’s damn strange. There was a well-defined area around the structure, which served as a barrier to the blaze.” He stopped for effect, then said, “And what looks like some sort of fire retardant chemical on the ground was laid out along the periphery.”

Dixon tilted her head and asked, “So you mean he meant to stop the fire at the one building?”