White Fire

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.”

33

The last time Corrie was in the old Victorian police station, she’d been in handcuffs. The memory was fresh enough that she felt a twinge upon entering. But Iris, the lady at the reception desk, was almost too nice and happily directed her to Pendergast’s temporary office in the basement.

She descended the stuffy staircase, walked past a dim, rumbling furnace, and came to a narrow corridor. The office at the end had no name on it, just a number; she knocked and Pendergast’s voice invited her in.

The special agent stood behind an ancient metal desk covered by racks of test tubes, along with a chemistry setup of unknown function that was bubbling away. The office had no windows, and the air was stifling.

“Is this what they gave you?” Corrie asked. “It’s a dungeon!”

“It is what I requested. I did not wish to be disturbed, and this office is in a location where that is assured. No one comes to bother me here — no one.”

“It’s hot as Hades in here.”

“It’s no worse than a New Orleans spring. As you know, I am averse to cold.”

“Shall we go to dinner?”

“So as not to blight our meal with talk of corpses and cannibalism, perhaps we could spend a few moments catching up with your research first. Please sit down.”

“Sure thing, but can we please keep it short? I’m averse to heatstroke.” She took a seat and Pendergast did likewise.

“How are you progressing?”

“Great. I’ve finished examining four sets of remains, and they tell the same story: all victims of a gang of cannibalistic serial killers.”

Pendergast inclined his head.

“It’s unbelievable, really. But there’s no question. I did find something interesting in the last skeleton I looked at. The guy with the weird name, Isham Tyng. He was one of the first to be killed, and his bones do show extensive signs of perimortem damage from a large, powerful animal, no doubt a grizzly bear — along with the usual signs of beating, dismemberment, and cannibalism performed by human beings. I looked up the newspaper accounts of the killing, and in this case a bear was scared off the remains by the arrival of Tyng’s partners. No doubt the bear was scavenging the victim after he’d been killed by the cannibal gang. But this sighting is clearly what cemented the idea in everyone’s mind that the killer was a grizzly. A reasonable assumption — but also, sheer coincidence.”

“Excellent. The story is now complete. I assume you don’t need to examine any more remains?”

“No, four is plenty. I’ve got all the data I need.”

“Very good,” murmured Pendergast. “And when will you be returning to New York?”

Corrie took a deep breath. “I’m not going back yet.”

“And why is that?”

“I’ve…decided to expand the scope of my thesis.”

She waited, but Pendergast did not react.

“Because, I’m sorry, but the fact is the story isn’t complete. Now that we know