Erica Spindler (11 page)

F
or the next twelve hours, Avery thought of little else but the woman's call. The things she'd said had played over in her head, a disturbing chant.

He got what he deserved.

You will, too.

At first she had been stunned. Shocked that someone could say such a thing about her father. Those emotions had given way to anger. She had tried dialing *69 only to discover her dad hadn't subscribed to the callback service. She had considered calling Buddy or Matt, then had discarded the thought. What could they do? Assure her the woman was just a crank? Advise her to get an unlisted number?

The woman could be a crank, that was true.

But what if she wasn't? What if the woman's call represented a legitimate threat?

Avery paced, thoughts whirling. Her father had been both a Christian and physician. He'd believed in the sanctity of life. Had devoted his own life to preserving it.

What if her first reaction to his suicide had been the correct one? What if he hadn't killed himself?

Avery stopped pacing, working to recall word for word that last message he'd left her.

“I need to talk to you. I was hoping—There's something…I'll…try later. Goodbye, pumpkin.”

When news of his suicide had reached her, she'd assumed that call had been a desperate plea for help. She'd assumed he'd called to give her a chance to talk him out of it. Or to say goodbye. She'd agonized over not taking that call ever since. She'd told herself that even if he hadn't spoken directly of suicide, she would have known. Would have picked up something in his voice. In her
if onlys
she would have been able to save his life.

He got what he deserved.

You will, too.

Those words, that threat, changed everything. Perhaps her dad had realized he was in danger. That he had an enemy. Maybe he had wanted to discuss it with her. Maybe he'd needed to bounce something by her.

He had done that a lot.

Avery acknowledged that what she was contemplating flew in the face of what everyone else believed to be true. People she trusted and cared about. Matt. Buddy. Lilah. The entire town.

Avery breathed deeply, battling her conflicting emotions: loyalty to people she loved, distrust of her own emotional state, suspicion for a criminal justice system that made mistakes, that often went with what looked obvious rather than digging for the truth.

But if he hadn't killed himself, that meant he'd been—

Murdered
.

The word, its repercussions, ricocheted through her. A murderer in Cypress Springs? Two, she realized, thinking of the woman Hunter had found in the alley. Could they have been killed by the same person?

That hardly seemed likely, she acknowledged, becoming aware of the fast, heavy beat of her heart. Just as unlikely, however, was the idea of two murderers in Cypress Springs.

Avery returned her thoughts to her father, his death. Who would have wanted to hurt her father? He'd been loved and respected by everyone.

Not everyone. He'd had an enemy. The woman's call proved that. Obviously, she herself had an enemy now as well.

He got what he deserved
.

You will, too
.

She crossed to the front window, inched aside the drape and peered out at the dark street. A few cars parked along the curbs, all appeared empty.

From what she could see. Which frankly, wasn't a hell of a lot.

Avery drew her eyebrows together. Had the woman called before, when Avery was out? She could have. Her father had neither caller ID nor an answering machine. Had she been watching Avery? Following her? Laying in wait? She could be anywhere. As close as a cell phone.

Don't get paranoid, Chauvin. This is a story. Get the pieces. Figure it out
.

Avery released the drape, turned and headed for the kitchen. She glanced at the wall clock, registering the time: 1:27 a.m. She dug a message tablet and pen out of the drawer by the phone, laid it on the counter, then crossed to her newly purchased Mr. Coffee coffeemaker. She filled the glass carafe with water, measured coffee into the basket, then flipped on the machine.

While the coffee brewed, she searched her memory for what she knew of the act of murder. She had never worked the crime beat, but had managed to absorb a bit from sharing a cubicle with someone who did. He had been the zealous, self-important sort, had loved to hear the sound of his own voice and for some quirky reason, had thought crime scene details served as a sort of aphrodisiac for women.

Who would have thought she would ever be grateful for those four, long months of cubicle cohabitation?

The coffeepot burbled its last filtered drop and she filled a mug. She carried it, the tablet and pen to the big
oak dining table and sat down. Obviously, if her father had been murdered, it hadn't been a random act of violence. That left a crime of passion or premeditated murder. Zealous Pete, her cubicle mate, had called love, hate and greed the Holy Trinity of murder. Meaning, most killers were motivated by one of those three.

She brought the mug to her mouth and sipped. Her hand shook slightly, whether from exhaustion or nerves she didn't know. She had a hard time imagining her gentle, kindhearted father being involved with anyone or anything that would lead to murder.

She squeezed her eyes shut.
Get outside the box, Avery. Let go of what you think you know
.

Get the pieces. Then place them in the puzzle
.

She opened her eyes; picked up the pen. Her next step was to find out as much as she could about her dad's death. Talk to Ben Mitchell. The coroner. Buddy about his investigation.

And while she was at it, she would see what she could discover about Elaine St. Claire's murder to ascertain whether there was a connection between the two.

 

Later that morning, Avery paid a visit to Ben Mitchell at the state fire marshal's office in Baton Rouge. She had discovered that arson investigators were assigned by region, for the entire parish. Cypress Springs fell into region eight. She had also learned arson investigators had the authority to arrest those suspected of arson and to carry firearms.

Ben Mitchell, a middle-aged man with dark brown hair sprinkled with gray, was that investigator.

He greeted her warmly. “Have a seat, Ms. Chauvin.”

She took the one directly across from his, laid her reporter's notebook on her lap and smiled. “Please, call me Avery.”

He inclined his head. “Your dad was a good man.”

“You knew him?”

“I think everybody in the parish did, in one capacity or another. He helped my sister through a tough time.” He lowered his voice. “Cervical cancer. Even after she switched to an oncologist, he stood by her every step of the way.”

He'd been that kind of a doctor. It had always been about the patients as people, about their health. Never about money
.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think he was a good man, too.”

His gaze dropped to the tablet, then returned to hers. “How can I help you?”

She laced her fingers. “As I mentioned, I spoke with John Price at my father's wake. He suggested I contact you. I'm curious about…about my father's death.”

“I don't understand.”

She met his gaze evenly. “May I be completely honest with you?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” She took a deep breath, preparing her words, intending to be anything but completely honest. “I'm having some difficulty dealing with my father's death. With…understanding it. I thought if you could…share what you found at the scene…I might be able to…that it would help me.”

His expression softened with sympathy. “What do you want to know.”

“What you saw at the scene. The path your investigation took. Your official findings.”

“Are you certain you want to hear this?” he asked.

She tightened her fingers. “Yes.”

“Arson investigators study what caused a fire. Where it started and how long it burned. We can tell what kind of fuel was used by the fire's path, how hot and how long it burned.”

“And what did my father's fire tell you?”

“Your father used diesel fuel, which, unlike gasoline, ignites on contact rather than on vapors. To do what he did, the diesel fuel was a better choice.”

“Any other fuel do the same thing?”

“Jet fuel. JP-5 to the trade. Burns hotter, too. Harder to get.” He paused as if to collect his thoughts. Or carefully choose his words. “Are you at all familiar with death by burning?”

“Refamiliarize me.” He hesitated and she leaned forward. “I'm a journalist. Give me the facts. I can handle them.”

“All right. First off, the human body doesn't actually burn to ash, the way it would if cremated. A house fire, for example, burns at about one thousand degrees. To completely incinerate, a body requires heat of around seventeen hundred degrees. The body maintains its form. The skin basically melts but doesn't disintegrate. It's not uncommon for areas of soft tissue to survive the fire.

“There's a shrinking that occurs,” he continued. “For example, a two-hundred-pound man will weigh one hundred fifty pounds burned. The clothes, flesh and hair burn. The features, including the lips, remain. All solid black. Generic. Meaning the person no longer resembles themselves.”

Her father couldn't have done this. Could he?

“How often do you see suicide committed this way?”

“Almost never.”

“Why not?” she asked, though she had her own idea why. Through her profession she had learned the importance of not putting words in other people's mouths.

“Understand, I'm not a psychologist. I'm an expert on fire. Anything I offer would be my opinion, one not necessarily based on fact.”

“I'd like to hear it anyway.”

“Most people who choose to take their own life, want to get the job done. They want to go fast and as painlessly as possible.”

“And burning to death is the antithesis of that.”

“In my opinion.”

“Yes.” Avery glanced at her tablet, then back at the man. “Do you believe my father knew the difference in the way diesel fuel and gasoline burns?”

“Don't know. Could have been he chose the diesel fuel because he had it on hand.”

“He siphoned the gas from his Mercedes.”

“Yes.”

“You ruled out arson? No question in your mind?”

He nodded. “As I mentioned earlier, following a fire's path tells us its story. With arson, the source of the fire is typically an outside perimeter. In addition, we find the gas can, rags, whatever the arsonist used to set the fire. People are funny, they think we won't find them or something. 'Course, some don't care.”

“But my dad's case wasn't like that?”

“No. The fire started with your father and moved out from there. The remnants of the syphoning hose were found with him.”

“Was there anything unusual about the scene? Anything that gave you pause?”

He drew his eyebrows together, as if carefully sifting through his memory. “Found one of your dad's bedroom slippers on the path between the house and the garage.”

“And the other one?”

“There was no sign of it. I suspect he was wearing it.”

“Where on the path?”

He thought a moment. “A few feet from the kitchen door.”

Her dad had always worn slip-on-style slippers. He'd lost one just outside the door. Why hadn't he stopped for it? That didn't make sense. She wasn't an expert in
human behavior, but it seemed to her that stopping for it would be an automatic response.

“You don't find that odd?” she asked.

“Odd?”

“Have you ever tried to walk in one shoe, Ben? It feels wrong. A kind of sensory disruption.”

“But I imagine a man in your father's emotional state would be totally focused on what he intended to do. Although never in that position myself, I suspect it would be all consuming.”

Avery wasn't convinced but dropped the subject anyway. “Anything else?”

He shifted his gaze slightly. “It appeared as if he crawled a couple feet toward the door. After he was aflame.”

He'd changed his mind. He tried to crawl for help.

It had been too late
.

She struggled to keep her despair from showing. Failing miserably, she knew.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said—”

“No.” She held up a hand. It trembled. “I appreciate your candor. It may be hard for you to understand, but knowing the facts will help me deal with this. I
have
to know exactly what happened.”

“I do understand, being that kind of person myself.” He glanced at his watch. “Have you talked to Buddy about his investigation? Or to the coroner about his findings?”

“Buddy, though not in great detail. I haven't spoken to the coroner yet. But I plan to.”

He stood and held out his hand. “Good luck, Avery.”

She followed him up. Took his hand. “Thanks, Ben. I appreciate the time.” She started for the door, then stopped and looked back at him. “Ben, one last question. Do you have any doubt he committed suicide?”

From his expression she saw that the question sur
prised him. He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “My job is to determine how and where a fire starts. Cause and circumstance of death fall to the coroner and police.”

“Of course,” she said, turning toward the door once more.

“Avery?” She looked back. “Buddy did a good job on this. I've never seen him so…shaken. He didn't want it to be true either.”

But even the most conscientious cop made mistakes. It happened, things went unnoticed, slipped through the cracks.

But she didn't say those things to him. Instead, she thanked him again, turned and walked away.