Michael shook his head gently and returned to work. He’d allowed for the removal as soon as he’d dared, but it still had taken hours for him and the forensics crew to measure, take pictures, and make sketches and notes, all while the family anxiously hovered. He’d met with them earlier, briefly—the mother catatonic, the father stoic and helpful, identifying his son from his partially burned boots, the sister and brother-in-law emulating their elders, although the sister had also given in to occasional bouts of pain so fierce that Michael had thought they might be stomach cramps.
No one had been able to tell him much. This was a bolt from the blue, without context or explanation. Michael hadn’t pressed for more. It was early yet. He’d really only wanted first impressions, maybe an inkling of something amiss. He’d gotten only sorrow and grief.
The barn, by contrast, had bordered on the eloquent. From the moment he’d set eyes on it, he’d had his hopes, which is why he’d alerted his superiors. Arson investigation textbooks tell you to look for multiple sources of primary ignition—often those places that show the heaviest char, called alligatoring for obvious reasons. That’s where this building’s not having burned to the ground came in handy, the consensus being that if you burn anything long enough, it all becomes char.
Here there was enough left standing, or enough that could be re-erected with the firefighters’ help, that Michael had been able to identify several sources of primary ignition. Not only that, but glancing about, especially in the remains of the stable, he’d discovered what looked like trailer lines—burned traces of a flammable substance used to carry fire from one spot to another. As a child, he’d seen his father light a brush pile using gasoline this way, dribbling a line of it along the ground from the soaking pile to a safe distance away. Jonathon had delighted in how the flame from a single match would tear off like a blazing ground ball to ignite the brush with explosive force. The overall effect had made a permanent impression. Never again had he treated fire with anything but respect.
Looking around, he had no idea what Bobby Cutts’s last moments had been like in this scorched place, but if he’d been as surrounded by such images as Jonathon was conjuring up, a better picture of hell had never been imagined.
“Is it okay to approach?”
He looked up from his reverie at the sound of the familiar voice. A relaxed-looking older man, also in insulated coveralls, was standing just outside the encircling yellow crime tape.
Michael smiled and waved him in. “Hi, Joe. Sure. Watch where you step, though. It’s a little tricky.”
The younger man looked as his boss ducked under the tape and headed gingerly toward him, ignored by the other investigators, all dressed in white Tyvek, who dotted the blighted scene like slow-moving, stooped astronauts exploring a lunar landscape. Typically, Joe Gunther’s coveralls were a little ragged and not marked in any way, not unlike the man wearing them. Gunther by now was a legend in Vermont, at least among fellow police officers. Once a Brattleboro cop and seemingly fated to stay forever as such, he had surprised everyone by abruptly transferring to the number two position in the Vermont Bureau of Investigation when the latter was born a few years earlier via a stroke of the governor’s pen.
This turned out to have been a major event in Jonathon Michael’s life, since Gunther’s decision had done much to influence him to follow suit, in his case by leaving the state police. At the time, most cops had warily viewed the new VBI as a political stunt designed to gut the state police’s own investigative arm and lure away the best detectives from all the municipal departments. But after Gunther was made field force commander and demonstrated that this exclusively major crimes unit would only enter local investigations by invitation, perceptions began to soften. Of course, the irony was that both the state police and the municipals did take huge hits, since the VBI package and its high-level mandate were so attractive, but, in the end, that only irritated a small number of management types—the working cops and the populations they served were delighted. The VBI turned out to be efficient, effective, well funded, and self-effacing, always ensuring that local politicians and law enforcement leaders were first in line when credit was doled out and reporters present.
Joe Gunther stuck his hand out as he drew near. “Jonathon, long time.”
Michael shook hands warmly. They had worked together in the past, and he had always enjoyed the older man’s style—a disarming and subtle combination of authority and diplomacy.
“Joe, how’re you doing?”
“Pretty well. How’s Diane?”
Michael chuckled. That was typical. His wife had undergone gallbladder surgery several weeks ago. Not an emergency, and although obviously of concern to the family, it was certainly nothing that had been made public. But Joe had known about it. By comparison, Jonathon wasn’t even aware of Joe’s marital status.
“She’s doing fine. Took advantage of the recovery to go on a diet. Thanks for asking.”
Gunther took in the devastation around them and sighed. “How ’bout you? I saw them loading the hearse. Was it bad?”
“Bad enough. I hope he went quick. I’m okay, though. The family may be something else.”
“You talk to them?”
“A bit. Not in depth. Thought I’d leave that to you, if you’re interested.”
His boss shrugged. “I know Johnson’s on vacation from your office. How’s Ross doing with the Wilkens homicide?”
Michael knew Gunther was merely being polite. It was unlikely he hadn’t been keeping tabs, but again, the man had his own style. “He’s pretty busy. I doubt anyone’s nose’ll be put out of joint if you pitch in, and I’d appreciate the help. I’m more of a hardware man. Not too crazy about dealing with grieving families.”
Gunther nodded as if he’d just been invited, instead of having driven all this way to participate. “Okay, if you’re sure. Is it definitely arson?”
“Yup. I got multiple sources, trailer lines, what I think is glue spread on the walls to carry the fire down from upstairs.”
“It started up there?” Gunther asked, surprised.
“Yeah, the hayloft. I found the remains of some sort of chemical squib near where all the bales were stacked—that and an odor of sulfuric acid. I collected samples for the lab, but right now I’m thinking a one-two ignition on opposite ends of the hayloft, involving chem timers, what looks like a potassium chlorate/sugar mix, and a series of trailer lines made of gas and/or glue, depending. They carried the fire down here and spread it to a series of secondary ignition sources—potato chips and piles of hay or whatever was lying around. Pretty organized work.”
“Potato chips?”
Michael smiled grimly. “People don’t realize it, but if they get the right brand, what they’re munching on is a primo combustible—better than an oily rag and easier to get hold of.”
“But why start upstairs?” Gunther asked. “Fire spreads up. Seems kind of complicated to fight Mother Nature.”
Jonathon Michael looked vaguely uncomfortable. He preferred facts and evidence over speculation, which was one of the reasons he’d stuck with arson as a specialty. “More flammable materials?”
“Implying an inexperienced torch?”
Here Michael felt himself on firmer ground. “Not from what I’ve put together. This was no rookie.”
Gunther was thoughtful for a few moments, while Michael quietly waited. Joe had an impressive record for closing complicated cases, after all—a man after Jonathon’s own heart. He wasn’t about to rush him.
“Anything familiar about his handiwork?” Joe finally asked. “You’ve done most of the big fires in the state.”
Michael had already considered that. “Nope. I’ll be running him through the computer, but I’ve never seen any of this before.”
Another pause.
“How ’bout the family?”
“Could one of them have done it?” Michael asked. “Anything’s possible, I guess. Farmers can pretty much do what they put their minds to, at least mechanically, and I haven’t had a chance to check out the insurance on this. But if you’re looking for a gut reaction, I’d say no. They seem too shook up. And the word so far is they’re super tight-knit.”
Joe Gunther stared down at his soot-smeared boots for a moment before looking back up. “Guess we got an old-fashioned murder, then,” he said sadly.
JOE GUNTHER SAT ON THE EDGE
of his car's open trunk, slipping his coveralls off and storing them behind him. He was parked among a half dozen other official vehicles in the farm’s dooryard, between the remains of the barn and the farmhouse across the road. The contrast was harsh and resonant—on the one side, the picturesque, if worn, well-loved shelter of a hardworking family, and on the other, the still-smoking heap of what had once been their livelihood. If ever there was a snapshot defining the financial tightrope such people walked, this was it.
He stood, slammed the trunk, and headed toward the house, on the front porch of which stood a very large sheriff’s deputy, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. Gunther stepped carefully, mindful of the slippery hard-packed snow beneath his feet. He was wearing boots, as most everyone did in this county, which was still no guarantee against the odd slider.
“Deputy,” he greeted the man at the door, displaying his badge.
The man nodded silently in acknowledgment, not really checking.
“The whole family inside?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want to take the chill off and get some coffee, they’ve got a thermos in the back of one of the pickup trucks near the forensics van. I’ll take responsibility.”
The deputy’s face broke into a grateful smile. “Think I will. Thanks.”
Joe entered the house quietly and stood in the foyer for a moment, listening. To his left was what appeared to be a small library or office, before him a bathroom and staircase leading up, and to his right were two doors, one to a living room, the other to the kitchen. Sounds of crying and muted consoling came from the former; the kitchen had someone rattling dishes and speaking softly. He headed there first.
Around the corner, he discovered two small children, a boy and a girl, sitting at a long wooden dinner table. The girl was drawing with crayons, the boy picking at a bowl of dry Cheerios.
Across the room, with his back turned toward them, a young man stood before the sink, running water over some plates and saying in a low voice, “Cindy, you sure you don’t want something to eat?”
The boy saw Joe instantly.
“Are you a policeman?” he asked, causing both the girl and the man at the sink to look at him.
Gunther smiled slightly. “Yes. My name’s Joe.”
“You have a badge?”
The man stepped away from the sink, drying his palms on his jeans. “Quiet, Mike.” He stuck out a damp hand as he approached. “Sorry. Jeff Padgett.”
Joe shook Padgett’s hand. “Joe Gunther. Vermont Bureau of Investigation.” He pulled out his badge and laid it on the table before the boy. “Honest.”
The two men watched the children peer at the gold shield as if it might suddenly move.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Joe murmured to Padgett, who he knew from Jonathon to be the deceased’s brother-in-law.
The young man shook his head in disbelief. “It’s like I’m dreaming, you know?”
“You going to find out why Bobby died?” the boy asked suddenly, looking up, his scrutiny over. His sister had already gone back to her drawing.
“That’s why I’m here,” Joe answered, pocketing the badge. He glanced at Padgett. “Is this an okay time to talk?”
Jeff Padgett hesitated a moment before asking his son, “Mike, you want to work on the model a little?”
Mike was clearly surprised. “Without you?”
“Sure. You can sort out the pieces. Make sure we got everything.”
The boy’s face lit up. “Sure, Dad. Thanks.” He left the table at a run and disappeared out the door. They could hear his feet on the stairs.
Satisfied, Padgett nodded toward his daughter, the younger of the two. “She’ll be happy forever doing that. We can talk over here.” He pointed at a small gathering of worn armchairs near a far bow window overlooking the back field.
“You want coffee or anything?” the young man asked as he led the way.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
They settled down opposite each other under the window, bathed in the sunlight coming off the pure white field.
“What do you want to know?” Padgett asked.
“I guess for starters, what was Bobby doing in the barn late at night? Was that normal for him?”
Padgett shrugged. “Depends. Would be if he heard something. You sleep with one ear open in this business, you know?”
In fact, Gunther did know, having been brought up in a house just like this. “What might he have heard? You been having problems?”
“Not particularly, but you know how it goes. Shi—I mean, stuff happens all the time. Something goes wrong with one of the cows and she lets out a yell, that might’ve woken him up. Or something falling ’cause it gets knocked over. Maybe he just couldn’t sleep. I go out there once in a while when Linda and I aren’t gettin’ along. Helps quiet me down.”
“How did Bobby seem lately?” Joe asked.
Padgett tilted his large, round head to one side. “Fine, I guess. Having a hard time with his love life, but who doesn’t, right?” He smiled suddenly, the flash of teeth startlingly out of context. Joe couldn’t resist responding in kind.
“One girl, one too many, or none at all?” he asked.
Padgett laughed sadly. “Oh, it was one, all right. Poor guy couldn’t see straight ’cause of her.”
“How do you mean?”
He glanced over at his daughter, making sure she wasn’t listening in. He continued in a low voice. “Bobby wasn’t a ladies’ man. Kind of shy and retiring. Somehow or another he hooked up with Marianne Kotch, which nobody could believe, and it totally messed him up.”
“Not a match made in heaven?”
“Not a match made anywhere. I told him to his face he was headin’ for trouble with her, but he just got mad. She only picked him to piss off her ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t serious for her. But old Bobby, I swear, he was making plans from the first night.”