Fireproof (13 page)

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Safely back aboveground, Maggie let Racine lecture her. A bit ironic—Racine was usually the one doing something reckless, running off half cocked. It didn’t matter. All Maggie could think about was that her feet were freezing. And even in the fresh cold air, she could tell she smelled bad.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous it was to follow him down there?”

“He probably knows his way around,” Tully said, holding his arm tight against his side.

Maggie had asked about his arm when she first came out of the manhole. He had looked at her like she was ridiculous, considering she was the one coming up out of a hole in the ground. But he had assured her that nothing was broken. She wasn’t so sure about that from the pale look on his face.

“You don’t want to go down there if you don’t know where you’re going,” Racine continued her lecture.

“You’ve been down there?”

“No, but I’ve heard stories. The tunnels go all over the place.
You need higher security clearance these days to work in the sewers than to work in the Pentagon.”

“You think he’s our firefly?” Tully asked the obvious.

“Why else run?”

“Did you see him?” He wanted to know.

She shook her head. It was true. She hadn’t seen him. Now she wondered if she had really seen his shadow or heard footsteps. It didn’t make sense. Maybe she’d talk to Tully about it later. She wasn’t going to talk about it with Racine. That would be another lecture.

“He could just be some homeless guy,” Racine offered. “He was probably scavenging around after the fire and we scared the shit out of him.”

“What’s in the backpack?” Maggie asked Tully, just realizing that he had it with him.

“I don’t think it’s his. He may have found it. Or stolen it,” Tully told them as he lowered then dropped the bag from his shoulder. The whole time Maggie could see his jaw clenched against the pain.

He tugged open a zippered pocket to show them the small blue booklet inside.

“How many homeless guys do you know carry around their passport?”

Racine pulled out a pair of latex gloves from her bomber jacket pocket and snapped them on. She slid the passport from the bag and carefully flipped the cover open.

“Cornell Stamoran. Nice, clean-cut, professional young man. Blond, blue eyed. Suit and tie.”

“The guy we’re chasing had a beard. Long dirty hair.” Maggie looked at the photo as Racine held it out. “And he looked older.”

“The backpack might have been dropped in the alley.” Tully turned it over to show them the soot-covered flip side. “Maybe our bearded man found it where Cornell dropped it right before he got his head bashed in.”

“You think Cornell could be the victim we found inside the building?”

“We have his address.” Racine tapped the passport closed. “I’ll send a uniform over to see if he’s home. Might be a simple explanation. I’ve gotta get back downtown. I’d rather Ganza processes that.” She pointed to the pack.

“I’ll get it to him,” Tully said, but kept it on the sidewalk next to him.

Still, Racine hesitated. “You two gonna be okay?”

“Of course we’re okay,” Tully snapped.

“Hey, just checking.”

The exchange made Maggie smile. She was glad to see someone else was annoyed with that question. But Tully’s forehead was damp with perspiration and it was chilly here in the shadows of the warehouses, the sun already down low in the sky.

Maggie stood on the sidewalk beside him, watching Racine leave. Neither said anything about the back of her shredded leather jacket. It seemed the perfect symbol for this crazy day.

“This isn’t some harmless guy who’s been living on the streets.”

“I don’t think so either,” Tully said.

“There was someone else down there.”

“City maintenance?”

“I don’t think so. He was smashing out lightbulbs.”

This got his attention. And his concern.

“Do you know if the tunnels loop around?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, but it wouldn’t make sense. The purpose is to move water and sewage from point A to point B, not swirl it back around.”

Maggie took a deep breath of fresh air. That’s what she had thought. “I heard our guy running away in front of me and I followed. But then I heard someone behind me.”

“I suppose he could have crawled back out onto the street and backtracked. But why come back? And smashing out lightbulbs? Doesn’t sound like someone who’s afraid and running away.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“So who do you think it was?”

She shrugged. “All I know is that for once I was really glad to hear Racine’s voice bitching at me.”

This made him smile. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve got a pain in the neck.” Unconsciously her fingers found the sutures, checking to make sure they were intact. “Are you going to be able to drive with that shoulder?”

Finally he allowed a grimace. “I think I may have dislocated it. Can you fix it?”

It had been a long time since the two of them had worked together. She’d forgotten what it was like to have someone covering her backside. Someone who hoped for the same from her.

“Yes, I can. We need to find someplace for you to sit. You’re too tall for me.” Plus, she failed to add, she didn’t want him falling down if he passed out. “It’s going to hurt like hell.”

“Already does.” He followed alongside her. “Don’t tell Gwen, okay?”

Maggie smiled. She was usually the one asking
him
not to tell Gwen.

Sam hated riding anywhere with Jeffery. As meticulous as the man was about his physical appearance it certainly didn’t carry over to his car. Before she could even climb in, she had to remove a stack of newspapers from the passenger seat, several empty cups, and a jug labeled “swimming pool cleaner” from the floor. It was disgusting. She shook her head while she readjusted the seat, thinking to herself that Jeffery didn’t even have a swimming pool.

Of course he didn’t notice any of this. He was primed for their interview, breezing through each security checkpoint without even flinching at the trunk check or the excessive pat-downs or the warden’s snarky comments.

She had been with Jeffery for every single interview, enduring the body searches that seemed to get more invasive with each visit, with each security check. What bothered her more was how they handled her camera equipment, purposely smudging the lens with their fingerprints. Once a guard even licked the palm of his hand before pressing it against the viewfinder. It was their way of showing they didn’t approve of the interviews.

Jeffery shrugged it off when she told him about the harassment. All she got from him was a raised eyebrow when she showed him
the used condom they had left inside her equipment bag after one visit. Of course he
could
shrug it off. He was the celebrity who charmed them and told them how important they were, sometimes offering to interview them as well. A safe offer, since he knew the prison rules wouldn’t allow it. Still, the guards appeared flattered. The warden, however, was a tougher sell.

So this time Sam took pleasure in the warden’s being put out. They’d bent over backward—not necessarily a good choice of words in a prison—but they had worked hard to get interviews for the documentary. Each step of the way, the warden had made it as unpleasant and uncomfortable as possible.

This time Jeffery had been invited, actually “summoned,” to the prison by one of the inmates. From Jeffery’s vague explanation, an arsonist named Otis P. Dodd had been sending him letters for the last three weeks, insisting that Jeffery talk to him and giving Jeffery details of his crimes as some sort of testament to his expertise.

Sam understood why Jeffery had put the man off. All of the others they had interviewed were murderers. Poor Otis P.—as he liked to be called—had not caused a single death with any of his fires, despite setting about thirty-seven across the state of Virginia. It wasn’t for lack of trying. His last one had been a retirement center. Twenty-three residents miraculously made it out alive.

Otis P. was serving the first year of a twenty-five-year sentence. Sam suspected he was missing the attention and excitement. Truth was, he probably wouldn’t have garnered Jeffery’s attention if it hadn’t been for the warehouse arsons. In fact, Sam wondered if Jeffery even intended to use Otis P.’s interview for the documentary or if he simply was curious what insight the man might share about arson.

Sam was still setting up her equipment when a guard brought the prisoner into the room. He and Jeffery exchanged greetings while his shackles were being connected to iron hooks in the concrete floor. She had already seen a photo of him, yet his large physique and lopsided grin surprised her. If you ignored the receding hairline, Otis P. looked like an overgrown teenager uncomfortable with his size. His boyish face had a look of genuine curiosity and a disarming smile.

“Will I have one of those itty-bitty microphones clipped on my collar?” he asked in a soft, gentle—almost childlike—voice, his eyes looking away from Jeffery and over to Sam.

She pulled a wireless from her case and held it up. “Do you mind?”

“No, I’d like that.” He licked his lips.

To Sam’s relief the guard reached for the microphone to put it on.

She nodded at Jeffery when the camera was ready but it was Otis P. who took her cue.

“I have a gift for you,” he told Jeffery.

The statement drew a stunned look from the veteran newsman that unnerved Sam. She had witnessed plenty of Jeffery’s performances. This was not one.

There was the smile again and another lick of his lips. Then Otis P. added, “I want to tell you where there’s a dead body. A pretty little thing wearing only orange socks.”

Sam reminded herself that criminals lied all the time. During some of the previous interviews, she and Jeffery had listened to bizarre tales that murderers claimed as truth. Stories of how they stalked and killed their victims. They’d describe details as though they were proud craftsmen revealing trade secrets.

Some even shared horrible rituals of torture that they endured as children, as if to explain or excuse their compulsions. It was almost impossible to determine what was fact and what was fiction. They were lifers with little hope of parole, so they had nothing to lose by sharing.

But Otis P. Dodd? Sam couldn’t figure him out. What reason did he have to confess? He wasn’t asking for an attorney to be present. He didn’t seem concerned that this new revelation might cut some time off his sentence. About the only thing Sam could think that the man had to gain was attention. And he was certainly getting that.

Jeffery leaned in and stayed uncharacteristically quiet, more patient than Sam had ever seen him. He was allowing Otis P. to take his time and Otis P. was doing just that, enjoying every second.

“He told me she asked him for a ride. Said she was real pretty.
Blond hair, blue eyes. Itty-bitty thing. But not a girl. He made sure I knew that. He doesn’t do little girls. Or little boys. No challenge in that.” He sat back and grinned, pleased to have an audience. “That’s what he said anyways.”