Shattered Shell (49 page)

I kept on taking his picture, at least a half-dozen frames, before he moved out of view. Next to me Mike was slightly rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Got him?" he asked,

"Nailed him," I said, and Mike just nodded and started whistling to himself.

We waited for another ten minutes and I kept the camcorder going, for Mike and the police would need solid evidence that could stand up in court. Since proving arson has always been so blessed difficult, a small sacrifice would have to occur tonight for the upcoming trial, one that happily the owner of the Roscoe House-set to be torn down next spring for a condominium project-was glad to provide,

I guess I should have felt happy or triumphant, but instead I felt tired and a little dirty. At this hour Paula Quinn was probably at home, reading a newspaper or working on the novel that all newspaper reporters claim they have within them, and within the next few hours, her life was going to be torn apart.

And there was nothing I could do.

"There," Mike said. "See that light over there?"

I did, an orange light that was flickering, and Mike brought up the radio to his mouth and said urgently, "Tyler Eye-One to Tyler fire."

The fire dispatcher came back instantly. "Go ahead, Tyler Eye-One..”

"Reporting a structure fire at the Roscoe House Inn, eleven Monroe Place. Repeat, a structure fire, Roscoe House Inn, eleven Monroe Place."

The dispatcher acknowledged and from the radio came the chatter of fire crews responding, and Mike turned to me and surprised me by shaking my hand.

"You did just fine."

"Not bad for a civilian, right?"

"If it means anything to you, Lewis, I don't count you as a civilian. Now come on, let's see my boys take care of this one."

Within a few minutes the parking lot was full of fire engines and hose lines stretched across the snow, but this evening was quite different. The first engine had been on the scene quickly and knocked down the fire before it had a good chance to start, in a utility closet near the office. I went with Mike as we entered the dark and smoky hotel, his flashlight casting a bright beam that cut through the water mist and smoke. We went down a corridor, the carpeted floor squishy under our feet. "Here we go," Mike said, as he knelt down before an open closet. "No more secrets. Look here."

At his side was a charred piece of metal and wire with a power cord running out to an outlet. Nearby was a glob of melted plastic, and along corridor, one-quart-size plastic milk jugs were lined up.

"I guess those plastic jugs held gasoline or something like that, but what’s with the metal lump?" I asked. "Some kind of timer?” "

“You should know," he said, poking at it with a clasp knife.  "You were near something like this just a few minutes ago."

"I was?  Oh. Quartz heater."

He looked up at me, eyes twinkling in triumph. "Yep. A quartz heater, but a small one, easy enough to carry in a duffel bag with a half dozen milk jugs filled with gasoline, the tops taped shut.  You set the quartz heater and stuff it full of oily rags, and then you set the thermostat timer. Nearby you space out these milk jugs and you cut little holes near the bottom, so the gasoline starts dribbling out. You set everything up and leave, and then ten minutes or a half hour later, while you're enjoying a beer with some friends five miles away, the place you've set is beginning to burn."

He stood up. "Let's go outside. I think it's time for part two to start.”

I followed him out of the dark and gloomy motel, knowing where we were heading and not looking forward to it one bit.

Outside the winter night air was refreshing, but something began to squirm inside of me as I saw who was out among the cops and firefighters: Jerry Croteau and Paula Quinn. Paula was busy talking to a fire lieutenant and Jerry was taking photos of the firefighters rolling up the hose, and while they were both working, I could see they were keeping an eye on each other with little half-winks and smiles.

Paula.

Mike went over to one of the uniformed Tyler cops, who then went over to a Tyler police sergeant. I looked around. Diane Woods was not here. I was glad for that small gift. Paula noticed me and gave little half-wave, and I tried to return the gesture though my hand felt like it was filled with molten lead.

Mike kept on talking to the police sergeant, moving his hands, until finally the sergeant nodded and went over to another officer, and then two of them went up behind Jerry Croteau. I held my breath. Jerry lowered his camera and talked to the cops, and he was smiling. I knew what he was thinking. He knew all of the cops and firefighters in Tyler, and this must be one major misunderstanding, that's all.

The sergeant shook his head and the officer took away Jerry's camera and camera bag, and in a matter of seconds his hands were cuffed. He then seemed to sag and his head fell forward as they led him to a police cruiser. This must have caught Paula's eye, for she turned and raised a hand to her mouth, and ran after the two Tyler cops and Jerry, but she didn't get there in time. Jerry was put in the rear of the cruiser and then driven off, and Paula stood there, arguing with the police sergeant, who pointed Paula over to Mike. She went over to Mike and he said something sharp in reply, for both hands were up to her face and then she ran over to me, trying to speak, tears running down her face.

"Lewis!" she cried. "You've got to help me! They've just arrested Jerry and charged him with setting the fire!"

"Paula ... " I said, reaching out a hand to her, and she stepped back, almost yelling, "You don't understand. It's got to be a mistake! How could they do this to him?"

"Paula ... "

"Look, you know Diane Woods, you know the chief, you can help me out, you can –“

"Paula, he's the one."

She stopped in mid-breath, her mouth open in shock, and then held herself tight with her arms. "No, you can't be right. There's got to be a mistake, he couldn't do anything like this-"

"Mike Ahern saw him do it, Paula. He's got film and pictures of Jerry going in and setting the fire. There's no doubt."

She nodded, gulped, and said, "So that's what it was all about, you bastard. All that happy talk about taking pictures at night. You set him up! You used me, you son of a bitch, to set him up!"

Paula kicked at me, still crying, and she turned and ran through the snow, slipping a bit in the wetness, heading for her car. I rubbed at my face, then felt a hand on my shoulder and turned and looked at Mike Ahem.

"Looked pretty rough," he said.

I nodded. "It was."

He looked around the lights and the noise and the firefighters at work. "Care to join me for a little ride?"

"What for?"

"We're going to interrogate the little weasel, before he starts remembering his rights and starts yapping about a lawyer. You being a writer, thought this might make a good article. I'll clear it so you can observe the interrogation."

About then all I wanted to do was go home and get drunk and crawl into bed, but for some reason I said, "Sure. Why not?"

So I walked through the snow myself, heading for one more sour little trip.

In the end it didn't take long at all, and I stood outside of the interrogation room with a cold coffee in my hand, watching Diane and Mike at work. It was right off the booking room, and the place was filling up with on- and off-duty cops who came in to see who had been arrested. There was the traditional one-way mirror looking into the room, and Mike and Diane were on one side of a table and Jerry was on the other.

Jerry had been all bluff and bluster for about ten minutes, until Mike had run the tape of him entering and leaving the Roscoe House Inn on a small TV in the interrogation room, and then he had put his head into his hands and had wept. And when he was finished crying, he started talking. Even though there was a tape recorder on the table, both Mike and Diane took notes as Jerry talked.

His story rambled on for a while, and in the end, it was a fairly pathetic one. I didn't think the owners of the burnt hotels would be feeling fine anytime soon.

"It's like this," Jerry said. "I'm stuck in a dead-end job, trying to get out, trying to get my stuff looked at by photo editors and up and down the East Coast. You think they care about seeing beach shots and pictures of people building snowmen? So I needed some action stuff, good pies that would sell. And after homicides, fire pictures do real well."

Once the decision had been made, everything else was easy.

He found small quartz heaters in hardware stores in small towns in Maine and New Hampshire. Gasoline was easy, empty milk jugs even easier. And targets, picked by sheer laziness from copies of the planning board minutes that had been lying around the office...

"Hell," he said, bravely smiling, "The whole beach is empty. I had my picks."

The first one did so fine, and the second one, too, and then, well, the firebug had seduced him. He couldn't explain it. He just enjoyed being alone in a building, feeling the empty rooms about him, and knowing he had the power to transform this enormous building into flames and smoke and a pile of rubble. Then, to make it even sweeter, to come back after the fire had been set and take pictures of what you've done, to record it for eternity, to print them up and to look at them, and then to have them forever.

But something came to disturb the feelings, the sense of power, and the wonderful trip that he had been taking.

"Money," he said sourly. "If you knew how much a photographer gets paid, you wouldn't believe me. My car is five years old, I live in a dump apartment, and even by padding my expense report, I had nothing. Hell, even if a New York paper wanted to interview me, I couldn't afford the airfare."

Jerry had a friend of a friend just over the border in Massachusetts who knew someone that lived in the shadows, and who could put Jerry in touch with someone else with connections. Jerry never knew who this shadow person was --- he just made the offer. Jerry was the one who had been burning down Tyler Beach over the winter. Was there a business opportunity there? And then the word came back.

"One thousand dollars, in cash," Jerry said wistfully, and I kept my best poker face on, having set up this little deal just the other day with a manacled Nick Seymour. "I was to leave my car unlocked in the North Shore Mall parking lot and come back in two hours, and in a bag was the money and the motel's name. It was a test burn, just to prove my good faith and expertise. And that's where I was tonight... "

Then the emotions rose up and grabbed him again, and after he wept for a few more minutes, he sniffled and blew his nose and said, "Can I get a lawyer now?"

"Sure," Diane said, switching off the tape recorder and looking over at Mike. "I don't see why not."

There was still a press of people outside of the interrogation room and I was going to leave when there was a tug at my arm, and Diane was there, looking at me. "I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time."

"You look pretty busy," I said.

Her gaze was steady and direct. "I've got time enough to talk. Let's go."

She led me out of the crowded booking room and we went down a short corridor that led to her office. Just before closing the door she did something that made my heart ache: She put up a sign that said INTERVIEW IN PROCESS-DO NOT DISTURB. In lighter times Diane once told me this was her World War Three sign:  Everybody in the department, from the police chief to the janitor, knew that when that sign was up, Diane was involved in something important and sensitive, and she was only to be interrupted when the sirens sounded and the Russian ICBMs were coming over the North Pole.

It was a sign for her work, and not once had she ever used it when talking to me.

She sat down at her desk and I pulled over an empty chair.

Her office hadn't changed since the last time I had been there. Her desk and another one were covered with file folders, old newspapers, and notepads. Battered black filing cabinets and cardboard boxes held the case files, and a drug chart from the DEA covered up one cinder-block wall. There had once been a cheesecake poster of a bikinied blonde holding a revolver with the caption "Gun Control Means Being Able To Hit Your Target," but that had come down over the winter with no explanation. It had been put up as a joke by some uniforms, and Diane had gone them one better by keeping it up for a while, but maybe the joke had gotten old.

Right now, she was not laughing. The scar on her chin was a blazing white. She folded her hands in her lap and said, "You pulled this off for Ahern, didn't you?"

"I did."

"Decided not to involve me at all?"

"I thought it was best to go with Mike on this one."

"Oh." She kept her hands still. "You and Mike now an item?"

"Hardly."

"Unh-hunh," she said, rocking her chair a bit. "This case sucked from beginning to end, you know that. I had to talk to families who saw their entire livelihoods go up in flames, and for what? Nothing, absolutely nothing. For some moron trying to make a name for himself. And I didn't like it turning out to be Jerry. The poor shit is good behind the camera, and he's treated the department well, and I don't feel good that this case is wrapped up. I feel sick and betrayed."