How had she done it? It baffled the two police detectives. When the Cuyahoga River burst into flames in 1969, some said that it was spontaneous combustion. But it didn’t take long to discern the real reason, the one based upon scientific fact: the river was covered with oil slicks, and oil was combustible. One match, dropped in just the right spot, would have done it. Where was Randi’s match — both figuratively and literally?
What had happened to Josh Bryce continued to baffle the two detectives as they made their way to the precinct captain’s office. It baffled, as well, the medical examiner who had been brought in to answer questions about how a person could set another person on fire and leave no evidentiary trace behind. It was the medical examiner, a thoughtful, deliberate man nearing retirement, who decided, instead, to shine a different sort of light on the incident by asking a question that had not yet been asked: “Why did Ms. Bryce attempt to put out the fire if her purpose had been to see her husband fully consumed by it?”
“A change of heart maybe?” asked Lieutenant Leggio as he and his companions settled into chairs around the police captain’s desk, leaving Randi Bryce in temporary limbo in the interrogation room.
“Perhaps. But let us consider the following,” said Dr. Graybeal, the M.E., scratching the bristles of his once old-fashioned but now suddenly trendy goatee. “Seemingly spontaneous combustion does on occasion happen. It’s a rare, but documented, occurrence.”
“Seemingly?” asked Captain Samuels.
“Combustion for which a cause can never be determined.”
“Uh-uh, Graybeal. Not really buying it.” The captain’s best detectives weren’t buying it either. Leggio all but suggested with his look of amused incredulity that it was time for the good doctor to take his forty-year gold watch and go hit the rocker.
Graybeal had dealt with disrespectful cops before. “What was the victim wearing?” he pursued.
“Well, we’re certain it wasn’t anything flame retardant,” answered Leggio, his mordant humor going unappreciated by the others in the room.
“What was in his pockets?” asked the doctor.
“You’re not giving up on this, are you, Henry?” asked Lieutenant Selvera. “Nothing unusual. Keys. A wallet. He was getting ready to leave for work.”
“Anything else?”
“There were three lithium batteries. The fire pretty much melted them.”
“Oh.”
Now the medical examiner smiled. For a brief moment Josh Bryce became not some poor victim of backyard immolation, but a riddle completely soluble. “The batteries weren’t melted by the fire, officers. They were the reason for it. The keys and the batteries jostling together in his pocket. The morning was hot. There must have been some friction. Had he been moving around the yard?”
Lieutenant Selvera nodded. “He’d chased after a dog.”
Graybeal nodded. “The friction of the keys rubbing against the batteries short-circuited one or more of them and ignited the fire in his pocket. It happens, and not that infrequently. Have the crime lab run some tests. I’m sure the findings will bear this out.”
“The woman was telling the truth?” asked Leggio, after a long, arced whistle of astonishment.
“Lo and behold, she must have been,” said his partner. “Okay to get her over to the hospital to be with her husband, captain?”
“Of course. Take one of the patrol cars.”
Randi Bryce reached the hospital at six. Josh was awake, but just barely. Their eyes held on one another for a long moment as Randi gently touched her husband’s one bandage-free hand with one of her unbandaged fingers. “I told you I’d go to Radio Shack,” she said.
“I know,” he responded groggily, the intravenous painkillers sucking him back into somnolence. “I know.” And then he was asleep.
Randi did not leave her husband’s side all night. It is the thing that spouses do.
1998 DENTIGEROUSLY FORTUITIOUS IN FLORIDA
There are three things that probably shouldn’t be said to the victim of a brutal, late-night assault in a dark parking lot.
The first is “How are you holding up, hon?” This from the victim’s mother.
The victim — Abby Alpert — didn’t know how to answer. She was still having nightmares, although the panic attacks had subsided and she’d even been able to go to the movies with her girlfriends the previous Friday night (something light, a romantic comedy).
The second is “Aren’t you glad he didn’t rape you?” This from Abby’s best girlfriend, Tish.
Abby’s reply: “Yes, I’m very glad he didn’t rape me. But allow me, please, to still feel violated, nonetheless, by the attack.”
The third is “So when do you think you’ll be able to come back to work?” This from Abby’s sensitivity-challenged employer, Thom Jensen, DDS. Abby had been out for two weeks and Thom the dentist and his office manager Ms. Purdy were getting tired of beating the bushes of Port St. Lucie for part-time hygienists to fill in for all of Abby’s appointments, this being August, and so many of Florida’s dental hygienists having temporarily fled the state for cooler climes “off-peninsula.”
“I’ll be back on Monday, Thom.”
“You’re ready to come back?”
“I’m ready to come back. And even if I’m not, I need to come back. I need to get back into my routine.”
“Excellent,” said Thom. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
Monday came. Abby rose early. She had an eight-thirty. She showered and dressed, nuked a frozen scone in the microwave, and then steeled herself to spend the day doing what she was very good at: cleaning teeth, making other people feel comfortable and relaxed during a sometimes intimidating trip to the dentist’s office. Abby was a popular hygienist. Some of her patients had switched dentists just to have Abby clean their teeth. It was a good job, a job she really loved. She hoped that she would be able to concentrate, that her hand wouldn’t shake, that memories of the attack wouldn’t intrude on her thoughts at inopportune moments.
Her eight-thirty went well. Mrs. Johnstone. One of Abby’s oldest patients (among a goodly number of senior-citizen transplants), Mrs. Johnstone was solemnly mindful of what Abby had been through and asked no questions. Her nine-thirty, Ginger Lopez, a bartender in her mid-thirties, was too used to drunken customers spilling their guts. Abby had to make it clear that she didn’t feel like doing any spilling that morning.
Her ten-thirty, Mr. Spinella, cancelled at the last minute. He was a real estate attorney and the time of a closing got moved up and he was very sorry — his secretary said — and, of course, he would pay, in full, for the missed appointment.
Abby’s eleven-thirty was a new patient — just moved to Port St. Lucie, he told Ms. Purdy on the phone. Abby didn’t want any new patients that first week back. She only wanted to clean the teeth of people she knew. She had neglected to tell Ms. Purdy this. It was her own fault.
The man came on time. Abby poked her head out into the waiting room and called his name: Davin Romey. He was a fairly young man, perhaps in his late twenties, with a short and stocky wrestler’s build. The first thing that Abby noticed about him was the wide breadth of his chest. He was wearing a fitted ecru-colored t-shirt under a loose blue summer jacket. He got up and took off the jacket. Abby noticed now that he had muscular arms, both biceps and forearms. Abby always thought of Popeye when she met men with overly developed forearms. Normal protocol, especially for a first-time patient, was to greet the patient and shake his hand. But Abby didn’t want to shake this man’s hand. He obviously wouldn’t know her story and might even think her rude, but she didn’t care; she didn’t want to shake the man’s hand. Entering the man’s open mouth with all of her dental instruments was intimate enough for her.