Jonathon Michael watched as the medical examiner and the funeral home crew wrestled the gurney bearing Bobby Cutts along the narrow trench that Michael had, for safety’s sake, allowed to be cut through the debris, despite it all being a probable crime scene. The volunteer EMT/firefighters had been a huge help there-shoveling a pathway in barely twenty minutes. No surprise, of course; they were routinely reliable if you treated them right, hanging around long after their job was done, eager to assist, sometimes to a fault. Michael had pulled the leash on them more than once in the past to preserve potential evidence from being trampled or destroyed. Among cops, the inside joke was that EMT actually stood for “evidence mangling technician.” Still, he remained grateful-they were cooperative, interested, and instinctively hard workers, especially when it came to the heavy lifting he so commonly required. In his experience, few of his own law enforcement colleagues were as useful-or, to be fair, as plentiful.
The gurney crew reached the edge of the barn’s foundation and the trampled, soiled snow field beyond, to be immediately enveloped by Bobby’s family-assuming that what they’d found was Bobby. Luckily for the medical examiner, given what was left, dental records and DNA would confirm the identity of what had taken hours to locate. Michael’s thermal imager had finally done the trick, just barely distinguishing Bobby’s curled-up form from the smoking timbers and carcasses around it. In fact, when he’d turned the machine off to confirm his discovery, he couldn’t tell the difference.
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.”