Yet the whole time he was telling Maggie this, Tully was thinking Kunze couldn’t have chosen an absolute worst time. She still looked vulnerable and now was dealing with new wounds. Seemed like a low blow.
After Assistant Director Cunningham’s death, Tully had been on mandatory suspension for shooting and killing the man responsible for exposing Cunningham and Maggie—as well as hundreds of others—to the Ebola virus. It was Tully who Kunze should have been upset with. The killer, an old rival of Tully’s, had meant for Tully to be the target. He’d even sent a note at the bottom of a box of doughnuts, knowing his old friend wouldn’t resist the temptation, especially since it had been sent to their offices at Quantico.
But Tully hadn’t been there that morning and Raymond Kunze—Cunningham’s replacement—felt it necessary to remind Tully of his absence as often as he possibly could. If that’s what he wanted to do, that was fine. But Tully wished Kunze would leave Maggie out of it. He could take care of himself. He couldn’t take care of Maggie—she’d never let him.
Gwen said that both he and Maggie were suffering from survivor’s guilt. That’s what they called it. Seeing a shrink wouldn’t rinse it from the system. Even Kunze had to understand that. It was just another form of punishment on the assistant director’s long list.
“But James Kernan,” Maggie said, still obviously rattled by Kunze’s order. “The man was ancient and loony when I had him for Psychology 101.”
“He knows the guy can get under your skin. So don’t let him.”
“Who’s James Kernan?” Racine wanted to know.
The three of them were making their way back to the alley and the Dumpster.
“He’s a psychiatrist. Old school. His method of analysis is to badger, trick, and insult his patients.”
“Isn’t that what all psychiatrists do? Some are just more subtle than others.”
“She has a point,” Tully said, thinking how Gwen could get him to admit to things without his realizing it—and he was her lover, not her patient.
The barricades erected that morning remained. Crime scene technicians and fire investigators still worked both buildings. Small groups of law enforcement officers huddled by the vehicles. Some packed evidence bags for transport. Others were on their cell phones. Several took cigarette breaks, the smoke rising into a cloud that Tully found himself thinking was just a bit too reminiscent of the one that had just been put out.
Keith Ganza stood at the back of his van, which was parked in the entry to the alley. He looked ready to leave, back in street clothes, his Tyvek coveralls wadded up under his arm as he loaded brown paper bags sealed with bright red evidence labels.
“Did you find anything that might ID the victim?” Tully pointed to the stash of bags already packed in the van.
“Ask me tomorrow,” Ganza said. “Right now it’s just a bunch of charred garbage. I think I got a couple good chunks of material I can test for residues. He obviously poured gasoline back there. Wood, fabric, insulation are highly absorbent. Chromatography should break down the chemical composition of the hydrocarbons.”
Tully pretended he understood the technical mumbo-jumbo, but he was tired. It’d been a long day and he was sure his face registered that his mind was blank.
“So you’ll be able to give us a blueprint of what exactly he used to start the fire?” Tully asked.
“If it’s gasoline, the chromatography is so accurate I should be able to differentiate between makes and grades.” Ganza said this matter-of-factly. “Each grade has a different chromatography fingerprint, depending on the proportion of various chemicals present. Refineries make gasoline according to café standards for a variety of state and federal regulations.”
“Are you saying you’ll be able to tell where the gasoline was refined and possibly where it was distributed from?” Racine asked.
“In some cases the chemical breakdown can be so accurate we’ve been able to identify and trace the gasoline to a specific gas station. In one case we were able to trace it to a particular vehicle.”
“Smells like diesel,” Maggie said, walking around Ganza’s van.
Tully sniffed the air. Smelled like the bottom of his kitchen oven. One of these days he needed to learn how to clean that burned crispy gunk that stuck to the rack.
“Good nose,” Ganza said. “If it is diesel that’ll explain why the body didn’t burn. Diesel fuel is combustible, not flammable. Doesn’t burn as easily. Soaks in or dissipates before giving off enough vapor to ignite. Also narrows it down a bit. Not as many inner cities sell diesel. But the interstate is close by.”
“Interesting choice. Why make harder for him and easier for us?” Racine asked.
“Maybe he just used what was handy,” Tully guessed. “Most criminals don’t go out of their way to buy something special. They use what’s available. What they already have.”
“Or find at the scene,” Maggie added.