My first case of the year came a mere seven hours after the New Year began; at least, that’s when I got the call. Niki and I were next up on the rotation and, quite frankly, I kind of expected to spend my New Year’s Day on the job. It’s a curious thing how early-morning homicides are so often born of late-night partying—back-slapping and high fives mutating into punches and blood as the alcohol digs its way down to those darker passions. And with all the alcohol dispersed on New Year’s Eve, the odds go way up.
I arrived up at the scene of a burned-out minivan parked on a turnaround at the end of First Street North, a lonely stub of blacktop that lay between a line of railroad tracks and the Mississippi River. Smoke still rose from the tires, and the exterior of the vehicle looked like the peeled skin of a bad sunburn. Three squads and a fire truck had arrived before me. The display on my dashboard warned me that the air temperature was –21 degrees Fahrenheit, which explained why no one was standing outside of a vehicle. I put on a stocking cap and got out of my car. When I did, a car door opened on one of the squads and Sergeant Richard Martinez stepped out. Rick and I started as patrol officers the same year. Unlike me, however, he loved the streets and bucked any attempt to move him off patrol.
“Rick,” I said as I reached out a hand.
“Hey, Max,” he said returning the handshake. “You’re going to love this one.”
“It’s twenty fucking degrees below zero. What’s not to love?”
“You gettin’ soft behind that desk?” Martinez puffed out his rib cage and slapped his vest with both palms. “This is why we live in this fucking state, ain’t it?”
“It’s days like today that make me root for global warming.”
“Haven’t you heard? That’s all a hoax. Besides, I hear we’re in for a warm up—above zero in two days.”
“I’ll break out my sunblock.”
As we approached the vehicle, the smell of the burned rubber was overwhelming in the light breeze, and behind that I could smell gasoline.
Rick walked me around to the side door of the minivan and pointed to a lump of charred flesh and muscle lying on the back seat. I leaned in and took a whiff, slow and deliberate, like a wine expert looking for the oak in a glass of chardonnay. The smell of burned flesh reminded me of a hog roast I attended in college. And again, the gasoline was heavy behind the punch of the burned car.
The body appeared to be a woman, lying in a fetal position, her arms and wrists twisted and curled into a pugilist’s pose, a condition caused by the shrinking of the tendons as they bake. There may have been pieces of clothing still covering her, but I couldn’t tell which patches were cloth and which were skin. She had the remnants of boots on her feet; the soles had melted away. I pulled on latex gloves and lifted up enough leather around the ankle to see light skin. Caucasian.
With the sun not yet cresting the horizon, the van was primarily lit with the headlights from the squad cars, where the rest of the patrol personnel waited in warmth for instructions. The air, when it gets that cold, is something sharp that you can almost hold in your hand. It can be inhaled, but breathe it in too deeply, and it will feel like a blade in your chest.
Another car pulled up to the edge of the circle and parked beside mine. I could see my partner, Niki Vang, putting ear muffs and gloves on before stepping out into the frigid morning air.
“Did someone call the ME?” I asked Martinez.
“Yeah, they’ve been notified. They’re probably drawing straws to see who has to come out here.”
Niki carried a hot coffee in her hand as she made her way to the minivan.
“Did you bring enough for everyone?” I asked.
“I thought Boy Scouts always came prepared,” she said, handing me the paper cup. I took a sip, the hot dark roast warming my throat and chest as it made its way down.
Niki wore more layers than Martinez and me combined, and she had just left the comfort of a heated car, yet it was Niki who marched in place to keep warm. Martinez and I, on the other hand, had that stupid man code to live up to. It would have been unsightly to have us hopping around with other cops and firefighters watching. I could already feel my toes starting to grow numb inside of my shoes.
“One victim,” I said to Niki. “Female, likely Caucasian.”
“Do you think the firemen would mind if I lit one of these tires back on fire?” Niki said. “This cold is ridiculous.” She edged past me, leaned into the van, and inhaled. “Definitely gas, or some accelerant.”
“A killer wanting to hide their tracks,” I said.
“Either that or they just wanted to get warm,” Niki said.
Martinez said, “911 got a call from some guy who was screaming his bloody head off. Said he was on fire. Wanted someone to put him out. We found ol’ Fireball over there.” Martinez pointed to a scuff of ash in the snow where the caller had been rolling around to put out the flames. “And take a look at this.” Martinez walked us around to the other side of the van and pointed to a small BIC cigarette lighter on the ground, directly beneath a partially opened window.
Niki looked at the open window and back at the lighter. “So Fireball reached his hand through the window, flicks the lighter and . . . kaboom!”
“I’m not a detective, like you guys,” Martinez said with a grin, “but if I was in Vegas, that’d be my bet.”
“That’s about as stupid as they come,” I said.
“I know, right?” Niki said. “If he’d used a Zippo, he could have just tossed the lighter through the window instead of sticking his arm inside.”
Martinez said, “He was still smoldering when we got here.”
“Where’s he now?” I asked.
“Ambulance took him to HCMC. One of my guys is there watching over him to make sure he doesn’t leave.”
“Do we have a name?” Niki asked. I could tell she was trying to hide her shiver as she spoke.
“We do,” Martinez said with an exaggeration that suggested that he was enjoying himself. “The EMTs dug his wallet out. The guy couldn’t talk by then, and they wanted to see if they had medical records on him—you know, blood type and that sort of thing. Well, I happened to be standing outside the ambulance. You ever heard of Dennis Orton?” he asked.
“Dennis Orton?” Niki repeated. “As in deputy chief of staff to the mayor? That Dennis Orton?”
“I only heard the name.” Martinez said. “His face looked like the overcooked ham my wife baked on Christmas, so I couldn’t make an ID, but, again, if I was in Vegas—”
“Fireball has connections,” I said. “Keep his name off the radio. I don’t want the scanner crowd getting information before we’re ready to release it.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Martinez said. “But you know as well as I do, there’s a lot of guys in blue who don’t like Orton.”
“I know,” I said. “Just keep a lid on it for as long as you can. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another homicide, no different than any other, and I don’t want the press or the brass interjecting themselves.”
“What about the plates on the minivan?” Niki asked Martinez.
“Comes back to a Pippa Stafford. I’m guessing that’s her in the back seat.”
“I don’t see any gas cans,” she said.