“The dots don’t connect.”
Bishop yawned. “I really don’t care if the dots connect or not. We’ve got a talented forensic artist who’s going to create a sketch for us. We’ll have a better chance of figuring out who killed that child if we’ve a face.”
Rick tightened his hand on the wheel. “You’re right. I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Even as he spoke the words, he knew he’d stop by KC’s bar tonight and find out more about Jenna Thompson.
Just before four, Rick and Bishop were minutes from the station when they received the call from dispatch. There’d been a fire in a small West End home and crews had found a body in the midst of the rubble. Likely the victim had died in the fire but a dead body was a dead body and homicide had to be called.
Rick shifted in his seat, stifling a groan. His leg was stiff and he needed to stretch and work out the cramps. But with another call on the heels of their meeting with Jenna Thompson there’d be no time for PT stretches. He did what he had to do. He sucked it up. He did not quit.
He parked behind a fire truck at the end of a cul-de-sac. Water hoses sprayed on the black smoldering embers cordoned off by yellow crime-scene tape. The house’s brick foundation remained, as did blackened wooden struts that had once been the east wall. The heavy scent of burned wood clung to the air as heat hissed a dying breath from the embers.
Judging by the other houses on the block, the charred timbers had been a small bungalow with a brick front porch and a low-pitched roof. A few firemen stood in puddles of water while neighbors gathered to watch the scene as if it were a live-action crime drama playing out in their own front yards. The drama of the flames might’ve passed but Rick guessed this had been a hell of a fire.
A Channel Five news van had angled on the street behind and Susan Martinez gripped her mike as she spoke into the camera. The dark-haired reporter wore a red dress that hugged her trim frame and waterproof boots that kept her feet dry.
“Look, it’s your buddy, Ms. Martinez,” Bishop said.
“My lucky day.”
Rick let Tracker out of the car so that he could move and stretch. The dog sniffed the air and his ears perked as he took in the scene. A uniformed officer moved toward the detectives, a small notebook in hand.
The officer’s name badge read PRINCE. He was a tall, lean kid with short, black hair. Fresh-faced and a spring in his step, Rick guessed he’d not been working the streets for more than a year.
Prince extended his hand and introduced himself.
Rick accepted the hand. “So what do you have for us?”
Prince glanced back at the scene. “Firemen responded to the call early this morning. The flames ate through the house in a matter of minutes. Crews didn’t even attempt to enter the building, which was completely engulfed when they arrived.”
Bishop pulled off his sunglasses and studied the carnage. “What time did the fire start?”
“Just before sunrise. They put the fire out hours ago but the rubble has only just cooled enough so the arson investigator could examine the scene more closely.”
Rick sniffed. “Do I smell diesel?”
Prince’s eyes widened with surprise. “Good nose. The fire crews suspected arson from the moment they pulled up. The flames were hot and spread fast.”
“Who owns the house?” Rick asked.
He glanced at his notes. “A couple by the name of Nesbit. They recently moved out into a home in Franklin. He got a big promotion and they could afford a bigger house.”
Rick rested his hands on his hips. “They’ve been accounted for?”
“They have. I spoke to them a half hour ago and they’re on their way here.” They turned toward the house and pointed to a trampled white sign in the center of the yard.
“That’s a FOR SALE sign. They put the house on the market six months ago but no sale yet. Just had it staged to attract buyers.”
“A fire would solve a lot of problems,” Rick said.
Bishop nodded. “Clean and simple.”
“Except that there’s a body in the house,” Rick added. “Any clue who it might be?”
“Not yet,” Prince said. “Waiting on the medical examiner’s van.”
“Who’s in charge of the arson investigation?”
Prince pointed to a broad-shouldered man wearing a fireman’s jacket and pants, heavy boots, and a helmet. “Inspector Dean Murphy. He’s the one that found the body.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Rick and Bishop made their way across the water-soaked yard, up a cement sidewalk to a set of brick stairs that now led really to nowhere. In the center of the blackened remains stood Dean Murphy.
“Inspector Murphy,” Rick said.
The man held up a hand, asking Rick to wait, as if he were engrossed in midthought. He scribbled notes on a page and then slowly faced them. In his early sixties he sported a large stock of white hair, full eyebrows, and a ruddy complexion.
Rick made introductions. “The uniformed officer tells me it was arson.”
Inspector Murphy shoved out a breath. “No doubt about it.” He pointed to several sections of the ruins that had all but disintegrated. “Those spots are ignition points where our arsonist poured lots of accelerant, likely diesel or kerosene. As you can see, we’ve got multiple ignition points, but if you look over here where the body was found, there’s quite a bit of damage. That area was the bedroom.”
Rick studied what had been the bedroom and could make out the faint impression of a body. High heat not only seared flesh but it melted the body’s fat and ate into bone turning it to ash and dust.