Memories did not rush back. There was no great flash of insight. Pieces did not tumble into place. But there were whispers. She remembered going to bed early because she’d not been well. She had been annoyed and sick of being treated like a baby. That brought a smile. What five-year-old hadn’t protested bedtime? That had been a normal reaction, maybe the last normal emotion. She’d fallen into a deep sleep.
Another memory crashed into her thoughts and her smile faded. She’d awoken to a hand on her mouth. The smell of booze and cigarettes. Foul-smelling.
Her memories faded and facts, supplied by old articles on the Internet, filled in gaps. Ronnie put her in his truck, tape on her mouth, her hands and feet bound.
Newspaper reports filled in the other details. He’d returned to her family’s home and shot her father. Then he’d shot her mother. And then, he’d waited until her sister had come home and when she’d entered the kitchen and likely seen the bodies of her dead parents, he’d shot her.
What had Ronnie said to Sara in those last horrible minutes? Had he taunted her with the death of her parents? Had he told her he’d taken Jennifer? Or had he shot her immediately?
Later, when Ronnie pulled Jennifer from the trunk and put her in a closet, he’d said saving her was an act of kindness. He loved her.
“Love. You sick son of a bitch. You took my family and left me all alone.” Tears welled in her eyes and one spilled down her cheek. She didn’t bother to swipe it away, figuring after all these years she was due a few.
Despite the theories, she realized no one would ever say why Ronnie had chosen her family. Life had dealt her a shitty hand and that was that.
Rick got the call just after lunch. A fire in the Germantown neighborhood. Framed, one-level home, burned to the ground. Neighbors had reported the flames just after ten and had called the fire department but the fire had been too hot and too fast and the home had turned to cinders in a matter of an hour.
He arrived at the scene to the fresh scent of cinder and ash. Yellow crime-scene tape roped off the house and yard and corralled a large group of onlookers. The media van was parking, but instead of waiting for a barrage of questions, he strode under the tape as he pulled on a set of rubber gloves.
Jake Bishop moved toward him, a dark scowl on his face. “We’ve another body.”
Rick rubbed the back of his neck, hoping to soften the tension. “Any evidence to help us identify the victim?”
“No, but the body was found in the area of the house that would have been the bedroom.”
“Anything to connect this death to Diane Smith?”
“Don’t even know if the victim is female at this point. There’s not much left.”
But that in itself was a connection. Fire had obliterated the last crime scene. “Jonas Tuttle could not have killed this woman.”
“No.” He reached for his notebook.
Inspector Murphy strode toward them, his thick fireman’s jacket open. His Nashville Fire T-shirt was soaked in sweat. His head cocked a bit to the right as if it too were barely hanging on.
Rick stuck out his hand. “Inspector Murphy.”
Murphy clasped his hand and Bishop’s. He nodded toward the charred remains behind him. “I thought you two found the guy who set the last blaze.”
“We thought we did too,” Rick said. “Lots of evidence linking him to the murder.” And yet, here they stood inhaling cinder and smoke, waiting for timbers to cool so another body burned beyond recognition could be removed.
Murphy’s radio on his jacket squawked a request and he silenced it with the flick of a button. “Looks like arson.”
“The house burned fast like the other one?” Rick asked.
Murphy glanced back at the burned remains, staring as if in a silent communication. “It did. It went up very quickly.”
“Same accelerant?” Rick asked.
“As a matter of fact, I just got word back on the accelerant used in the first fire. Tests confirmed it was a mixture of diesel and a product called Thermite, a pyrotechnic mixture. Burns fast and hot. If I had to guess on this fire, I’d say the same cocktail.”
Bishop rested his hands on his hips. “Whoever set this fire wanted to make sure there wasn’t much left behind.”
Murphy nodded his gaze appreciatively. “Whoever set the blaze knew what the hell he was doing. This isn’t this firebug’s first rodeo. And seeing as we’ve ruled out your dead suspect, I’d say look for a guy with a history of arson. His earlier fires might not be as big or as successful as this one but, somewhere along the way, he got a taste for fire.”
The haystack of suspects might have shrunk but they were still searching for a needle. They thanked Inspector Murphy and he moved back toward the ruins.
“House is owned by Nancy Jones, age thirty-four,” Bishop said.
“Anyone seen Nancy lately?”
Bishop shrugged. “The rumblings I heard from the crowd say no, but I’ve not had time to ask.”
Rick glanced at the collection of neighbors, many dressed in sweats or casual clothes. Time to start searching for the needle. “I’ll tackle the neighbors.”
“You take the left side and I’ll take the right,” Bishop offered. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and our firebug stuck around to see the show.”
Arsonists often lingered, hoping to get a glimpse of the mayhem their fires created. The aftermath was often as thrilling as the flames. “Let’s hope.”
Rick scanned the faces of the crowd. No one stuck out but that didn’t mean much. He moved to the crowd of onlookers, wondering if the killer had mingled among them.
He unhooked his badge from his belt. “Who lives around this house? Who knows the occupant?”
A murmur rolled over the crowd before two people, a man and a woman, spoke up. The woman had short, sandy-brown hair, and wore thick Elvis Costello glasses and a yoga hoodie and tights. Beside her stood a man with dark hair and a square jaw covered with salt-and-pepper stubble. Rick waved both down past the crowd. He ducked under the tape and led them a few more paces down the sidewalk.
He looked at the man first. “Your name?”
“Randy Kincaid. “I live in the house behind Nancy Jones’s house.”
“You know Nancy Jones?”
He rubbed the stubble with long fingers. “Well enough. We’ve been neighbors for a couple of years.”