“God,” she murmured, then again straightened. “Her arms looked blacker before.”
“Soot. We had to swab the skin. Her torso took the greatest brunt of the fire. It’s really difficult to totally destroy an adult body in a house fire,” Barrington said, as if lecturing med school students. “The body is composed of so much water.”
“He coated her torso with the solid accelerant, but not her limbs,” Reed said quietly.
“I found ammonium nitrate on her torso. It was helpful knowing what to look for.”
“The blood, Barrington?” Mitchell bit out. “Where did the blood come from?”
Unperturbed, Sam pointed to his own inner arm, just above his elbow. “He cut her brachial artery, here. If you look closely, you can see the skin curls in around the slice.”
“He sliced her?” Mitchell shot a puzzled look up at Reed, then back at Sam, her eyes narrowed. “How long would it have taken her to bleed out?”
“Two to five minutes,” Sam said.
Mitchell’s face hardened. “Sonofabitch. He wanted her to bleed out slowly. Shooting would have been too merciful.”
Reed exhaled slowly. “He wanted her to feel the pain. He burned her alive.”
“How long would she have been conscious?” she asked between her teeth.
“Without drugs? A few minutes. It’s hard to say.”
“Her hands are intact,” Reed said. “Did you check them?”
“Yes, but I didn’t find anything. If she scratched at him, she didn’t get skin.”
“Did you check her teeth?” Mitchell asked and Sam shook his head.
“Not yet, but I will.”
Mitchell blew out a breath. “What kind of knife are we looking for?”
“Probably not serrated, but very sharp. There’s no evidence of sawing, just a slice.”
Mitchell stepped back from the body. “We’ll need to see if any knives are missing from Penny Hill’s house. -Hopefully her daughter will know what she had in her kitchen.”
Reed checked his watch. “Your clerk should have pulled Burnette’s case records by now. Let’s go by Social Services and get Hill’s records, then we can start cross-checking.”
She took one long last look at Hill’s body, her jaw tight. “Yeah. Let’s go see who hated Penny Hill enough to do this.”
Tuesday, November 28, 3:15 P.M.
Mia’s arm was throbbing, but she gritted her teeth as she held on to the box of Social Services files. Solliday carried the heavier box, his expression grimly stark as hers must also be. It was as if their moods had combined into one dark cloud. After leaving the morgue, she’d felt angrier than hell. But after leaving, she felt completely drained.
Penny Hill had been well loved. The grief at Social Services had been palpable. Phones rang and social workers moved through their daily business, but there had been a hush over the place. Like in a church before a funeral. Or at a graveside after.
The elevator slid open and Mia walked into the bullpen, counting the seconds until she could drop the heavy box, but she stopped short at the sight of her desk, piled high with more boxes. Abe’s desk, conversely, was still well-ordered and immaculately clean, with not a folder to be seen.
“God save me from pissy clerks,” she muttered. Stacy had been miffed that Mia hadn’t been more appreciative of her desk-cleaning efforts. Now Mia couldn’t see her desk at all. Without a word she marched to her desk and dropped the box on the floor. Solliday more sedately slid his box onto Abe’s desk and sank into Abe’s chair. Before she could quell the reflex, Mia’s hand stretched out, a protest rising in her throat. “No.”
Solliday’s head lifted and his eyes met hers as her cheeks heated.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was stupid.”
His lips curved inside his goatee. “I promise I won’t put my dirty shoes on his desk,” he said, and the wry humor in his voice made her smile as she dropped into her chair.
“I am sorry. Abe would want you comfortable. It’s just that I haven’t been so tired in a long time.”
“I know. We were up most of the night. And then... that kind of grief.” He pulled a stack of files from his box. “It drains the very life out of your soul.”
Mia blinked. “That sounded remarkably poetic, -Solliday. I mean... like a real poem. Not like my ‘bully named Bubba.’”
His eyes dropped to the files. “How do you want to handle these?” he asked and struck with curiosity, she leaned forward. His cheeks were decidedly red.
“Solliday. You’re blushing.”
He cocked his jaw to one side, stubbornly refusing to meet her eyes and Mia found herself thoroughly charmed. “Let’s go through the files Hill’s boss cherry-picked first,” he said.
“Ah, yes. The many arsonists Penny Hill tried to place in foster care. We need a system or we’re never going to find a connection. How about you write down all the names you come across in Hill’s files, I’ll do Burnette’s. In an hour we break and compare.” She frowned at the boxes. “If I can -figure out where to start.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pain reliever. “Start with this. You make me hurt just -looking at you. You carried in that damn box like you didn’t have a hole in your shoulder.” He tossed the bottle across their desks and Mia caught it.
“Are you always such a mother?” she asked.
He looked surprised. “No, I’m a father. Why can only mothers make you take medicine?”
“Because—” She bit her tongue. Because fathers are the reason you have to take medicine in the first place. Mothers just give you a pill and tell you not to provoke him anymore. She grabbed the top file and started reading. “Let’s just get to work, okay?”
She could feel his eyes on her, watching, but in the end he said nothing, just settled himself into Abe’s chair and began to read.
Tuesday, November 28, 4:00 P.M.
Bart Secrest was a scary-looking man. Kind of like Mr. Clean, but mean. His office was dark and stark, without one picture or personal memento to soften his image.
Brooke took the chair he offered with a silent gesture.
“You did the right thing, Miss Adler,” he said without preamble.
“I didn’t want to cross Julian.” Who’d been livid over the search of Manny’s room.
“Julian will live,” Bart said in a tone that made Brooke think there was no love lost between them. “You were right to worry about Manny Rodriguez, Miss Adler.”
“So you found something?”
He nodded. “Lots of stories about fires.”
“Local fires, like the two articles I saw him clip?”
“No, those were the only local articles. The others were more how-to.”
“Oh Lord. He was collecting articles on how to set fires?”
“He was.” Secrest leaned back in his chair. “And we found a pack of matches hidden in one of his shoes. -Obviously smuggled in from somewhere.”
She frowned. “But we’re in lockdown. How could something get smuggled in?”
“Every castle has a bolt-hole, Miss Adler.”
She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
His smile was brief and somehow still made him look mean. “Every institution has a supply pipeline for contraband. Even this one. But I’ll find it. That I guarantee.”
He stood and she guessed the interview was over. “Well... good night.”
His answer was a curt nod as she backed out of his door. She’d turned the corner toward the main entrance when she heard her name. Julian was standing outside his office, looking furious. “Brooke, what the hell have you done?”
Brooke straightened her spine. She’d done the right thing. Bart Secrest said so. “I reported suspicious behavior, Julian. The way you were supposed to.”
Julian came closer until he was practically standing on her toes. He leaned over her, invading her space and tickling her nose with the aroma of pipe tobacco that lingered in his jacket. “You insolent little...” H
e hissed a breath between his clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare tell me what I should have done. You have ruined months of progress with that boy. Months. Thanks to you, any trust I’d built with him is gone.”
Brooke’s heart was hammering so hard she thought he could hear it. He was big and way too close and breathing her air. Still she lifted her chin and stared up at him defiantly. “You said he wouldn’t start any fires here at the school.”
“And he wouldn’t have.”
She shook her head. “Secrest found matches in his room.”
Julian narrowed his eyes. “Not possible.”
“Talk to Secrest. He’ll tell you. Manny could have started a fire that put every teacher and student in danger. I did the right thing, even if you don’t agree.”
Shaking from head to toe but proud she hadn’t caved and apologized, she made it to her car and drew a deep breath as she buckled herself in. Hands trembling, she pulled the two articles she’d copied in the last two days. One from -Monday’s Trib, the other from today’s Bulletin. Two fires, local. Two fatalities. Manny had been withdrawn that morning in class. Preoccupied. Disturbed. And they’d found matches in his room.
That Manny could have been involved in these fires was impossible. He couldn’t leave the property. But someone had managed to smuggle matches in. These two fires were the only local articles he’d clipped. What made these fires so special? Or had she reignited Manny’s compulsion and any articles on fire would have sufficed?
She winced. Ignited. Poor choice of words. Two people were dead because of these fires. She wouldn’t be able to sleep as long as she worried she herself was somehow... To blame was also a poor choice of words. Connected was better. She needed to find out if Manny was somehow connected, and through him... me.
She could call the police. That would be the sensible thing to do. But it was more than likely she was being compulsively ridiculous and there was no connection at all. It would be a wild-goose chase for the police and that wouldn’t be good.
But if there was a connection, the police should be told. There was one way to find out. The second fire was in a neighborhood close to the school. She’d see for herself.
Tuesday, November 28, 4:15 P.M.
“Mia. Mia.”
She looked up from Burnette’s files with a jolt, blinking furiously to bring Solliday into focus. Shit. She’d dropped off, right here at her desk. “You ready to trade names?”
He shook his head. “We have company,” he said quietly. A woman was crossing the bullpen, her eyes red and swollen. “She matches the description of Hill’s daughter.”
Mia came to her feet, alert now. In the woman’s hand was a copy of the Bulletin.
“I’m Margaret Hill. I’m looking for Detective Mitchell. She left me a message.”
“That’s me. You’re here about your mother.”
“Is it true?” she whispered, holding the paper. “What this says about my mother?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Hill. Let’s go somewhere we can talk more privately.” She led her into a small room next to -Spinnelli’s office. Still clutching the newspaper, Margaret Hill sank into the chair and closed her eyes. Sollliday closed the door behind them.
“Miss Hill, I’m so sorry for your loss. This is Lieutenant Solliday with the fire marshal’s office. We’re investigating your mother’s death together.”
Margaret nodded and swiped her cheeks with her fingertips. Solliday put a box of tissues in her lap and leaned against the edge of the table so that Margaret was between them. “Miss Hill.” His voice was so very gentle it made Mia’s throat thicken. “You know from the newspaper that your mother’s house burned down last night.”
Margaret looked up, her cheeks streaked. Her gaze locked onto Solliday’s face. “It says... It says the police think she was murdered.”
“She was, ma’am,” Solliday said and Margaret began to cry again.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just can’t... My God. Oh, Mom.”
Mia touched her hand. “Did she mention anyone or anything that worried her?”
Margaret visibly controlled herself. “Mom was a social worker. She took children from crackhead mothers and abusive fathers every week for twenty-five years.”
“Did she worry about all those mothers and fathers?” -Solliday asked.
“Not really. She worried sometimes about going into their houses. Once she was shot and she almost died. I was so happy she was retiring. I thought for once she could finally sleep at night.”
“She wasn’t sleeping? You said she didn’t worry about the parents,” Mia said.
“She didn’t.” Margaret’s smile was hard and bitter. “She was so terrified she’d miss something. Miss a detail, and a child would get hurt. She used to wake up screaming. It got worse after she got shot. We thought we’d lost her then. I was only fifteen.”
“What happened to the shooter?”
“He got jail time. He only shot Mom. He killed his wife.”
“Is he still in jail?”
“I think so. They were supposed to tell us if he got out.”
Mia noted it. “Miss Hill, did anyone else have a personal issue with your mother?”
Margaret nodded. Slowly. “My ex-husband wanted to kill her.”
Solliday’s brows lifted. “Why?”
“Because my mother finally convinced me to leave him. Two months ago I filed for divorce. Mom should have said ‘I told you so.’ But she never did.”
“Why did you leave him?” Mia asked and Margaret rolled up her sleeves. Solliday didn’t quite manage to control his flinch. Small round scars were scattered up and down her arms. Cigarette burns. Mia pursed her lips briefly. “Okay. That answers that.”
“Where is your ex-husband now, Miss Hill?” Solliday asked tightly. He was very angry, Mia could tell. But still in control. That was good.
“In Milwaukee.”
Mia pulled Margaret’s sleeves back down. “Your mother knew about the abuse?”
“I managed to hide it from her for a while. But she found out.”
“So what did your ex-husband do when he found out you were gone?”
“Doug tried to push his way into Mom’s house, but she threatened to call the cops and he left, cursing her. I was hiding in the back room the whole time. Looks like I ended up running from Doug just like I ran from Mom.”
Solliday’s brows crunched. “How do you mean?”
“Mom and I had a hard relationship. I think I married Doug just to punish her. High-and-mighty social worker, can’t control her own kid. You can’t possibly understand.”
Mia thought about her own sister. I need to tell Kelsey what happened at Bobby’s grave. “Yes, I can. We’ll need your husband’s full name and address.”
Her jaw tight, Margaret wrote. “His last name is Davis. I hate that SOB.”
“I can understand that, too,” Mia said. She could feel -Solliday’s eyes watching her, looking deeper than she wanted him to see. It sent a prickling shiver down her spine. Steadfastly she focused on Margaret. “Miss Hill, does your ex-husband like animals?”
“No. He hates dogs. When I left, I took Milo to Mom’s and... Oh, no. Is Milo alive?”
“He didn’t appear to be in the house at the time of the fire,” Solliday said.
Relief and confusion battled in her eyes. “Mom never let him out without his leash.”
“We’ll call you if we find him,” she said. “Your brother is coming up tomorrow.”
Margaret closed her eyes. “Oh, wonderful.”
“You don’t get along with your brother?” Solliday asked.
“My brother is a good man, but no, we don’t get along. He warned me that one day I’d cause more trouble for Mom than she’d be able to clean up. I guess he was right. He usually is.” She stood up unsteadily. “When can I see my mother?”
“You can’t,” Mia said gently. “I’m sorry.”
Tortured emotion twisted the woman’s face before she nodded and w
alked away.
“Well,” Mia said. “Doug may be a spouse-abusing prick, but I don’t think he did this.”
“Me, either. But the sooner we rule him out, the sooner Margaret Hill can let go of some of her guilt.” He checked his watch. “You can call Milwaukee PD while I drive.”
Mia frowned. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the university. We still have to talk to Caitlin’s friends. I called the housemother at the sorority house. She’s going to have all the girls there at five thirty.”
“When did you do that?”
“When you were asleep.” He waved her quiet when she opened her mouth. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You were up all night. You tackled that guy yesterday and you should still be on disability. I think even you need to sleep, Mia.”
There’d been a wry admiration under his criticism. “Thanks. I think.”
Tuesday, November 28, 4:30 P.M.
“Hello,” he drawled. “May I speak with Emily Richter, please?”
Her sigh was long-suffering. “This is she. With whom am I speaking?”
“My name is Tom Johnson. I’m calling from the Chicago Bulletin.”
“How do you reporters keep getting my phone number?” she demanded.
“You’re listed in the phone book, ma’am,” he said politely. Damn idiot woman.
“Well.” She sniffed. “I talked to one of your reporters already. A woman. Her name was... Carmichael. You should talk to her if you want details about the fire.”
“Well, ma’am, I’m not covering the fire itself. I’m with a different department. I’d like to feature your neighbors in a small piece. Let the community know they have a need. Give folks a way to help out, this being the holiday season and all. My deadline’s in just a few hours. If you could help me out, I’d sure appreciate it.”
“Well, what do you want from me?” she snapped.
I’d love to shut you up, you old bag, he thought, then injected a lazy smile into his voice. “I’ve been trying to reach the Doughertys, but nobody knows where they are. I’d like to talk to them, find out what they need the most, things like that.”