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Chapter 22

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times …

I’m pretty sure Dickens wasn’t talking about murder.

Adversity was universal, though, for all walks of life, including people who occasionally kill other people. I have never really thought of myself as a murderer. It doesn’t feel that way for me. I am not sure how to explain it, but murder doesn’t quite fit.

At some point they might figure it out, but it hadn’t happened yet
.

I honestly didn’t like this part. If it wasn’t necessary … but it was. That was the point of it: It was necessary.

But the swamp creature disagrees to the extent that the water is clouded, and the issues aren’t cut and dried, and at the end of the day, justice lies in the hands of those who no longer wish to cradle it, dripping and wet and slimy, in the palms of their hands.

I’m not a judge. I’m not a jury either. I don’t even like the idea.

Always I have been an observer. I like it that way.

But Cameron had been punishment.

I hated the man, and five years after I killed him, I still hated him. Loathed him, detested he’d ever existed on this planet … so I had no regrets. I had made certain he knew exactly who it was also when he went not so quietly into that dark night …

And though he hadn’t deserved the honor, I’d burned him in effigy.

*   *   *

Metzger was a
perfect politician in most ways. Commanding without being too much of an ass, and street savvy, though he never even bothered to act as if he didn’t believe he knew what everyone else was thinking.

Usually, he was right.

But not always.

The chief smiled slightly as he came up to his desk. He had a way of doing that, where his mouth hardly changed shape from the usual down curve, but somehow was different. Metzger said, “You owe me, Grasso. I have DCI helping. I have two pretty good detectives and now I am saddled with a sheriff’s department thanks to this last one. There are already too many cooks in the kitchen. Promise me I need you on this and talk to me.” He raised his hand before Carl could speak. “No, I take that back.
Prove
to me I need you on this one.”

Once they’d been friends.

“Fair enough.” He sent the chief a level look. “All I wanted was a second chance.”

“I can’t promise you another crack at homicide. In case you haven’t picked up on this, and I do wonder about it sometimes, there are some politics involved in my job.”

“I get that.” Carl looked him in the eye.

“Do you?” Metzger looked right back, but then again, he was a direct sort of man.

He did, actually. “What are you asking me that you think someone else won’t tell you?”

“Is this The Burner? Our original perp at work … are you still convinced?” Metzger sighed. “That case five years ago … MacIntosh and Santiago might eventually have gotten onto it, but your tip really helped. That’s why I put you on the task force. They both are trying hard to prove themselves and catch him, and that is what I want, but we
need
something. I worry you’re holding something back that might help this case.”

He squared off with his boss, feeling his jaw tighten. “I gave them Lisa Martin.”

“You swore at the time she didn’t kill Cameron.”

“She didn’t. I stand by that. Might not be the same person, but I still think it is.”

“Then let’s catch who did it. The entire city is on edge by now, and I’m not sure it shouldn’t be. Quite frankly, I don’t want to hear about some old lady being burned to death on a coffee table in Sheboygan tomorrow night. He’s moving around, and he’s doing all of this with some sort of timetable we don’t understand. I’d really like you to help.”

“If you remember, I didn’t ever want to arrest Lisa Martin.”

“If only you hadn’t wanted to shoot those two men.” Metzger straightened, his expression about as enigmatic as ever. “Prove yourself invaluable so I can once again sell you as a good cop, will you please? I actually don’t doubt the investigators on this, but I’m giving you a chance. And for the record, that is about as frank a discussion as we are ever going to have on this topic.”

Carl thought the day they’d moved him to vice the discussion had been pretty frank, brutally so, but why say so when he was being offered the golden key. “Yes, sir. I appreciate the chance.”

“We always did understand each other.” Metzger nodded and walked off, stopping here and there at someone’s desk, sometimes smiling, sometimes serious as hell, ever the chameleon to fit the moment.

He wasn’t interested in ever having to play that game. Carl had always thought if he was ever offered the job as chief he would decline, not that anyone would ever think of it with his track record, though at one time he’d contemplated it as a possibility for his future.

But he’d decided even before the shootings that administration wasn’t what he wanted.

Not that homicide was all that more prestigious, but it always felt like he’d been custom made for it. He liked to hunt killers and he was good at it.

Otherwise, would he ever have been able to catch up with the two scumbags who beat up an innocent young woman and left her lacerated and bleeding on the floor of a convenience store?

The answer was no, but honestly, though he admired the judicial system of the United States of America, he’d known in his heart the punishment would never fit the crime. Aggravated assault at best. And one of them—the one she’d told him did the most damage when she’d described him from her hospital bed, tubes attached everywhere—didn’t have any convictions on his record. A good lawyer would have bargained it down to almost nothing.

No way he could let that go.

No way.

He would do it again.

But that was the past.

At least the impulse to take a different tack in The Burner case had worked. He would have been more than willing to run an investigation on the side, but it was just too big.

Who knew this particular case would snowball so quickly?

He sent Rachel a quick text:
Burner task force is busy and Metzger is pushing me.

She sent back a one-word response:
Score.

Might still need your help.

Just ask.

*   *   *

It wasn’t as
if he was particularly sensitive, but Jason did have trouble when a woman was crying. What was even more weird in his mind was that if a
man
started crying, he was just as done right then and there. It was probably worse, why that was he could not quite figure out. In his book, men did not cry. He hadn’t in years, not since he realized his mother wasn’t coming back, and that was a damn long time ago.

So when the elderly man next to his desk sobbed, he dragged over a box of tissues and wondered—not for the first time—where MacIntosh might be. This was particularly uncomfortable because he actually wanted to ask some really pertinent questions and usually he just would, but it felt wrong at the moment.

He tried. Well, in his defense, he usually did, but he just came off hard-nosed most of the time. Jason tapped the piece of paper on his desk. “Thank you for this, sir.”

“My daughter was a good person.”

There was sincerity in that statement or else the wet eyes and runny nose were just for show. He nodded. “That is really what everyone is telling us.”

“But he killed her and he
burned
her.”

That point was hard to argue. “He did.” Jason briefly inclined his head.

“Why?”

The million-dollar question that at this point had about a five-cent answer. “We don’t know. We are looking into it.”

“That’s not that reassuring, if you don’t mind me pointing it out. How many victims do you have already?”

“We can only follow the leads we have and do the best we can.”

That was probably too damn blunt, but it was true.

His visitor blew his nose. “A long time ago … I was a minister. I believed in the goodness of people. I prayed for the wicked just the same as I prayed for the righteous.”

If any subject made him itch to leave a room, it was religion. A grieving old man and religion together … “Look, Reverend, I sympathize, but—”

“Do you have any children, Detective?”

“No.”

Where the hell is Ellie?

“You should. They are the greatest blessing on this earth.”

Well crap, the man started to weep again. Not once, even when his mother had walked out the door and never looked back, had he seen his old man cry. In fact, if his recollection was accurate, he’d been told more than once that men did not shed tears for any reason. Even when he broke his collarbone when playing football at the park with a few of his friends when he was about twelve, he had just gritted his teeth, walked home with his one arm cradled in the other, and it had taken two days before his father thought the bruising indicated a grudging trip to the doctor.

“I’m not insensitive to your loss, sir, but maybe you should be with your granddaughter, helping her out. She needs someone to talk to I’m sure as much as you do.”

The older man wiped his face and nodded. “You are a very insightful man, Detective Santiago.”

“He isn’t actually.” A female voice interrupted the conversation. “He just pretends to be and he doesn’t do that often enough.”

He hadn’t noticed Ellie had walked up because she stood a little bit back and his desk wasn’t exactly in an executive office but more like a crowded space near the coffee machine where people passed by, some hurried, some casual, in the general bustle of the precinct. “This is Detective MacIntosh,” he said, getting to his feet. “This is Elizabeth Blake’s father.”

“I’m so sorry.” She held out her hand and her expression was somber as the older man took it. “I know this isn’t much comfort for you, but she is the first of our victims we’ve identified and we really hope it will lead us in the right direction. This will save someone’s life. Detective Santiago is right, how’s your granddaughter?”

“She’s … fine. Not emotionally, but if you mean physically, she’s fine and the baby is not affected.”

“I was worried about her.”

Well put, of course. He was starting to see why Metzger had stuck them with each other. It didn’t hurt that she looked about seventeen in white pants that cut off just above the ankle and a light blue shirt that showed off toned, slender arms and a light summer tan. The shining blond hair didn’t hurt either, or the clear empathy in her eyes.

She did that really well. Actually, Jason believed it worked because it
wasn’t
an act. He cared too, but it was different. He wanted vengeance for the victim. She wanted justice for the family. It sounded the same, but it really wasn’t. He was concerned about the dead apparently, and she worried about the living.

Maybe the chief had more insight than Jason gave him credit for because Blake’s father deflated like a balloon. He even went so far as to raise MacIntosh’s hand to his lips in a gallant old-fashioned gesture, and then let her go. “Thank you. Elizabeth would like that. She really would.”

“We are all human beings, even police detectives.” Ellie’s voice held an edge, but she smiled. “I’m a little late I know and it looks like you are getting ready to leave, but would you care to just fill me in? This is what we need to know. Did any of your daughter’s foster children ever set off warning bells she told you about? I realize they are all challenging no doubt in some way, but did she complain of anyone specifically that you remember, and did their infractions include arson?”

Good question
. Jason sat back down, coming to the conclusion that tears threw off males but females were apparently able to think clearly through the event, and waited for the answer with a great deal of curiosity.

“I don’t know … surely there are records.”

“Yes.” MacIntosh sat down and so did the old man. The copy machine in the background whirred and it was an annoyance, but it also provided a sense of anonymity. Ellie leaned forward. “There are records of calls made and reports filed, but there’s this funny thing that happens. Can I explain it?”

He nodded, and produced a handkerchief from his suit to wipe his eyes briefly. “Go ahead. I want to help. I wrote down everything I remembered.”

Ellie hooked a section of her hair behind her right ear in a smooth feminine movement. “There are things you need to report to social services, but maybe you don’t. Sir, let’s keep in mind most of the people who take the path of accepting children that are not their own into their homes are kindhearted to begin with, and I think very often, because they are also responsible for these children, some things are not reported.”

“Elizabeth wouldn’t ever not report something.”

“What if it would get one of her kids in trouble?”

That made him clench his handkerchief in his hand and shift in the chair. His reddened eyes briefly closed and then flicked open. “That would bother her,” he said slowly. “I believe I understand what you are saying, Detective. Unless it was completely necessary, she wouldn’t report bad behavior.”

“She never complained about a pyromaniac?”

“She wasn’t a foster care provider for long. Three or four years maybe? You probably know better than I do. Like I said, surely there are records and it was a long time ago. Over a decade at least. Maybe longer … yes, I’m sure it was longer ago than that. Probably fifteen years. Time goes by so quickly.”

“I think I just established there might not be a record if someone was a problem, sir.”

He wiped his eyes again and then seemed to ponder before he said slowly, “You know, there was a boy, I think. She talked about him setting fires. I think she finally had him sent away but I don’t know if she reported the incidents or not.”

Now that sounded like one hell of a clue and they needed it.

Like a tourniquet above a gaping, gushing wound.

“You don’t happen to remember his name, do you?” There was a new edge to Ellie’s tone.