Authors: C.J. Johnson
He saw no toys to indicate children lived here.
God please, no children.
Mike entered the house, the lingering smell of smoke immediate and unpleasant hanging in the air as heavy as wet clothes on a flimsy washing line. He spotted Carl talking to one of the fireman, and he headed over straight away. Seeing Mike, Carl began to break off his conversation as Mike stopped by his side. Mike glanced into the living room, again looking for any signs of children.
He saw no toys or picture frames of children, but he did see one hell of a lot of empty glasses and wine bottles.
Seems as if there'd been one hell of a party here this evening.
The fireman abruptly stepped away and Carl turned to face Mike.
A heavyset, but not fat man, Carl was not only Mike's partner, but his best friend also. Partnered together for the last eight years, the two men had been through thick and thin together, both on cases and personally.
Their bond was strong and based on respect. Though Carl was 49 years old and Mike was 30 years old, their age difference had never been an issue. Mike observed Carl carefully as the big man drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Just two months earlier, Carl had been rushed into hospital with chest pains and breathing problems. He'd been warned by the doctors to take it easy after the attack, his body was warning him that he was overdoing it, they said. He should pay attention and rest.
Carl had insisted he felt fine and had not let up his pace at all.
Golf, swimming and jogging as usual, the man was as stubborn as a bull. A little concerned about him standing in a house full of stale smoke, Mike listened carefully for any rattling of the man's chest.
One look at Carl's face however made Mike lower his head. He and Carl had spoken roughly 8 hours earlier regarding the fertility test results. For as concerned as Mike was about Carl, Carl was far more concerned for Mike. Opening up to someone over the phone was somewhat bearable, but facing Carl, Mike felt ashamed and embarrassed. Carl rested his hand gently on Mike's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mike."
Mike cleared his throat and nodded. "What's the situation?"
"Fire in the master bedroom," Carl jerked his head towards the staircase. "Male victim on the bed. One survivor, the wife, is next door with neighbours."
"How did she escape while he ended up dead?"
Carl shrugged. "I haven't spoken to her yet."
Mike furrowed his brow at the possible scenario. How does a wife escape a house fire that kills her husband in their bedroom? Where was she? If she was in the bedroom, why didn't she get him out?
He reluctantly followed Carl up the staircase, admiring Carl's determined forceful stride. Mike knew that Carl was as reluctant as he to go into that bedroom, but Carl dealt with situations differently. He faced whatever it was head on and as fast as possible. The sooner you face it, the sooner it's over, he'd say. Mike knew that Carl would leave here tonight and go for a long jog, since he'd once told Mike that running helped him in a mental sense more than physical. "It's like I'm leaving my problems behind" , he'd once told Mike.
For the following few months or so, Mike had called him Gump, the character from the movie Forrest Gump who had started to run then done so non-stop for the next three years.
As Mike ascended the stairs, he looked at each photograph hung on the wall.
All showed the same couple; a stunningly attractive young blond woman and an equally attractive, though somewhat older than her, man.
In all pictures' the couple appeared happy. Some pictures' appeared to have been professionally taken, while a couple of others seemed more natural and relaxed.
Every picture depicted the couple laughing and holding each other, giving the appearance of a happy marriage.
Convinced and relieved that there had been no children involved in this horrific accident (if that's what it was) tonight, he then began to ponder again as to how this woman had made it out but her husband hadn't.
Soot and smoke blackened the magnolia walls on the landing as Carl led Mike into a bedroom. Hesitating slightly whilst looking at the walls, trying to give the impression he was merely checking out the smoke damage, Mike fought the feeling of dread that stirred within him, the feeling making Mike think of a coiled snake beginning to unwind in his stomach.
He glanced into two other rooms as he followed Carl past them. One appeared to be a guest bedroom with a double bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. Mike assumed it was a guest room by the lack of personal items within the room. The other bedroom seemed to have been turned into a study. Too soon, they reached to last bedroom. Carl strode into the room without a seconds hesitation.
Mike arranged his facial expression to mirror an emotionally detached detective and took a deep breath.
He entered the room.
Deliberately striding towards Carl who was speaking to a the fire chief, Mike avoided looking at the bed, though his peripheral vision clearly registered the sight of the blackened shapeless figure laying on it.
The fire chief offered his hand and Mike shook it.
"Ian Martin."
"Mike Jamison."
"Fire was a hungry one," Ian began. "It started here." He pointed to a patch of burnt carpet beside the bed. "Of course, we haven't ran any tests yet, but the burn patterns indicated some sort of accelerant was used."
"Used?" Mike asked as Carl also straightened with interest. "You think the fire was set deliberately?"
Ian shook his head. "We found two bottles that contained some sort of spirit. If it was spilled and came into contact with a flame, that could have started the fire."
Mike looked around the room. "But it wouldn't have been this aggressive. The man would surely have had time to put it out, or at least get out of the house."
Ian bent down and pointed to a burnt husk of unidentifiable origin. "Deodorant canister," he said flatly. "We've found three of these. Seems he kept them in his bedside cabinet."
Mike squatted down as he looked into the open door of the bedside cabinet at Carl whistled ominously. "Yeah," Ian said. "Would've exploded fairly quickly."
Mike frowned. Why did the man keep deodorant in his bedside table and not in his bathroom or on a dresser? "He still should've made it out though. Right?"
"I'll get to that in a minute." Ian pointed again to a small piece of burnt debris. "This is part of a disposable lighter. And this," he pointed to the bedside cabinet's top. "is an ashtray."
"Drinking and smoking in bed?" Carl asked.
"Possibly. We're still trying to piece together how it happened. We know that the next door neighbour saw the smoke coming from the window and rushed over to raise the alarm. He pulled a young woman out and came upstairs to try and save this man. He said when he opened the door, the fire was roaring, there was no way to enter."
"We know how this woman escaped unharmed?" Mike asked looking at the side of the bed, noticing the bed sheets there were burnt to a crisp.
He still avoided looking at the corpse.
"She wasn't in here, that's for sure," Ian replied. "It's my understanding that she doesn't have a scratch on her."
"We need to talk to her," Mike said and Carl nodded.
"I get that the fire could have started unexpectedly and was an accident, but that doesn't explain how he didn't even make it off the bed," Carl said thoughtfully. Both he and Ian looked down at the corpse and Mike, knowing he couldn't put it off any longer, settled his wandering gaze on it too.
The corpse appeared to be on its side, curled up in the foetal position. Mike's throat constricted as he realised the corpse's arms were covering the head, as if the man had tried to shield himself from the flames. This indicated that he had been aware of the flames as they began to burn him alive.
"When's the pathologist getting here?" he asked.
"He's on his way as we speak."
"Good. I want him checked specifically for any injuries: head, legs, spine, anything that would have rendered him incapable of getting away from the fire." Mike shuddered inwardly at his own words and all three men stared solemnly at the corpse.
"Shall we go speak to the wife?" Carl asked. "We really need some details here."
"She's next door to the left with the wife of the man who tried to save this man," Ian told them. "I'd be very interested myself as to how she made it out of here alive."
As Mike looked at the body, a sudden dark feeling jolted him, stunning him with its intensity. He did not believe in visions, psychics, ghosts or anything of the sort, but he suddenly knew,
knew
beyond all doubt that this man had been murdered.
As a detective, he'd had this feeling before. Looking at a situation and knowing that something was wrong had happened numerous times; his cop instinct, as he thought of it, but he'd never experienced a feeling so dark, so strong. The smell of burning flesh suddenly clogged his nostrils and he gasped, his eyes watering as he backed up. He was sure he was the only one smelling this, since the two other men didn't reel from the odour as he had. He imagined lying on a bed, somehow physically immobile but in charge of his senses enough to realise, and feel, that a fire was hungrily making its way towards him. He pictured the agony of burning alive and the helplessness at being unable to save himself. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed continuously, forcing the scorching fluid back down from where it came.
Imagine the pain of breathing in fire that was feeding on your very body,
he thought, and shuddered violently.
Carl suddenly placed his hand on Mike's shoulder and coughed. Mike cleared his throat, embarrassed when he noticed both Ian and Carl were looking at him.
"Bad way to go," Ian said, more out of sympathy for Mike's little melt down than for the corpse, Mike thought. "Makes you wonder what the poor bloke did to deserve dying this way."
Just what had he done?
Mike wondered.
"Lets go, Mike," Carl said. Mike followed him out of the bedroom, then hesitated on the landing. "Wait a sec," he told Carl. Making his way to the bathroom, he entered the small clean room and headed for the storage cabinet under the double sinks.
"What are you looking for?" Carl asked sounding puzzled.
"Just wait." He rooted around for a second. "A ha!" he said triumphantly.
Carl moved to his side and looked at what Mike was pointing to.
"Deodorant." Mike said. "Men's deodorant. Why does he have two bottles stored in here and three in his bedside table. Who stores deodorant in his bedside cabinet?"
Carl merely looked at Mike. "What are you thinking?"
"Not yet. Lets go and talk to the wife."
They made their way out of the bathroom and across the landing. As they passed the master bedroom, Mike hesitated and looked in at the corpse.
I promise you, if this was murder, I'll make sure whoever did it pays.
Chapter Four
The scene outside was no less chaotic than when Mike arrived, perhaps even more so. An elderly woman stood close to the front gate, sobbing loudly into her tissue as the elderly gentleman at her side held her gently. His sad eyes met Mike's momentarily before he lowered his head.
Groups of neighbours cluttered here and there. Some stood still and stared in horror, their wide eyes and frozen posture resembling a group of startled rabbits caught in the sudden glare of fast approaching headlights. Others stood talking in hushed excited voices as they speculated about what had actually occurred.
Mike recoiled when he saw an older looking couple had brought deck chairs out and sat sharing a flask of hot liquid that caused steam to swirl from their cups as they watched the action from front row seats.
Some people are just crazy,
he thought in disgust.
A man had died here tonight, killed as he rested in his own bed. Yet, of the people that Mike had observed thus far, few seemed affected by horror and grief, but more the excitement and drama of the situation. For those people, it was like having an episode of their favourite soap aired on the street right in front of their homes.
This is real life, you bunch of sickos
, Mike felt like yelling.
Show some goddamn respect!
Carl and Mike passed two ambulances on their way to the house next door and Mike lowered his head. He averted his eyes from the vehicles, a mental image of the burnt blackened corpse flashing in his minds eye. It made the presence of ambulances, vehicles that served the purpose of transporting the injured to hospital in time to save their lives, both insulting and distressing.
As the two men neared the front gate to the neighbour's house, both men rushing now to speak to the wife of the deceased man, a middle-aged couple suddenly rushed to them.
An attractive couple, the woman appeared agitated and urgent as the man appeared somewhat dazed and out of it.
"Officer!" the woman blurted, reaching for Mike since Carl was already inside the front gate. "Is he dead? Is Dave dead?"
"As yet, we've been unable to make an identification. I'm unable to disclose anything at this time."
The woman whirled around. "He's dead, Tom. My God, Dave is dead!"
"Karen," the man Tom said, his tone warning.
The woman turned back to Mike. "We were there tonight, at their house. They had a party."
Aware that Carl was scribbling notes in his pad, Mike raised his eyebrows. "A party? Any alcohol consumed?" He knew there had been of course, he'd seen the aftermath in the living room. "Hell yeah," the woman retorted. She took a deep breath, apparently about to say more, when she hesitated then shook her head. "Come over and see us when you're done here." She gestured to a house directly across the street with a red front door. "We live there. Come and see us and I'll give you a statement."
Not giving Mike a chance to answer, the woman hurried off and her husband followed, speaking to the woman in quick hushed tones. Mike and Carl exchanged interested glances.
"What do you think all that was about?" asked Carl.