“We don’t know that the victim was alive when the house went up,” Tally said.
“Yes, we do,” Rachel said. “The arsonist wanted it to burn fast. Any one of those flash points would have eventually done the job. But we have at least three. Meaning they wanted all exits blocked by fire. You don’t seal off the exits for a corpse. Check the windows and staircases. If you find other flash points, it was the killer sealing off the tomb.”
Serrano thumbed his lip. “If the arsonist was smart enough to get inside the home, subdue the victim, and prep numerous flash points, they’d also have to know we’d determine quickly that the fire was intentional.”
Tally said, “That would mean they didn’t care if we knew it was arson. In fact, the obviousness of it might have been the entire point. They wanted us to know it was arson and that the victim, presuming he was inside, was murdered.”
Rachel said, “And someone either wanted us to know immediately this was not an accidental fire or didn’t care one way or the other. Speaking of which, do we have an ID on the victim?”
“Moreno needs to wait until dental records come back to officially make an ID so we can notify next of kin. But the house was owned by a man named Matthew Linklater.”
Rachel’s head snapped up, eyes wide.
“What?” Serrano said. “What is it?”
Rachel took out her cell phone and showed them her email account.
“Matthew Linklater is my son’s social studies teacher,” she said. “He emailed me yesterday—right before he was murdered.”
CHAPTER 4
Eighteen-year-old high school senior Benjamin Ruddock was eating a bowl of cereal, his third helping, when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his right pocket. An incoming text. He immediately froze. This cell phone rang infrequently, but when it did, it necessitated an immediate answer. He checked the text. One word.
Call.
“Dad, turn the TV down,” the younger Ruddock said. His father, Timothy, was sunk so deep into his faded green easy chair that it looked like the piece had tried to swallow him whole but gave up. The elder Ruddock simply stared at the state-of-the-art sixty-inch LCD, which looked out of place in the dilapidated home.
The remote was on the coffee table a whole six inches away from his father’s grasp, which meant there was a higher chance of him suddenly deciding to get a degree in thermal engineering than lifting a finger to help his son.
Benjamin grabbed the remote and turned the volume down from twelve to two.
“I can barely hear it now,” his father rasped. Benjamin eyed the man with furious contempt, the rage thick in his veins like motor oil in a straw.
“Who bought you the TV?” Benjamin asked pointedly. “Oh. That’s right. I did. So I’ll turn down the volume if I want. I’ll throw it out the damn window if I want. That’s my television. You’re lucky I even let you use it.”
“Kid gets a little money and suddenly he’s a big shot,” Timothy Ruddock said to nobody in particular. “You just better hope nobody asks me how you got it.”
“What’s that?” Benjamin said, looming over his father’s lethargic form.
Ruddock senior snorted and spat a glob of tobacco juice into a red Solo cup. Benjamin Ruddock was bigger, stronger, and smarter than his father and spent far too much energy just cleaning up his old man’s (literal) messes. But Benjamin would be out of the house soon enough and would leave skid marks on his way out of this miserable town. Not only that, he would leave with a full bank account, thanks to the man who’d sent the text, and a future of endless possibility. Which is more than his old man could ever say.
Benjamin went into his bedroom, closed the door, and dialed the number he knew by heart.
“Good response time,” the voice on the other end said.
“What do you need?” Ruddock said.
“There’s a boy in your school. A few years younger. A freshman. His name is Eric Marin. Do you know him?”
“Not personally, but I’ve heard the name a few times. Has a bit of a rep. One of those kids who’s just a little too quiet, know what I mean? Like if he ever murders a bunch of people with a ballpoint pen, everyone’s gonna say, ‘Yeah, I saw it coming.’”
“Your amateur psychiatric evaluations aside,” the voice said, “what else do you know about him?”
“Not much. He’s a freshman, so we don’t have any classes together. Just pass him in the hall sometimes. Don’t think I’ve ever said a word to him.”
“Does he have friends?”
“He seems like kind of a loner. There’s one girl I’ve seen hanging around him: Penny Wallace. I know that Wallace’s stepmom is a cop.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Wasn’t his mom in the news a little while back? Something to do with a murder? I feel like a lot of people at school were talking about her, like she was some kind of vigilante—”
“Never mind what people might have been talking about. I need you to get closer to this Marin boy.”
Benjamin Ruddock was silent for a moment. “I thought I just said that his mom—”
“And I thought I just said I need you to get closer to him.”
“Is this related to what happened yesterday?”
“I think you know the answer to that question, Benjamin.”
The high schooler was silent.
“We need to bring Eric Marin into the fold. His mother, Rachel, may try to get involved in our business, and I’d like her attentions diverted. Besides, sometimes boys who are, to use your delicate phrasing, loners wind up being our most valuable assets. Troubled children have tremendous potential. They just need guidance. What have I taught you to do?”
“Know the customer. Learn what they need. Make them believe what you have to offer is the key to their happiness.”
“So what might a young man like Eric Marin—a loner, as you say—what might he need? What does a lonely child need?”
“Someone who listens to him. Makes him feel like he’s being heard. Like he’s full of untapped potential that only you can see.” Ruddock paused. “I can do that.”
“You’re a good kid, Ben. Offer him a little signing bonus as well. The usual. I’ve taken care of the arrangements. Just make sure Eric Marin is at the next meeting. We’re about to change his life.”
CHAPTER 5
“I’m telling you, there’s something wrong,” Penny Wallace whispered. “Mr. Linklater has never even been ten seconds late for class. And it’s already ten ten.”
“Maybe he won the lottery,” Ronnie Parness said. “Got a new wardrobe and moved to LA to be an actor. That’s what happened to my cousin. He was a school superintendent in Chicago, but just last year he got cast in a five-minute role as a pedophile on some cop show, and now he acts like he’s Brad Pitt.”
“Mr. Linklater isn’t hot enough to be an actor,” Lucy Wiles replied.
“I don’t know, he’s got kind of a cool, schlumpy, middle-aged-librarian vibe,” Aaron Middlestein said. “Not like cool as in hot, but cool like he’d be comfy to snuggle up against and binge a few episodes of something with.”