Fratres.
Eric had taken introductory Latin. He knew what the word meant.
Brothers.
CHAPTER 6
It took the Ashby Fire Department several hours to confirm the structural integrity of the remains of the Linklater home before they would permit forensics and investigating officers inside. As they waited, Serrano and Tally interviewed the crowd of onlookers and knocked on neighbors’ doors, hoping someone could shed light on Matthew Linklater’s death.
Rachel paced the driveway like a caged lion watching a limping zebra. She couldn’t wait to get inside the house. Several months back, after she’d helped put a killer behind bars (nearly killing him in the process), the Ashby PD realized Rachel Marin could be a valuable asset to their overworked department. She had proven her abilities on the Constance Wright murder investigation—even if she’d pissed off the rank and file by doing their jobs better than they could. Serrano and Tally convinced APD brass she would be a boon to the squad, so Rachel was hired as a freelance forensics consultant. Serrano even dangled the possibility of a full-time position if she played her cards right and stayed out of trouble, but Rachel said that wasn’t her goal. She didn’t fully trust the legal system or law enforcement, and the Wright investigation hadn’t given her much reason to change her mind. But solving crimes was far more satisfying than any other kind of work she’d ever done. And to move on with her life, Rachel had to feel competent. Needed. Able.
Rachel, Serrano, Tally, and Montrose carefully picked their way through the charred Linklater home. Ash and debris covered the floor. The formerly white walls were blistered and singed. What was a home yesterday was nothing more than a pile of cinder now. The real estate firm Linklater used to purchase the house had sent over the floor plans and schematics, and Rachel was mapping out each room in her mind as they went.
She opened what remained of the kitchen cabinets and examined the appliances. She could tell from the condition of the burners and stove that Linklater cooked frequently. The lack of glassware meant he wasn’t much of a drinker and didn’t host many dinner parties.
At the foot of what remained of the stairs to the second floor, Rachel stopped. She knelt down, ran a gloved finger over the floor.
“Detectives!” she shouted. Serrano and Tally came over quickly. “Look at this.”
At the bottom of the staircase was a large, black burn mark, almost perfectly circular. Rachel traced her finger around the mark. “Look around the margins. See how in the center it’s black and burned? But around that it’s considerably lighter. Like someone poured lighter fluid in a pool and lit it. One of the fires was started right here.”
Serrano motioned toward the staircase. “The staircase is singed in an almost perfect straight line. And the burn marks get thicker the higher up it goes.”
Rachel said, “I’m thinking someone pooled an accelerant at the bottom of the stairs, then literally drew a line with it up the stairs.”
“Gasoline?” Tally said.
“Most likely,” Rachel replied.
“So let’s see where the line goes,” Serrano said.
They followed the burn mark up the stairs, one at a time, stepping gently, testing the wood. The black markings led to an open door at the end of the hall. The hardwood floors creaked beneath them, and they stepped gingerly. Despite the “all clear,” none of them wanted to risk plunging through the floor and being impaled.
“It’s the bedroom,” Rachel said. There were remnants of several dressers, a reclining chair whose upholstery had burned to the metal, and a pile of molten plastic, twisted metal, and broken glass on the floor.
“Flat screen,” Tally said, toeing the pile.
“Oh, that’s awful,” Rachel said, her hand going to her nose. The mattress was burned to a crisp, but Rachel could see small discolorations amid the char.
“Flesh,” Serrano said. “They said Linklater was still in bed when they found him.”
Tally looked at Rachel. “You OK?”
“Oh, yeah. My usual morning routine consists of coffee and then sifting through liquefied skin.” She gulped down air. “The black line. The accelerant goes right up to the bed frame. Linklater was still in bed when the fire started, and whoever set it created something of a makeshift fuse. Accelerant leading all the way from Linklater’s bed to the bottom of the stairs. Light the accelerant, flame goes up the stairs right to the occupied bed.”
“That’s dramatic,” Tally said.
Rachel replied. “I bet it was purposefully so. Whoever torched Linklater’s house didn’t want it to even appear to be an accident. They wanted us to know beyond a doubt that it was arson.”
Montrose appeared at the door. “I see you found the crematorium.”
“Is there any way to tell what the accelerant was?” Rachel asked.
“We’ve taken samples from all over the house and sent them to the lab for testing. My hope is that it comes back as ethylene oxide, which has a very high flammability range but is also generally used for industrial purposes.”
“Meaning the purchase could be traced,” Rachel said.
“Potentially,” Montrose replied. “But they could have also just used plain old lighter fluid, in which case it could have been purchased at any bodega in the Western Hemisphere.”
“When you removed Linklater’s body,” Serrano said, “did you find any restraints? Anything that might have been used to tie him up?”
“Nothing,” Montrose said. “No restraints. He was clothed, but all his clothing and some of the comforter fabric was seared into his skin.”
“Even if the killer wanted us to know it was arson,” Serrano said, “he or she still wouldn’t want to get caught. So I’d be willing to bet it’ll come back as plain old lighter fluid or gasoline. Untraceable, especially when half the city has stocked up for homemade BBQ.”
Rachel said, “So they get into the house and subdue Linklater. They would have had to bring him upstairs without alerting neighbors. I’m guessing they knock him unconscious downstairs, then bring him upstairs. Then they set fires from multiple flash points. I’m guessing this one, by the stairs, was set first, to make sure Linklater was trapped. So my question is this: Why go to such lengths to murder a high school social studies teacher but also make it so damn evident that it was murder?”
As they looked over the remains of Matthew Linklater’s bedroom, Montrose’s cell phone rang. He put it to his ear.
“This is Montrose.”
The big man stood still, listening. A look of confusion crossed his face, then his eyes widened. “You’re not serious,” he said. “Holy hell. I’ll let them know.”
He hung up.
“Who was that?” Serrano asked.
“Hector Moreno at the coroner’s office,” Montrose said. “They found something very, very strange in the victim’s body.”
“You mean on the victim’s body,” Tally said.
“No, Detective,” Moreno said. “In the victim’s body.”
CHAPTER 7
When Hector Moreno removed the sheet from the body of Matthew Linklater, Serrano, Tally, and Rachel sucked in their breath like they were trying to prevent their breakfasts from escaping. The body itself was blackened, Linklater’s features melted away into a ghoulish skeleton. The remaining dermis, the thickest layer of skin, was cracked and split, with cooked fat around the edges. His fingers were curled inward, like horrible claws, which Rachel knew was from the tendons shriveling and contracting from the heat.