and leave me be. I’d survived the miscarriage and my subsequent divorce, and now for the first time, there was nothing stopping me from learning the truth behind the Payson fire. I could dig as deeply as I wanted, work as long and as hard as I liked, and answer to no one while I was doing it. Unless, of course, Diggs kept up his self-appointed role as my Great Protector.
By the time I got to Augusta that morning, I’d convinced myself that whatever it took to get the information I needed was worth it. If that meant I had to shut Diggs out of the investigation, so be it. I parked outside the Maine State Sheriff’s Barracks, locked my car, and went inside with renewed focus.
Sergeant Bill Flint had the square jaw and the piercing blue eyes of a Hollywood action hero. We met in his office, a concrete enclave in the back corner of a larger concrete enclave that housed the Sheriff’s Barracks. Five minutes after he showed me in and mysteriously vanished, he returned with two cans of Coke and a box of files. He set the box on a card table in the corner of the room, where I’d already seated myself.
“Sorry,” he said, indicating the soda. “I’m trying to quit, but we got called in at midnight for a house fire in Lewiston. All-nighters don’t come as easy as they used to.”
Laugh lines and graying at his temples suggested the sergeant was in his fifties. The hint of shadow under his eyes and the faintest hint of stubble nudged the action hero mythos a shade closer to icon status. Between Diggs, Juarez, and Captain America here, it was getting damned difficult to stay focused.
“No need to apologize—I just appreciate you meeting with me. These are the files?”
“You lucked out. We had an intern here yesterday, so I had him photocopy what you’ll need. We won’t have time to go through all of it, I’m sure, but you can take the copies back with you. The ME will have the autopsy reports over in the crime lab archives—I’ve already put in a call. They’re expecting you.”
Working as a reporter in Boston, I’d gotten used to being stonewalled at every turn. This new spirit of openness and cooperation was unnerving.
“Thank you. I was hoping to ask a few questions, as well. Diggs told me you were on the scene—I know it was a while ago, but I was hoping you might remember a few details.”
He looked amused.
“That’s funny?” I asked.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Diggs told me your connection to the fire—believe me, I don’t think it’s funny at all. It’s just that we’ve all gone over the case so many times that I think even our newbies could walk you through it, point by point. Everyone here’s been trained on the details, using it as an example of what not to do in an emergency.”
I assumed my poker face, sensing a lead. “There were problems that night?”
“Not from this office,” he assured me. “The Fire Marshal and the other agencies did a great job of handling the investigation and the inevitable fallout, considering it was a situation no one had been remotely prepared for.”
I didn’t say anything. I was crossing into dangerous territory—even twenty years after the fact, any government agency would do its best to protect its own. Flint seemed to sense my skepticism, however. He leaned forward.
“I spoke with Fire Marshal Cooper this morning, before meeting with you. He was clear on one thing: he wants you to have access to whatever you need in your investigation. We did a good job on that case—or as good as we could, considering what was handed to us. You can ask me anything, Ms. Solomon, and I’ll do my best to give you whatever answers I have. I’m confident that any issues you might find with the way the investigation was conducted, the fault won’t lie with this department.”
“So where do you think the fault should lie?”
He grinned—a broad, boyish smile that made me like him that much more. “I guess that’s the question, isn’t it? But
By the time I got to Augusta that morning, I’d convinced myself that whatever it took to get the information I needed was worth it. If that meant I had to shut Diggs out of the investigation, so be it. I parked outside the Maine State Sheriff’s Barracks, locked my car, and went inside with renewed focus.
Sergeant Bill Flint had the square jaw and the piercing blue eyes of a Hollywood action hero. We met in his office, a concrete enclave in the back corner of a larger concrete enclave that housed the Sheriff’s Barracks. Five minutes after he showed me in and mysteriously vanished, he returned with two cans of Coke and a box of files. He set the box on a card table in the corner of the room, where I’d already seated myself.
“Sorry,” he said, indicating the soda. “I’m trying to quit, but we got called in at midnight for a house fire in Lewiston. All-nighters don’t come as easy as they used to.”
Laugh lines and graying at his temples suggested the sergeant was in his fifties. The hint of shadow under his eyes and the faintest hint of stubble nudged the action hero mythos a shade closer to icon status. Between Diggs, Juarez, and Captain America here, it was getting damned difficult to stay focused.
“No need to apologize—I just appreciate you meeting with me. These are the files?”
“You lucked out. We had an intern here yesterday, so I had him photocopy what you’ll need. We won’t have time to go through all of it, I’m sure, but you can take the copies back with you. The ME will have the autopsy reports over in the crime lab archives—I’ve already put in a call. They’re expecting you.”
Working as a reporter in Boston, I’d gotten used to being stonewalled at every turn. This new spirit of openness and cooperation was unnerving.
“Thank you. I was hoping to ask a few questions, as well. Diggs told me you were on the scene—I know it was a while ago, but I was hoping you might remember a few details.”
He looked amused.
“That’s funny?” I asked.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Diggs told me your connection to the fire—believe me, I don’t think it’s funny at all. It’s just that we’ve all gone over the case so many times that I think even our newbies could walk you through it, point by point. Everyone here’s been trained on the details, using it as an example of what not to do in an emergency.”
I assumed my poker face, sensing a lead. “There were problems that night?”
“Not from this office,” he assured me. “The Fire Marshal and the other agencies did a great job of handling the investigation and the inevitable fallout, considering it was a situation no one had been remotely prepared for.”
I didn’t say anything. I was crossing into dangerous territory—even twenty years after the fact, any government agency would do its best to protect its own. Flint seemed to sense my skepticism, however. He leaned forward.
“I spoke with Fire Marshal Cooper this morning, before meeting with you. He was clear on one thing: he wants you to have access to whatever you need in your investigation. We did a good job on that case—or as good as we could, considering what was handed to us. You can ask me anything, Ms. Solomon, and I’ll do my best to give you whatever answers I have. I’m confident that any issues you might find with the way the investigation was conducted, the fault won’t lie with this department.”
“So where do you think the fault should lie?”
He grinned—a broad, boyish smile that made me like him that much more. “I guess that’s the question, isn’t it? But
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