Read Online Fire Season by Jon Loomis - Free Book Online Page B

serial arsonists have signatures—a very specific way of going about things. Sometimes even down to the pour patterns for accelerants, or the ways they try to disguise—or not disguise—the fact that it’s a set fire, even down to using specific kinds of batteries in electronic timing devices. Darker stuff, too, speaking of marking your territory. Thrill arsonists sometimes leave DNA at fire scenes—”
    â€œDNA?” Gault said. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œThey masturbate,” Mancini said. “Or they take a crap.”
    â€œOr both,” Wells said. “If they’re having a really good time. The point is that if you know what to look for, you can read an arsonist’s signature, even if his methods evolve somewhat over time.”
    Gault ran a bony finger under her nose. “And?” she said.
    â€œAnd—the shed fire and the condo fire have very similar signatures. Use of liquid accelerant, line of accelerant out the door, no matches or containers left on the scene, all pretty deliberate and organized, no apparent DNA, nothing too weird or pathological, beyond the fires themselves. Simple—arson 101—but very similar. The probability that the two fires are set by the same person is pretty high. Unless.”
    â€œOh, for Christ’s sake,” Mancini said. “Unless what ?”
    â€œUnless,” Coffin said, “the person who set the second fire knew how to read the signature of the first fire.”
    â€œRight,” Wells said, “and you’d probably have to have at least a little training in forensic fire investigation to be able to do that.”
    â€œAnd who gets this kind of training?” Gault said.
    â€œFirefighters,” Coffin said. “Professional and certified volunteer. Some law-enforcement people. Academics in the field.”
    â€œAh,” Gault said, swallowing. “I see.”
    â€œBut like I say, the odds are very good that we have a single firebug, and not a copycat,” Wells said.
    â€œI’d feel better about those odds if Rudy fucking Santos wasn’t involved,” Mancini said.
    You and me both, Coffin wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut.

 
    Chapter 9
    Coffin leaned back in his office chair, loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. His neck felt sore and constricted, as though a noose had been cinched around it. He rubbed it, cradling the phone in his other hand. “Dr. Sengupta,” he said. “Four forty-five. Right.”
    â€œLabs anytime before noon. You’re supposed to fast for twelve hours. Have you eaten anything yet?”
    â€œNope,” Coffin said. “Just coffee.”
    â€œThey’re squeezing you in. Don’t be late.” Jamie’s voice sounded distant, thin. The phone made a faint whooshing sound that seemed to get louder whenever the wind blew particularly hard against the windows.
    â€œWhat happened to Dr. Frankel? I liked her.”
    â€œShe left,” Jamie said. “Five years ago.”
    â€œI hope it wasn’t something I said.”
    Jamie laughed. “It’s good that we’re doing this. You need to be in tip-top shape if you’re going to chase a toddler around, you know.”
    â€œRight,” Coffin said. “Tip-top.”
    â€œListen, it’s getting late. If you’re going to get your blood drawn in time, you’d better go now.”
    â€œRight-o,” Coffin said. “I’ll run right over.”
    â€œLove you, Frank.”
    â€œLove you, too.”
    Coffin hung up, punched the intercom button. “Arlene?” he said.
    Arlene was the secretary Boyle had brought in. She was very skinny and very tan, and smelled of menthol cigarettes. She looked slightly scorched, as though she’d been overroasted in a big oven; Coffin guessed that she spent a lot of time in tanning salons.
    â€œYes, Chief,” she said.
    â€œMy cousin Tony’s the