Embers by Laura Bickle Page B

anticonvulsants, opiates, benzos. . . you name it. They don’t want him to feel anything, and they don’t want him to remember any pain if he does manage to wake.” Captain Marsh stood in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest. On the chair behind him, Anya could see two empty coffee cups and a rumpled newspaper. Marsh had been keeping watch. It was Marsh’s day off, as well as Anya’s, but his jeans were pressed with military-sharp creases. From the time she started as an investigator, she’d learned there were really no days off when working a major case—any good investigator’s sleep would be too troubled by a case to truly be able to relax until it was resolved. But no matter how much overtime Anya worked, she never managed to compete with Marsh’s record of the most unpaid overtime worked in the Department. She suspected his conscience bothered him even more than hers did.

    She gestured to Neuman through the glass. “That doesn’t look too good.”

    “The initial burns were complicated by that damn mannequin melting all over him.”
    Marsh shook his head. “You know. Plastic burns and keeps burning. The fumes got into his lungs.”

    “He’s not breathing on his own?”

    “No.” Marsh’s dark eyes peered through his reflection to the man in the bed. “They aren’t acting like he’s going to, either.”

    Anya frowned. “Where’s his family?”

    “The kid’s parents are out of state. Snowbirds—spent their whole lives in Detroit. They retired and moved to Florida last year to get away from the crime.” Marsh’s mouth twisted downward. “They’re flying in now.”

    Anya was glad she’d missed that. She knew she had to come, though there would be nothing useful gained in the investigation through her presence. As the lead investigator, it was her duty to see all the results of the arson, to see the truth from all its devastating angles.

    She looked down to see Sparky snaking around her feet. He seemed a bit sobered by the burn unit. Perhaps, being impervious to fire himself, he was fascinated by what he could never experience. His obsidian eyes peeped up over the window glass, working back and forth as he seemed to take in all the glittering machinery.

    “Did the lab analyze those prints you found?” Marsh asked.

    “Yeah. There were several sets of prints, but no hits in AFIS. Our guy hasn’t been in prison, the military, or the police.”

    Marsh rubbed his head. “Damn. We have to get this solved. Yesterday.”

    “I know.” Anya knew that Marsh was running a good deal of interference for her from the chief, trying to give her space to work. But she could feel the administrative net tightening.

    “If Neuman dies. . .” She could see that Marsh was having a hard time articulating the words, as if voicing them might give the thought shape and make it true. “Then it’s a homicide. The case will be turned over to Detroit PD.”

    The fire chief would give the best sound bite he could and the press would be all over the idea of a fireman killed in the line of duty by a serial arsonist, like ants after an egg sandwich. Anya wouldn’t turn down the idea of extra help, but she didn’t relish tripping over investigators unfamiliar with the case, who would need extensive debriefing and who could easily shut her out. She’d had some negative experiences before and would rather not repeat them.

    “So. . . what do you have for me? Anything?”

    “Lab’s analyzing the gaseous evidence from the carbon scrapings. The smoke patterns are too regular to identify a single point of ignition. The best lead I have is this.” Anya pulled her pictures out of her purse, showed him the symbol on the floor of the warehouse basement. “This has been found on the floor of every scene. I took a cast of it. The techs are looking for any corresponding tool marks.”

    “What the hell is it?”

    “I’ve got an expert working on it.” Anya’s mouth thinned. “But I think we need to