had just opened. So I decided to give them a call.
“Chesapeake Chemicals, this is Todd, how may I help you?” Nobody talked like that. It sounded like Todd was a new hire. He must’ve just repeated whatever script a supervisor had given him.
“I’m Detective Williams with the Stone Harbor Police Department.” Sometimes you had to tell some little white lies to get what you need. I’m not ashamed of it.
Todd sounded a little flustered. I felt a little bad for him. If it was his first day, the last thing he wanted was to have to deal with a detective’s questions. “How … what can I do for you, Detective?”
“You could answer a few questions for me.”
“Maybe I should get my supervisor. I’m not sure I’m qualified to…”
A supervisor might’ve called me out on my bullshit. I couldn’t let that happen. “Do you sell powdered iron oxide and aluminum at Chesapeake Chemicals?”
“Umm, let me check.” I heard Todd’s typing over the phone. “Yes, it appears that we do.”
“Todd, I need know who has bought iron oxide and powdered aluminum in the last six months, along with magnesium rolls.”
There was a pause. That wasn’t a good sign. “I’m not authorized to access that information, Ma’am. If you are willing to wait a minute, I can get my supervisor and he can…”
Again, with the supervisor talk. I cut Todd off. “Just tell your supervisor to fax over a copy of any orders for iron oxide and aluminum.” I fumbled around for my purse. Inside my purse, I had one of Sam’s cards. I took it out. “Fax it over to 230-480-6649. Thank you for your time Todd.”
Before Todd could say anything else, I hung up. I hoped that he would get his supervisor to fax over those records. Chesapeake Chemicals was the only supplier for at least a hundred miles in every direction. Chances were, whoever was setting these fires got the ingredients for thermite from them.
I figured that my best move was to go to the Stone Harbor police station and wait for the fax. It would have been better to be there so I could intercept it. Then I wouldn’t have to explain it to Sam. At least, that was how I justified it to myself. The truth was I wanted the information to myself. I’m big enough to admit my own selfishness.
After locking up, I left my offices. I looked down Main Street in both directions. There were no black SUVs, or men in white plastic rabbit masks. It was safe. My grip loosened around the handle of my .38 concealed in my purse. If people are really after you, is it paranoia?
My car was parked around the back of the building again. It wasn’t a long walk to get there, but I found myself moving at a fast pace. I no longer felt safe out in the open like that. I felt exposed. I felt vulnerable.
The only other soul in the dark recesses behind my office was a homeless man. He was talking to himself and relieving his bladder next to a dumpster. He wasn’t exactly threatening. With that said, I still kept my eyes on him as I entered my vehicle.
I can clearly remember dozens of bad horror movies where the protagonists put their keys in the ignition and they try to start their car. Of course, the engine doesn’t start. While watching that cliché on screen, I ask myself: “Who has luck that bad? Why don’t they get their car serviced before investigating the local serial killer? How often does that really happen?”
On that night, I lived the cliché. I turned my key. Nothing happened. I tried again and the engine gave no sign of life. The third time, my car gave a brief splutter before dying again.
At that point, I was starting to get a little nervous. The homeless man was staring at me in a creepy way. There were no lights. If it were a horror movie, then it was a perfect setting for a murder. That was the last clear thought I could remember from that night.
With a fourth attempt at turning my engine on, I met success. The car came to life with a rumble. I reached for the
“Chesapeake Chemicals, this is Todd, how may I help you?” Nobody talked like that. It sounded like Todd was a new hire. He must’ve just repeated whatever script a supervisor had given him.
“I’m Detective Williams with the Stone Harbor Police Department.” Sometimes you had to tell some little white lies to get what you need. I’m not ashamed of it.
Todd sounded a little flustered. I felt a little bad for him. If it was his first day, the last thing he wanted was to have to deal with a detective’s questions. “How … what can I do for you, Detective?”
“You could answer a few questions for me.”
“Maybe I should get my supervisor. I’m not sure I’m qualified to…”
A supervisor might’ve called me out on my bullshit. I couldn’t let that happen. “Do you sell powdered iron oxide and aluminum at Chesapeake Chemicals?”
“Umm, let me check.” I heard Todd’s typing over the phone. “Yes, it appears that we do.”
“Todd, I need know who has bought iron oxide and powdered aluminum in the last six months, along with magnesium rolls.”
There was a pause. That wasn’t a good sign. “I’m not authorized to access that information, Ma’am. If you are willing to wait a minute, I can get my supervisor and he can…”
Again, with the supervisor talk. I cut Todd off. “Just tell your supervisor to fax over a copy of any orders for iron oxide and aluminum.” I fumbled around for my purse. Inside my purse, I had one of Sam’s cards. I took it out. “Fax it over to 230-480-6649. Thank you for your time Todd.”
Before Todd could say anything else, I hung up. I hoped that he would get his supervisor to fax over those records. Chesapeake Chemicals was the only supplier for at least a hundred miles in every direction. Chances were, whoever was setting these fires got the ingredients for thermite from them.
I figured that my best move was to go to the Stone Harbor police station and wait for the fax. It would have been better to be there so I could intercept it. Then I wouldn’t have to explain it to Sam. At least, that was how I justified it to myself. The truth was I wanted the information to myself. I’m big enough to admit my own selfishness.
After locking up, I left my offices. I looked down Main Street in both directions. There were no black SUVs, or men in white plastic rabbit masks. It was safe. My grip loosened around the handle of my .38 concealed in my purse. If people are really after you, is it paranoia?
My car was parked around the back of the building again. It wasn’t a long walk to get there, but I found myself moving at a fast pace. I no longer felt safe out in the open like that. I felt exposed. I felt vulnerable.
The only other soul in the dark recesses behind my office was a homeless man. He was talking to himself and relieving his bladder next to a dumpster. He wasn’t exactly threatening. With that said, I still kept my eyes on him as I entered my vehicle.
I can clearly remember dozens of bad horror movies where the protagonists put their keys in the ignition and they try to start their car. Of course, the engine doesn’t start. While watching that cliché on screen, I ask myself: “Who has luck that bad? Why don’t they get their car serviced before investigating the local serial killer? How often does that really happen?”
On that night, I lived the cliché. I turned my key. Nothing happened. I tried again and the engine gave no sign of life. The third time, my car gave a brief splutter before dying again.
At that point, I was starting to get a little nervous. The homeless man was staring at me in a creepy way. There were no lights. If it were a horror movie, then it was a perfect setting for a murder. That was the last clear thought I could remember from that night.
With a fourth attempt at turning my engine on, I met success. The car came to life with a rumble. I reached for the
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