Wildfire

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2Heat rose from the pavement like ghostly serpents, appearing like the onset of a migraine headache. Brown, thirsting leaves drooped from rows of sickly trees lining the street, each one seeming to have lost a limb or two to advancing decay. An elderly man mopped his brow and struggled to catch his breath. A young woman behind a stroller fanned herself nervously, thinking wrongly that the breeze could dry her face.

Only a little boy laboring intently on a tricycle remained oblivious to the frantic activity taking place nearby. Before a ramshackle apartment building another police car joined the three already in line. Soon, an ashen-faced officer emerged from the building and leaned into one of the cars for his transmitter. Before speaking, he stopped to gaze at the gathering crowd of brown faces pressing against the fragile yellow tape that served as an imaginary barrier between them and the crime scene. For the first time in years, he felt a wave of emotion for these people with whom he had a relationship that could best be described as wary. Seeing them heed the police "barricade," which could so easily be broken, observing the law in other words, he felt respect—and sorrow. Especially in light of the insane horror he and his fellows had found within.

Frowning, he lifted the microphone, "Headquarters, this is Unit 17. We have a bad one here. Really bad."

A hissing voice cut through the air, "What's the story, Carl?"

"It looks like... God... ten bodies at least. Can't tell for sure. None of 'em are in one piece. May be more than that."

"Jesus Christ," the electronic voice prayed, "Do you have a suspect?"

"Affirmative, Cliff. Suspect in custody."

Stunned silence descended over the crowd. Some, who did not hear, turned to their neighbors and asked for a report. As one woman whispered into the ear of another, the listener raised a hand to her mouth in a gesture of shock. Slowly, the news traveled down the line of spectators. One woman grabbed her little daughter's arm and pulled her away, as if from a snarling beast. Three men standing on the far corner, all African-American, eyed the apartment with mounting hostility. One, holding a beer can, crumpled it angrily and threw it into an overflowing trash receptacle.

But no one spoke aloud. The officer replaced his mike and took one last glance at the rows of silent faces before climbing the steps and re-entering the darkened hallway. For a moment he fancied them breaking into the chorus of a n***o spiritual, a stereotype he might have ridiculed at another time. Today, however, he would have welcomed it. He might even have clapped his hands in support.

But nobody sang.

This was not a day for singing.

The place was Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in a summer no one would forget.

Within an hour, three news vans further congested the narrow avenue, blocking the view of a crowd that now numbered in the hundreds. Most of the original observers had drifted away, to be replaced by curiosity seekers bearing cameras. Occasionally, small pockets of nervous laughter erupted from inside the throng.

Despite repeated entreaties from worrisome police, polished newscasters, trailed by assistants toting video recorders, boldly stepped over the cordon to position themselves before the foreboding structure. Each one, two elegant women and one immaculate man, assumed that this report would probably make it to the evening's national broadcast, so they devoted extra time to primping and reviewing their notes.

Barely detected, a shiny black Ford Taurus pulled up behind the row of police cars, some with their lights still flashing. Immediately, a very tall, gaunt man, dressed in a conservative dark gray suit arose from the driver's seat and paused, staring ahead at a building which seemed to dwell in shadows. He was soon joined by a small, trim, much younger woman, whose extreme prettiness was camouflaged by granny glasses, an absence of make-up and a tight bun hairdo.

The young woman proceeded to the rear of the car, opened the trunk and lifted an unwieldy case from within. The bigger, stronger man made no attempt to help her, which elicited no apparent protest from the struggling female. Together, they approached the crumbling concrete steps of the apartment house, where a half dozen officers positioned themselves. One of these stood with his hands on his knees, bending over and facing away from the crowd. Another, sitting down, seemed lost in thought and fighting tears. The one who appeared to be in the firmest state of self-control took notice of the newcomers and stepped down to intercept them.

The tall man produced his wallet and opened it to reveal a highly recognizable badge. "Agents Henry and Gold, FBI, Behavioral Analysis Unit. Chicago," he said.

The officer responded simply, extending his hand, "Sergeant Gregg Hill."

With a sincerity the sergeant did not expect from federal officers, Henry continued, "On behalf of the Bureau, Sergeant, we'd like to thank you for your excellent work in keeping the... curious away from the crime scene. Did the suspect say anything before you took him away?"

"Suspect?!" Hill exclaimed, while another officer nearby snickered without amusement. “Is that what you call that... creep?”

Henry swallowed his urge to chastise the policeman, recalling the reaction of a rookie agent to his first mass murder, eighteen years before.

The sergeant sighed and continued, "The suspect only said one thing: 'I accept full responsibility.' That's all."

"'I accept full responsibility?'" Henry echoed. "Nothing else?"

"You got it," Sergeant Hill insisted.

"Do you mind if we go in?"

"That's what you're here for, isn't it? Although I'd suggest the lady stay outside. This is the worst thing I've seen in fifteen years, and believe me, you'll wish you hadn't."

Henry turned to his partner, Agent Amy Gold, who stood silently, holding the heavy case and perspiring in the sweltering afternoon sun. She motioned Henry to proceed. Before entering the hallway, which reeked of rotting meat, she leaned toward the policeman and uttered quietly, "Thank you for being a gentleman, Sergeant Hill, but it's my job."

Hill raised his hands in surrender, then muttered behind her, "Good luck, Honey."

Stern uniformed policeman lined the hallway, their expressions ranging from pensiveness to despair. To the left, an apartment door opened and a black face peered out. One officer turned and gently waved his hands. "Please stay inside, folks," he said, "Everything'll be all right. Don't you worry, now."

Reluctantly, the curious observer closed her door.

No one else spoke as the FBI agents hurried toward an open door, through which a brilliant light shone—almost alien in the dim and murky surroundings. Henry was the first to peer inside. There, he saw a littered living room, perhaps ten by fourteen feet, with two ragged chairs and a threadbare sofa, a carpet with dozens of stains identifiable only through lab analysis. In the corner behind the door stood a rickety wooden bookcase, containing only a decrepit boom box and a few scattered rock 'n' roll tapes. Nothing hung on the walls. A small, badly scratched wooden coffee table with a leg held together with duct tape sat in the middle of the floor, perhaps a dozen magazines piled on top of it.

Three detectives added to the claustrophobic feel of the room. One sifted through the magazines, while the others lifted chairs and reached under cushions. All wore thin rubber gloves.

Amy Gold struggled to keep from retching at the fetid smell drifting from somewhere beyond.

Henry cleared his throat to get their attention, displaying his badge. "Agents Henry and Gold. FBI."

From another room, they heard a voice mutter sarcastically, "We're saved! We're saved!"

The detective holding the magazines studied them without expression. "Have fun, agents," he said, "Mi casa es su casa. This place is a veritable smorgasbord. I'm Detective Courtland. I'm hosting this party."

"Where should we start?" Henry asked.

Courtland motioned casually toward the kitchen. "Try the freezer," he said, returning to his hurried inspection of sexually oriented literature.

Before stepping into the grimy, illuminated kitchen, Henry turned to Gold. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait outside? This is a rough way to break in."

Gold, her confidence waning by the second, answered shakily, "Gotta start somewhere, right?"

Henry did not respond. Instead, he crossed the narrow threshold into a minuscule, windowless dining area. On the wall to the left inside the door, hung a fading yellow telephone with black smudges. A small, three-legged table with a two-foot circular top filled one corner along with its companion, a lone, old-fashioned pink wooden chair with paint chipping at every joint. At the opposite corner lay a grease-coated four burner gas stove with a large covered crock pot standing on one of the cast iron grills. On the wall above the stove, an electric fan appeared virtually clogged with filth. Directly ahead stood an unusually large refrigerator, separated from the stove by a scant twelve inches of counter space. Narrow shelves lined the walls above it and also above the tiny sink to their right. Age and neglect undoubtedly caused the flower-print linoleum floor to crack and peel. An uncovered sixty-watt bulb in a ceiling socket provided the only light in the room.

"Looks like a job for photo-scan," Henry spoke to Gold without turning all the way to face her.

Dutifully, the young agent backed into the living room and attracted the attention of the detectives as she opened the bulky case and lifted what appeared to be a small cylindrical vacuum cleaner with a flexible hose and a triangular attachment on the end. She searched for an electrical outlet and finally found one behind the bookcase, no thanks to the detectives who remained mute. Then, sighing, she rejoined Henry in the kitchen.

"Okay," she said.

"Like the man said: start with the freezer."

Reluctantly, the young agent followed the older as he stepped forward and without hesitation pulled open the door to the top compartment of the refrigerator. Inside, two severed heads stared back at them. The sight did not affect Henry in any visible way, although Gold turned away and gasped. The heads, both of young African or Latino males, had turned blue from the cold. Although the eye of one was partially opened, their expressions seemed to reflect serenity. On closer inspection, the agents found two other large, egg-shaped parcels wrapped in aluminum foil among a dozen or so smaller ones.

Henry lifted a micro-cassette tape player to his mouth. "Let the record show that the freezer contains four skulls, some with skin still intact, and an assortment of body parts." The senior agent backed away to provide the young woman a clear vantage point. With eyes agape, she extended the hose "attachment" into the freezer, shining a pencil-thin infra-red beam over all of the exposed surfaces.

Henry released the door, and it swung shut with a small thud.

He opened the main refrigerator compartment. There, he discovered a hand and a leg severed below the knee on two different shelves, along with a half gallon of spoiled milk, a three quarters empty bottle of Coke, and a box of chocolate candy. Other shapes wrapped in tin foil rested beside the identifiable items.

Henry spoke into the recorder again, "The refrigerator contains assorted body parts from an indeterminate number of victims. Are you scanning this, Agent Gold?"

As if awakened from a daydream, Gold jumped and hurried forward to continue the process.

"Make sure you get all of this," Henry ordered.

Detective Courtland interrupted them. Standing in the doorway, he announced in a voice that seemed like a shout, "Well, that's a neat little toy to bring to a mass murder."

Unmoved, Henry turned to the detective, "And it costs zillions of dollars, too. But don't worry. We invented it."

"The Feds?" Courtland asked, incredulous.

"The U.S.," Henry clarified, "About time, huh?"

"Hey, give it to the j**s and it'll be the size of a wristwatch by year's end. What does it do?"

A quizzical look crossed Henry's face. "To the best of my understanding it transfers photo images onto computer discs, which are henceforth stored in a massive memory bank filled with useless information. Unless, of course, we should stumble upon a link between this crime and others."

Courtland inched forward warily, as if approaching a side show freak. "Cool!" he said, "And 'henceforth'! Very impressive!"

"Watch out, Sonny. You're talkin' to the Feds, now."

Courtland met Henry's eyes with an imploring look, "Can I have one? Please?"

"Write your congressman," Henry said flatly. Then, opening the refrigerator door, he added, "Care for some Coke? There's a little left."

Courtland looked thoughtful, then waved him off. "Evidence, you know."

Henry turned to his partner. "Scan everything, Agent Gold. The cabinets. Everything." Then, resuming with the detective, he asked, "What's in the bedroom?"

Courtland lifted his eyebrows and answered as if struggling to maintain levity, "A massive disposal problem. Like a dozen jigsaw puzzles mixed together. Big overtime for pathology."

Gold trampled on Courtland's last words, "Has anybody got any sweet scent or masks. Bill, I've got to have something."

The detective responded quickly. "I've got some here," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and producing a small jar. "Glad somebody broke the ice."

The three took turns dipping their fingers into a white ointment, which they spread over their upper lip, making it look like they had just gulped down a glass of milk.

They turned their attention to the bedroom.

An unkempt double-sized mattress covered with filthy, rumpled sheets lay atop a spring foundation with a slumping corner in the middle of the floor opposite the entryway. To their left between a far window and a walk-in closet sat a wall unit with a small television, a clock radio, a few books and five human skulls lining the top shelf. In the corner, between the window and the bed, rested two fifty-five gallon rubber garbage cans with lids, their sides bulging perilously and threatening to spew their contents all over the floor.

Henry spoke to Gold again, "Pay careful attention to the books, the tapes and the suspect's clothing."

Courtland stared at Henry with mock seriousness, "Did you say 'suspect,' Agent? You mean you think a crime's been committed here?"

Gold shot them both an angry glance, as she re-plugged the photo-scan unit into an outlet behind the door.

Henry ignored the attempt at humor and chose to assist Gold. He lifted the books one at a time, and leafed through them page by page. Gold "scanned" every one. "How'd you guys break the case?" he asked finally.

Courtland snorted, "Just luck. An intended victim escaped and called the cops. The suspect went quietly. He almost seemed grateful."

Henry nodded, "They usually do. Most of them want to be stopped, ultimately."

The detective studied the FBI agent with renewed interest, "You mean you investigate this type of crime for a living?"

Henry shrugged without looking up, "Behavioral Analysis. It's who we are. It's what we do."

"'Silence of the Lambs,' huh?"

"That was a vacation compared to most of the things we see. By the way, what's in the cans?"

The detective marched to them and placed his hand gently on top of one, as if preparing to make a sales pitch, "All natural ingredients. No artificial colorings or preservatives."

"More of the same?" Henry asked.

The detective nodded.

"Do you... do you want me to scan that, too?" Gold inquired hoarsely.

Henry looked at the detective, who shook his head. "I doubt we'll find anything of use in there."

Moment's later, the three of them stepped from the foul stench of the apartment house into the waning afternoon sunlight.

Briefly, they watched the scene across the street with the same curiosity that the onlookers had for them.

Finally, Courtland broke the silence, "You'll forgive me if I don't suggest we get together for a drink sometime."

Henry agreed, "Smart move, Detective. Try to put it all behind you as soon as possible. It's the only way to survive."

The FBI agents descended the steps and turned for their car.

Detective Courtland called behind them, barely audible. "Take it easy, you two," he said.