Dead Man Below Deck

CHAPTER 16. ANOTHER BODY

The man was wearing a black ski mask pulled down over his face. He was carrying two heavy five-gallon gasoline cans. It was very dark around the building. He appreciated his luck; the night sky was overcast, so there was no light from the moon or the stars. Building lights had been turned off.

Moving quietly, he walked to the nearest door. Bending over it, he did something with the knob and it swung open. He slipped inside the building, bringing the gas cans with him. The door closed without a sound.

Inside the room, he quickly opened one of the cans and laid it on its side. The gasoline gurgled out onto the carpet in large gulps. Leaving it to empty itself, the man carried the other can into the next room where he opened it and began pouring it directly onto the rug. The gasoline splashed out and quickly formed a large pool around the man’s feet. The entire downstairs area was rapidly filling with fumes. The man began to get a headache. Empty, he tossed the can aside. Then he returned to the first room, emptied what was left out of the first can, and tossed it into a corner. He was in a hurry now. He had to finish this task and disappear before he was noticed.

He walked to the door and opened it. Propping it with his foot, he took out a book of paper matches and struck one. The brisk breeze blew it out. He tried again with the same result. Stepping back into the room and allowing the door to close almost entirely, he lit the third match and threw it on the floor.

Betty and I were sleeping like the dead when the door bell began ringing incessantly. I jumped out of bed and ran out on the deck wearing only my pajama pants. Skip Cavanaugh was down below. “Fire!” he shouted. “Get out! Now!”

He was right. The next wing of the building was on fire. The unit on the ground floor was spewing smoke and flames out of its front door. I ran back into the bedroom and thrust an armload of clothes at Betty. “Fire. Get downstairs. Now. Go out into the garage.”

I grabbed some clothes for myself and followed her down. “Get in the car,” I shouted, hitting the automatic door opener with my elbow.

“Wait,” she screamed. “Elric is still up there!”

“No, Elric is not up there,” I said. Then she remembered, a crushed look on her face. Damn cat. I missed him, too.

I tossed her the keys. “Move the car out to the street. I’ll be right back.” His collar was on the counter. I swept it up and ran back down, out through the garage, and over to the street where Betty was pulling up to the curb.

We could hear sirens and then a fire truck screeched around the corner on two wheels. A heavy rain was falling and we were soon drenched. We dressed hurriedly under the downpour while the firemen grabbed their equipment and went to work. It would have been more modest to dress in the car, but we simply were not that limber any more. Just getting into and out of the car was a challenge; putting on clothes would have been impossible. Modesty would just have to take a back seat to expediency.

By dawn it was apparent that the alarm had been called in time. The rain had probably helped a good deal as well. The building was blackened on one wing, but the fire had not spread to the upstairs unit or to any of the other wings. We did not have a strong odor of smoke in our condo, though outside the building the stench was overpowering. The air conditioner, cable television, internet service, water service to the units, and the lawn sprinkler system were all out of commission. Bob Johnson, who showed up about five a.m., assured us that everything would be in working order by the end of the day. He would have to wait until a complete damage assessment had been made before he could say how much new construction would be required to repair the burned wing. However, he fervently hoped the building was not totaled. So did we.

Betty and I went to one of our favorite restaurants for breakfast, feeling like something the cat dragged in. Or like something he would have dragged in if Betty ever let him out of the house. We probably smelled like we had just come from Hell.

Eggs over easy, wheat toast, and lots of coffee were what I needed. Betty needed some pancakes as well. She was pretty shaken up. The waitress did not ask us what was going on, though she had to wonder. This was Wisconsin and it would have been nosey to pry into other people’s business.

We went back to the unit. We still had no water, so we could not get cleaned up. There was nothing else I could do, so I went out to my favorite spot and lit my pipe. The situation had gotten so bad I was smoking at seven in the morning. This had to be a very bad step for me.

The firemen were gone, but a couple of guys were poking around in the burned part of the building. Then, a car pulled up and my buddies, the police detectives, disembarked. They walked over to my deck and looked up.

Broder said, “Trouble follows you around, doesn’t it?”

“No kidding. I hadn’t noticed.”

Even Schmidt had to chuckle at that one.

“Mr. Schumacher, we’re going to put a man on duty out here for you.” He looked at me carefully to see if I understood his implication.

It took me a minute. “Hey. You’re not telling me that this was aimed at me, are you?”

Broder just shrugged his shoulders. “We don’t know the cause of this fire. But it is quite a coincidence, don’t you think? Anyway, better safe than sorry. We will provide twenty-four-hour coverage for a couple of days. A car will be parked out front.”

I thanked him, still stunned. The likelihood of a connection between the fire and the attack of the rabid bikers had escaped me.

As Broder and Schmidt started to get back into their car, a man from the burned apartment ran over to them. “You guys are cops, right?” he asked.

They must have said yes because then the fellow burst out with the news. “You better look at this. There’s a body in here. Burnt to a crisp, I’m afraid. Not a pretty sight.”

“Ah s**t,” Broder said. “Not another stiff.” But it was indeed another stiff. I was happy that this time it was not right below my deck. It was at least thirty feet away.

Another crew was summoned. The crime scene was carefully studied and catalogued. The body was bagged and taken away. I sat on the deck most of the day watching people work. The internet was down and I was completely lacking in energy, so I just sat there.

About four in the afternoon, Broder came back. Once again, he did not bother to walk up the stairs but just stood down below and spoke up in my direction. “Mr. Schumacher, you happen to know a guy named Jorgenson?”

“Sure. He’s the developer for this complex. Nice guy.” I chuckled sympathetically. “He’s gonna be pissed when he hears about this mess.”

Broder shook his head. “Not much danger of that. That stiff we found in the ashes was your buddy Jorgenson. Do you have any theories about how that ties in with your nasty network of drug dealers?”

For once, words failed me. Jorgenson? What the heck was he doing in that building in the middle of the night? And why was he dead?