Blue Smoke

Big-nosed John Minger was on his short list.
    He slipped in the back, took the snub-nosed .22 out of his pack. He’d shoot him first. Kneecap him. Then they’d have a little talk while he set the fire.
    Going to keep the city’s heroes busy tonight, he thought and worked his way carefully through the darkened house.
    Old man was probably in bed already. Already sawing them off this time of night.
    He’d rather be dead than old.
    Age wouldn’t be a problem for Minger much longer. He’d be dead, the whole fucking slew of them would be dead before his father bought it. That was justice.
    They’d killed his father sure as if they’d carved him open with a knife. Every mother’s son of them was going to pay for it.
    He made his way upstairs, excitement and pleasure building. In the knees, he thought again. Pop, pop! See how he liked it.
    See how he liked watching the fire claw across the bed toward him. See how he liked having it eat at him the way the cancer was eating at his father.
    He wasn’t going down that way. No fucking way. Joseph Pastorelli’s boy, Joey, wasn’t going by cancer.
    Things to do, he thought again, a lot of things to do before he walked into the fire and ended it.
    When Minger was done, it’d be time to move on to the main attractions. The night was young yet.
    But he slipped into and searched every room, and didn’t find his prey.
    His finger vibrated on the trigger, his hand shook with the effort of resisting the urge to fire into the empty bed.
    Went out to watch the cop’s bitch burn, that’s what he did. People like to watch. Reena probably called crying to him, so he went to hold her hand.
    Probably banged her plenty over the years.

    He could wait a little bit. Yeah, the night was young so he could spare a little time. Get him when he got home. Just wait like a cat at the rat hole.
    He’d just put the wait time to good use and set things up.
    S moke still curtained the room, and her boots squished in the wet of the bedroom carpet as Reena looked down on the remains of Deborah Umberio.
    The sodden remains of the charred mattress told the tale.
    “She burned where she lay,” O’Donnell said. “Right into the padding.”
    Peterson, the ME in a short-sleeved shirt and khakis, waited while Reena took digitals. “Could have been dead before he lit the room. Or unconscious. I’ll let you know what we find. We’ll move on this right away.”
    “She wouldn’t have been dead, or unconscious.” Reena lowered the camera. “He’d have wanted her alive and aware. He’d want her to know what was coming. To feel it. That would feed him. He’d have tortured her first, he’d need to. He’d have made her suffer first.”
    She drew a breath. “Because she was a woman, he’d have taken his time with her. It makes him feel more important, more virile. With his history of sexual assault, he probably raped her.”
    “Traces of what looks like cloth inside her mouth.” Peterson leaned over the body, close. “Indicate she was gagged.”
    “She opened the door to him.” Like Josh, she thought. “Why? She was a cop’s wife for what, thirty years, and she opens the door to a strange man? He had a pass—delivery, maintenance. Someone had to see him come into the building. Canvass has to turn up something, someone.”
    “We’ll start working through the layers here,” O’Donnell told her, and she nodded.
    “You can see what he did. Used a flammable, focused on the bed, then set trailers around the room, built his chimneys to punch it all up. He didn’t need the other point of origin in the kitchen to kill her. That was for us. That was for the firefighters who responded. Why not take out a couple of them, too? More bang for the buck.”

    She stepped carefully through and around debris, looked toward the kitchen. A pot lid protruded from a wall. Wet dripped down it, and from the jags of ceiling that remained. The street-facing wall was all but gone. Some of the charred remains of cupboards were missing doors. Moving in, crouching down, she used a light and magnifying glass.
    “These doors didn’t burn, or blow, O’Donnell. He unscrewed them, used them for his chimneys, for fuel. He’s inventive.” Frowning, she looked back at her partner. “But would he come in empty-handed, trust that she had everything he’d need for the job? He’d need rope, an inflammable of his choice, matches, maybe a weapon. Means a bag, a briefcase, a duffel. Something.”
    She straightened,