Blue Smoke

The body was burned through, lying with its fists raised as firevictims’ usually were. The heat contracted the muscles, left them looking as though their last act was to try to box away the flames.
    She held up her camera, got his go-ahead nod and took several more shots.
    “How come he was the only one in here?” she wondered out loud. “Temps were down to single digits last night. Street people use places like this for shelter, and it had a rep as one for junkies. Preliminary reports said there were blankets, a couple of old chairs, even a little cookstove on the third floor.”
    Peterson said nothing when she crouched by the body.
    “No visible trauma?”
    “Not so far. Could find something when I get him in. You’re thinking somebody started the fire to cover up a homicide?”
    “Wouldn’t be the first. But you gotta rule out accident first. Why’s he the only one here?” she repeated. “How long before you get an ID—ballpark?”
    “Might get some prints. Dental. Few days.”
    Like O’Donnell, she dug out a notepad, began to make some quick sketches to go with her photos. “What do you figure? Male, about what, five-ten, -eleven? Nobody’s been able to reach the owner. Wouldn’t it be interesting?”
    She began to set up her grid, sectioning off the room in much the same way archaeologists section a dig. She would layer, and she would sift, document and bag.
    On the far wall the burn pattern said accelerant to her, just as it had to the fire department’s investigator. She took samples, storing them in containers, labeling.
    The lightbulb over her head was partially melted. She took another picture, another of the ceiling, and the track of the burn.
    And she followed it out, moving over the soaked debris, through the ash. Four units, she thought, putting the pre-fire picture into her head. Untenanted, disrepair, under code.
    She ran her gloved fingers over charred wood, down a wall, selected more samples. Then closed her eyes and sniffed at them.

    “O’Donnell! Got what looks like multiple points of origin up here. Evidence of accelerant. Plenty of cracks and gaps in this old flooring for it to pool.”
    She got down on all fours, eased her head over a ragged hole where the floor had crashed down to the level below. O’Donnell had his grid and was working sections.
    “I want to check on the owner again, have somebody in the house get us some background.”
    “Your call.”
    “You want to take a look at the pattern up here?”
    “You just want me to haul my old ass up that ladder.”
    She grinned down at him. “Want to hear my initial working theory?”
    “Evidence, Hale. Evidence first, then theory.” He paused a moment. “Tell me anyway.”
    “He started the fire at the wrong end. Should’ve done it at the far side, farthest from the steps, working his way toward them, and his escape route. But he was stupid, and started lighting it nearest the steps, working back. Maybe he was drunk, or on something, or just a dumbass, but he trapped himself. Ends up cooking in the closet.”
    “You find a container, something that held the accelerant?”
    “No. Maybe it’s under some of these layers. Or maybe it’s down there.” She pointed. “He drops it here, in his panic, fire chasing after him. Fire hits container of accelerant. Boom, and you got your hole in the floor, and you’ve got your first level going up, and the debris from up here raining down.”
    “You’re so smart you come on down and work those grids then.”
    “On that.” But first she crawled back from the hole and dug out her cell phone.
    It was tedious, filthy work. She loved it. She knew why O’Donnell was letting her take the point, and was grateful. He wanted to see if she could deal with the muck and the stink, the monotony and the physical demand.
    And he wanted to see if she could think.
    When she found the ten-gallon can under a mountain of debris and a sea of ash, she felt the click.

    “O’Donnell.”
    He turned from his sieving, pursed his lips. “Score one for the new kid.”
    “Got punctures on the bottom. He trailed it through, lit it up, trailed, lit. Pattern upstairs indicates trailers. Dead guy can’t be a bystander or a victim. Fire doesn’t map that way. Whoever torched it had to get trapped. Riot bars on the windows first and second floors, so nobody got out that way. I’m betting the body ID’s as the owner.”
    “Why not a pyro, a junkie, somebody with a hard-on for the