Firesetter in Blackwood Township, a Winnebago County Mystery Read online

  “I’ll go talk to him,” I told Smoke.

  The heat of the sun zapped me when I stepped out of the shade. I met Moore by the road. “Hey, Paul.”

  “Mornin’, Sergeant. This is the second barn fire this week. Are you looking at them as arson fires?” he said.

  “We don’t have any evidence to support that at this point, but we’ll continue to investigate.” The standard answer, but it was also the truth.

  He raised his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all I got for now.” Chief Deputy Kenner was the official spokesman for the sheriff’s office and would prepare something for the media outlets.

  “All right, well, I’ll check in with your office later then.” Moore knew the drill.

  I returned to the group under the maple tree, still focused on the firefighters. It wasn’t long before the blackened wood was reduced to ashes. The crew sprayed the ground around it, starting from about twenty feet out.

  Smoke took a glance at his watch. “Vince, Mandy, it’s past the end of your shift, so go ahead and take off. Corky will interview the farmer, and keep trying to contact the owners. I’ll get Major Crimes out here after we’ve cleared it with the owners and it’s safe enough to process. See what we can come up with,” Smoke said.

  After they were gone, Smoke asked me, “Has Vince told Mandy about his problem yet?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it. We heard back from the lab today. The blood came from a human female, and they’ll be running DNA and pregnancy tests on the sample.”

  “I’ll hold good thoughts they get a hit on the first and a negative on the second.”

  “Same here. Weber is shaking in his boots.”

  Smoke nodded. “And you must be roasting in your vest. I’m cooking without one.”

  “The sweat pouring out of my pores says it all.”

  Smoke raised his eyebrows and turned his attention back to the firefighters. “I keep going back to the question, is there a connection between the two fires? Specifically, were they lit by the same person, or persons, and why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about two similarities, the commonalities: neither barn housed livestock, at least not currently. And the owners of both properties were out of town when their barns burned,” I said.

  “Right, and is that what the connection boils down to? If the Hardings’ barn was intentionally set on fire, they didn’t use an accelerant. It wasn’t a working farm so there wouldn’t have been any fresh hay bales combusting and igniting it.”

  “I don’t know why that concept is hard for me to grasp.”

  “You mean the chemical reaction when wet hay gets baled and starts fermenting until it gets so hot it spontaneously combusts?” he said.

  “Yeah, that chemical reaction. I’ve seen it, I know it’s true, but it still seems strange to me.”

  “I took shop class back in the Stone Age, and when we used linseed oil on projects, Mr. Nelson made us put the used rags in a metal bin. There was hell to pay if someone left an oily rag lying on a table. He had a major fear of fires.”

  “And with very good reason. A school fire would be the worst.”

  “You got that right.”

  A number of people had stopped their vehicles on the road for a time, watching the fire do its consuming damage to the barn, and the firefighters directing the water hoses at the perimeter of dry ground around it. Some came and went while others stayed and waited for the anti-climatic grand finale. I surveyed who was still there and recognized many of them. Paul Moore had likely gotten some eyewitness accounts from the crowd and left at some point.

  “I’ll go get Lonnie’s info,” I told Smoke.

  He nodded. “And I’ll have a chat with the fire chief.”

  Lonnie had a crowd gathered around him. People were questioning him, and when I joined them they turned their attention to me. They asked questions that I, for the most part, didn’t have the answers to.

  “What in the world started that fire?” one said.

  “What’s going on around here anyway, two barns burning down in our township like this?” another said.

  I couldn’t pick out all the comments because several of them were talking at once. They had legitimate concerns, and I shared them.

  “Well folks, at this point we don’t know what caused either fire. Nothing obvious has showed up in the Hardings’ investigation. And Detective Dawes will be doing a thorough investigation of this fire as well.”

  More mumblings and chatter among the people.

  I pulled out my memo pad and pen. “Did any of you folks hear anything, or see anyone, who acted suspiciously in the neighborhood the last day, maybe last few days?”

  No one had.

  “Anyone have an idea, a clue, or a crumb to throw us?” It was often surprising what people came up with.

  “A fire’s gotta get started somehow,” one said. That we knew.

  “I remember some years back that gang of teenagers was setting old outhouses on fire over in Bison Township. Since we’ve got two fires here now, maybe it’s something like that,” an older gentleman offered.

  “Have any of you seen a group of teens on foot in the neighborhood?” I said.

  They all shook their heads.

  The older man shrugged. “Probably not then.”

  “We’ll talk with others in the area, but if you hear anything, be sure to let me know.” I handed out business cards. “In the meantime, I’d like to talk to Lonnie for a minute.” I pulled him aside, and he provided the information I needed for the report: full name, date of birth, address, phone numbers, and the details of what he noticed about the fire when it started.

  The group was dispersing as I excused myself and walked back to the Simmonds’ place. Smoke was talking to Fire Chief Corey Evans, and the rest of the crew was putting equipment back in the trucks.

  They both turned their attention to me. “What did the madding crowd have to say?” Smoke said.

  “One of the men wondered if it was a gang of teens that set both barns on fire,” I said.

  “Hmm. Well, let’s hope not. If we’re talking about kids under eighteen, then the sad truth is the majority of those arson cases involve more than one youth. The most recent data I have from the State Fire Marshal is two years old now, but in the annual report it said around five hundred kids were involved in the three hundred youth cases they had. The problem they struggle with is youth fire setting isn’t always reported, so they don’t know how many there really are,” Smoke said.

  “That is true,” Evans said.

  “Someone would notice a gang of teenagers in the middle of the day sneaking around, if they were up to something,” Smoke said.

  “We’ll interview the other neighbors,” I said.

  Evans shook his head. “Two barns burning down in the same neck of the woods in the same week seems suspicious, all right. But hey, it’s not proof positive that they were set by someone, let alone kids. Life is full of weird coincidences.”

  11

  Belle and Birdie

  The dark smoke had stopped rising in the afternoon sky. Belle put her hand on Birdie’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It’s over, Birdie. The barn is gone, and it was like they didn’t even try to save it. What a joke. The authorities might be starting to realize how ineffective they are. They don’t help people like you and me. Like when we needed it back then. The tables have turned, and we’re the ones in control now.”

  Birdie looked at Belle with the same sad look that broke her heart and made her feel like she wasn’t doing enough.

  “You know I’m trying to make it better for you, Birdie. And for me. You know that, don’t you?”

  Birdie gave a small nod and leaned her head over on Belle’s shoulder.

  “We’re doing the things we need to do, right?” Belle said.

  Belle thought she felt Birdie’s tears falling on her neck, and it made her sadder still. But when she realized it was sweat dripping from her own temple
she breathed a sigh of relief. When Birdie cried, it made Belle cry, too. She couldn’t stop herself.

  12

  My phone rang at 4:23. I pulled it from its holder and looked at the face. “It’s the owners.”

  “Good,” Smoke said.

  I pushed the talk button. “Sergeant Aleckson.”

  “This is Brandon Simmonds. I got your message to call, and you have us kind of worried here.” His voice was shaky and strained.

  “Hi Brandon. Yes, Detective Elton Dawes and I are at your place and I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there was a fire on your farm this afternoon. Your barn burned down.”

  “What did you say?”

  I told him again, filling in some more details about the neighbor reporting it, the firefighters’ efforts, and how we were still on site, maintaining the scene.

  “How could our barn have started on fire?” he said.

  “We don’t know at this point, but I can assure you we’ll do our best to find that out.”

  “This doesn’t seem real.”

  “I understand. It’ll take a while. Brandon, when will you be home?”

  “Uh, well . . . just a minute.” I heard him talking to someone, presumably his wife. “Sergeant? We’ll hook up the camper and be on our way. So it’ll be a couple of hours.”

  “About two hours? Okay, that’s good. I’m going to hand the phone over to Detective Dawes so hang on a moment,” I said.

  Smoke took over the phone call. “Dawes speaking. . . . We can’t tell you much of anything at this point. We’d like your permission to conduct a search of your barn, see if we can figure that out. . . . Good. . . . We may finish up before you get here. If that’s the case, I’d like you to call me when you’re home. Have a safe drive.” Smoke gave him his number, said they’d be in touch, and then disconnected.

  “I hate giving people bad news like that over the phone,” I said.

  “You got that right, and for two good reasons. It’s kinder, more personal face to face. And you can watch their reactions when they hear what it is,” he said.

  “Yes, there is that component too.”

  While we were waiting for the Major Crimes team, Smoke and I did a sweep around the outside of the barn, looking for footprints, clues, and other possible evidence. Deputies Brian Carlson and Todd Mason pulled up in the Winnebago County Mobile Crime Unit then got out and donned coveralls and boots. Carlson’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

  “Tell me about it. Let’s put some tape across the end of the driveway to keep folks from meandering in,” Smoke said.

  Mason grabbed the tape and some stakes, and he and Carlson completed the task. People driving by either slowed or stopped to look at the scene. The four of us went to work like a well-oiled machine, first doing another search of the ground for prints of any kind. “Nothing discernible, Detective,” Mason said.

  “Nope, the dirt’s been disturbed somewhat by the door, but nothing we can get a cast from,” Smoke said.

  We photographed the outside then stepped inside the collapsed structure, moving cautiously amid the debris. From the barn door, we systematically worked our way around from left to right. Unlike a working barn where there was equipment, the Simmonds’ barn was virtually empty. The blackened iron remnants of burned garden tools was about it.

  “No sign of an accelerant. But I’d say it got its start here.” Smoke pointed at a darkened area on some west wall blocks, about eight feet from the back door where the animals would have been let out to pasture in the days when they were sheltered there.

  “I’d say you’re right, Detective,” Mason said.

  Carlson nodded and pointed at the back door. “Wonder if it was locked? If not, it would give someone easy access.”

  We poked around, looking for a padlock in the debris. “Here’s the metal door handle. We’ll ask the owners if they had a padlock, ’cause we’re not finding one,” Smoke said.

  “If they didn’t, that makes three similarities,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Mason said.

  “Between the Hardings’ fire and this one. Old barns no longer housing animals, owners are gone, and they’re accessible. Either no locks or ones that are easy enough to cut.”

  “That adds up to three, all right,” Carlson said.

  “I believe both barns were intentionally lit. The Hardings’ fire was generated right about in the middle, where I’m guessing there was still straw bedding left from when they had cattle and such. The burn marks on the wood floor indicate that. With this one, I gotta wonder if there was a reason it was started on the back wall,” Smoke said.

  “Like to make sure it was really roaring before it was noticed from the front by a passerby or the neighbor across the road?” I said.

  Smoke nodded. “That’s a reasonable explanation. But at this point we can only guess what the firesetter was thinking.”

  “Detective, you must know more than anyone else in the department about people who set fires and why they do it,” Mason said.

  “I’ve had a lot of training, that’s a fact. There’s a long list of the types of people who set fires and a longer list of why they do it. With serial arsonists, you got both the organized and the disorganized. Fortunately, they’re rare animals.

  “Could be an attention-seeker, or someone who likes excitement, or someone seeking revenge. Some firesetters are mentally ill, and the reasons they do it can get pretty complicated. Like with pyromania where a person doesn’t have impulse control, or may get aroused, or feel pleasure, or a sense of relief setting a fire. They also might stick around to witness the whole show, see what happens. Contrary to what you’d think watching movies, there are only a handful of pyromaniacs out there,” he said.

  “Yeah, the training we went to got into a lot of the personality disorders an arsonist or firesetter might have,” Carlson said.

  “Sometimes with alcohol or substance abuse,” Mason said.

  “True, the under-the-influence component is not uncommon. Experts are good at creating basic profiles based on info they get from interviews, but there are about as many factors as there are individuals,” Smoke said.

  I’d been through two fire marshal training seminars myself, one on youth firesetters and one on adults. The subject of fire setting was complex with more variables than I could have imagined. Smoke was right about factors and individuals. My head was spinning by the end of each of the seminars.

  We worked for a while longer then Smoke said, “Well, team, I think we’re done here for now. I’ll give the Minnesota State Fire Marshal’s Office a call and tell them about our two suspicious fires. When we finish our reports, we’ll send them in for their records.”

  It was 6:36 p.m. when I pulled into my garage. A measure of guilt nudged me at Queenie’s excited barking. She had room to roam in her kennel, and shelter from the hot sun in the garage, but she got lonely. After John Carl had settled in as my nearby neighbor, he’d be able to help when I worked overtime.

  I cared for Queenie then went into the laundry room and took off my service belt and laid it on a chair. I kicked off my boots then peeled my damp clothes off and dropped them on the floor. My Kevlar vest was sticking to my skin like it would never let go. When I pried it off, I unzipped it and removed the outer shell. It needed washing as much as I did. I’d take care of my brass and service weapon and the other tools of my trade later on.

  I appreciated the convenience of the adjoining shower; it saved me from tracking though the house feeling grimy. I turned the water to a lukewarm temperature, and by the time I’d soaped and shampooed and rinsed, my body was cooling down. I slipped on a light linen robe then went to the kitchen sink, filled a glass with water, downed it, and then filled another. I drank twenty-four ounces in about sixty seconds. Close to it, anyway.

  My stomach rumbled, and I opened cupboards and the refrigerator, exploring available food options. My non-cooking choices boiled down to a bowl of cereal w
ith a sliced banana topper, or a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I decided on the latter and, after it was assembled, I carried it to the back deck with the hope of relaxing, enjoying the summer evening with my dog at my side.

  I gobbled down my supper with junior high school speed, driven more by inner tension than hunger. The discord and disasters of the last few days made it difficult for me to unwind. I concentrated on one problem for a while then my thoughts zoomed in on the next. Mother’s engagement had ended. Denny had deceived her, and others. Barns were burning to the ground in my township, and Vincent Weber had made a big boo-boo that got him into some deep doo-doo.

  And I might have been thrown in there with him. Guilt by association, as they say. I needed to meet Darcie, or at least see her, to get my own read on what she looked like, how she moved. Vince had a personal relationship with her, and given the negative opinions he’d voiced, he was not in the least bit objective.

  I was still ruminating when my cell phone jingled. Smoke.

  “Hello, Detective.”

  “Sergeant. Well, I just finished up with the Simmonds family. One difference from the Hardings, the Simmonds did have a padlock on their back barn door. Must’ve been cut off and the firesetter took it with him, because we found no trace of it.”

  “Locked, but easy enough to access if you have bolt cutters,” I said.

  “True. They are mighty upset about what they came home to. Especially the missus, Angela. Since it was her grandparents’ place, she had some fond memories of being there as a kid. When her grandma, Bernice Backstrom, died this past spring, the property was offered to family members before it went on the market. The Simmonds were pumped when their offer was accepted. They’d been talking about moving out of the city for some time so they could get some animals, get the kids into 4-H.”

  “That makes losing the barn even worse,” I said.

  “No doubt. And here’s the kicker. Are you ready for this? Angela’s grandmother and Sybil Harding’s grandmother were sisters.”