The Sepia Siren Killer. Richard A. Lupoff
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Lindsey rubbed his forehead. He started to stand. “Wait a minute. It’s after close-of-business. You’re retired, Ms. Wilbur.”
Ms. Wilbur said, “Bart, get your little hiney over here. I don’t want Mueller to get his hands on this.”
CHAPTER THREE
Whatever Ms. Wilbur didn’t want Elmer Mueller to get his hands on, it didn’t make the broadcast news. Lindsey kept the car radio tuned to an all-news station on his way from Walnut Creek to Berkeley. Reactions to the Berkeley museum fire had degenerated into the usual exchange of name-calling between University of California officials and People’s Park advocates. The People’s Park faction charged that the Anti-Imperialist Front was a phony organization set up by the University, that the fire had been set by the UC Police Force to embarrass the legitimate claimants to the land. After that came something about the Coast Guard and the Immigration and Naturalization Service stopping a Chinese freighter full of illegal immigrants, and then a late-breaking bulletin about the off-season signing of an Olympic high-jumper who was ready to put his talent to use in the National Basketball Association.
The steady stream of oncoming headlights, the announcer’s droning voice, and the warm air inside the Hyundai put Lindsey into a half-hypnotic state.
He took College Avenue to Durant, then wandered around until he found the Robeson Center on Canyon Road. The night air was misty. Water condensed and fell off the great trees inside the gates. Gravel crunched beneath the Hyundai’s tires as Lindsey pulled into the parking lot in front of a gothic building. Judging by its looks, the Robeson Center had been constructed in the 1880s and had withstood the storms, fires and earthquakes of a century and more.
The cold air hit Lindsey as he climbed from his car. The contrast with the car’s cozy warmth shocked him awake. That, and the fire engine that stood in front of the Robeson Center, a lurid warning light revolving on its cab. The crew of firefighters must be somewhere else, because only one person had stayed with the heavy truck.
Lindsey jogged past Ms. Wilbur’s Toyota, a Berkeley fire chief’s car, and a police cruiser. He climbed the front steps, crossed the portico and pushed open heavy doors. They were stained a dark mahogany, with large cut-glass ovals in each. Inside the Robeson Center the air was dry and thin. Like the air on another planet, it felt as if it had not been disturbed for ages. The shabby decor looked as if it had been patterned after a hotel in a Depression era film. A dark-skinned man in a suit and tie stood behind a reception counter. A rectangular badge identified him as Oliver Hendry.
Lindsey asked for Ms. Wilbur.
Oliver Hendry smiled a desk-clerk smile. “You mean the lady who came to see Mr. MacReedy. She’s with him in the coffee lounge.” He tipped his head, indicating a doorway that opened off the lobby.
Lindsey found Ms. Wilbur and Mr. MacReedy sitting at a Formica-topped table. There were cups of coffee in front of them, obviously untouched. Ms. Wilbur spotted Lindsey and gestured him to the table.
Without preamble, Ms. Wilbur said, “Somebody tried to burn out Mr. MacReedy.”
“When?”
“This afternoon. At least whoever did it isn’t a killer. He waited for Mr. MacReedy to leave. He must have done it while Mr. MacReedy was with us in Walnut Creek.”
Lindsey looked at the old man. While Lindsey watched, he lifted his coffee cup to his lips and held it for a long moment, then lowered it to its saucer again. He had still not touched its contents.
“They tried to put it out with fire extinguishers. Then they called 911 and the fire truck got here in a couple of minutes and doused the flames. Didn’t seem to do much real harm, except burn up Mr. MacReedy’s possessions.”
“How can you be so sure?” Lindsey had pulled a chair from the next table. He leaned toward Ms. Wilbur. “I mean, how can you be sure it was arson? Maybe it was just an accident. Somebody smoking or starting a fire in the fireplace or using a heater.”Ms. Wilbur shook her head. “The investigators are here already.”
“Who?”
Ms. Wilbur said, “A fire lieutenant, Vince D’Onofrio, and a police arson squad sergeant, Olaf Stromback.”
Lindsey pulled out his pocket organizer and jotted down the names. Ms. Wilbur never wrote anything down and never forgot anything. Lindsey made notes.
“They still here? I saw their cars outside.”
“They’re in Mr. MacReedy’s room. Come on, you want to see this.” She patted Mr. MacReedy’s shoulder. “You’ll be all right here. Mr. Hendry can see you. He’ll get you anything you need.”
Mr. MacReedy lifted milky eyes. “I don’t need anything, but thank you all the same.” He lifted the coffee cup to his lips once more, then lowered it.
Mr. MacReedy’s room was at the end of a ground-floor corridor. Lindsey could detect the smell of fresh ashes and cold watered embers before he got there. The door frame showed a few areas of charring and smoke had discolored the ceiling just outside Mr. MacReedy’s door, but those were the only signs of fire.
Inside the room everything was different. The air stank. The walls and ceiling were black. The single bed had been badly burned, large sections of water-soaked black showing on the mattress and pillow. An old wooden dresser, a sofa, a ladder-backed chair and a four-drawer file cabinet were all wrecked. All beyond hope of repair. Worst of all were the remains of a couple of corrugated cardboard file boxes. Those were barely recognizable. There was no fireplace, no visible space heater, not even a television set to start the fire.
So much for Mrs. MacReedy’s death certificate and Mr. MacReedy’s claim. Well, he could get a duplicate death certificate easily enough.
D’Onofrio and Stromback were talking in undertones when Lindsey and Ms. Wilbur arrived. Lindsey could tell them apart by their uniforms. They’d brought in a small, folding metal ladder and set it up. D’Onofrio had laid a notebook on one of the rungs. He was leaning on the ladder with one elbow. He said, “Who’s this?”
Ms. Wilbur started to reply but Lindsey stepped past her and handed International Surety business cards to both men. “Insurance,” he said. D’Onofrio and Stromback both looked at the cards, then slipped them into their pockets. Like Hope and Crosby in another Road picture.
Lindsey said, “Was this arson? Ms. Wilbur says it was arson but I want to know what you think.”
Stromback said, “No question. See these marks?” He pointed to some black smudges near the doorway. “Look at the feathering. Somebody threw an accelerant in here and tossed a match in after it. Even found the match. Must have done a good job—looks as if he only needed the one.” He pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and showed it to Lindsey. The cellophane baggie contained an ordinary paper match. A cardboard information tag identified the location and circumstances of the great discovery, and carried Stromback’s scrawling signature. Fat chance of ever discovering the origins of a charred match.
D’Onofrio said, “You smell that?” He sniffed, as if Lindsey might not know what smell meant. “You smell that stuff?”
Lindsey said he did.
D’Onofrio said, “It’s gasoline. Everyday gasoline. Perpetrator soaked the bed, the file cabinet there, these cardboard boxes. Then he laid a trail back to the door. Then he threw in a final shot of the stuff, tossed in a match, and closed the door behind him.”
“Must have wanted the fire to do its job before anybody even knew about it.” That was Stromback. They picked up for each other perfectly. Like Dan Rather and Connie Chung. “Would have been a lot worse if he’d left the door open, or if he’d thrown something through the window on his way out. Could have got a nice cross-draft. Really made a nice fire. As it was, the oxygen got depleted pretty fast. Didn’t save this room but it saved the building.”
Lindsey frowned. “You’re sure this was set? It wasn’t just an accident?” He didn’t wait for an