"It's real coffee," he said. "Not like that sludge over there in your pot."
"Yeah, but the caffeine concentration in the sludge is enough to keep us going for days." Warily she looked up at him, a plastic cream packet in her hand. "You want me to put the cream in yours, or are we going to insult each other again?"
He chuckled. "I take mine black." He looked down at the folder on her desk. "Roger Burnette's case files?"
"Not his files from Records. I requested those yesterday, but our clerk hasn't brought them up yet. These are Burnette's own notes. He was waiting when I got here this morning. Names, addresses, dates of anybody whose Wheaties he's pissed in the last few years. I think it helped him to feel like he was doing something."
"And?"
She grimaced. "Everybody in here had a grudge."
"So you're back to Caitlin being the tool to her father's payback."
She added cream to her coffee and snapped the lid back into place. "I don't know. I do know that Penny Hill was a social worker. She's probably taken a lot of kids from a lot of homes over the years. Disrupted a lot of lives, from a certain point of view. I think it will be interesting to cross reference Roger Burnette's cases with Penny Hill's. See if anybody hated them both."
"Did Roger Burnette know Penny Hill?"
"No. I was so hoping he did, but he'd never heard her name." She swung her feet to the floor. "Now it's time for morning meeting. I asked Jack and the ME to come." She grabbed the file and her coffee. "I also asked our psychologist to stop by. His name is Miles Westphalen. I filled him in. I've worked with Miles before. He's good."
Before Reed could say a word she was off down a side hallway, motioning him to follow. ^4 shrink, was all he could think. Oh joy.
A large table dominated the center of Spinnelli's conference room. Spinnelli himself sat at one end, flanked on either side by Jack linger from CSU and Sam Barrington from the ME's office. And older man sat next to Jack. He would be the shrink.
Spinnelli searched their faces, and winced. "You two get any sleep at all?"
"Not much," Mitchell said. She smiled warmly at the shrink. "Hey, Miles. Thanks for coming. This is Lieutenant. Reed Solliday from OFI. Reed, Dr. Miles Westphalen."
Reed shook the old man's hand, keeping his face blank. He hated most shrinks, Hated the way they tried to read your mind. The way they turned everything into a question. He especially hated the way they blamed propensity for evil on upbringing. He laid odds that Westphalen would have this arsonist reduced to a poor soul with no father and an abusive mother before the meeting was over.
Westphalen sat back, mildly amused. "Lieutenant Solliday, it's nice to meet you. But don't worry, I won't read your mind. Not before my first cup of coffee, anyway."
Reed's jaw tightened as Mitchell took the chair next to Westphalen. "Leave him alone, Miles," she chided wearily. "He's had a long night. We both have. Sit, Solliday. Please." She looked over at Barrington. "Have you had a chance to check her out?"
"Only a cursory look," Barrington answered as Reed sat next to Mitchell. "But I'm willing to bet I find something else on the body other than gasoline. The burns are far deeper. This fire burned longer, at least on the victim."
"So about the victim," Spinnelli interjected. "Who is she?"
"Penelope Hill, age forty-seven," Mitchell said. "She was an employee of the Department of Children and Family Services for twenty-five years." She blew a breath up through her bangs, sending them flying. "Last night was her retirement party. I talked to one of my old friends in DCFS this morning. Hill was well respected and well loved. She'd been written up in the paper several times for her community service."
"'Well loved' is relative," Westphalen noted. "By her coworkers, maybe."
"But by parents whose kids she's taken away?" Mitchell continued Westphalen's thought. '"Well loved' probably isn't a description they'd use. I thought of that, Miles."
"A cop's daughter and a social worker," Spinnelli mused. "Any connection?"
She shook her head. "Burnette didn't know her. I'll be cross-checking their caseloads today. But the fires themselves were the same in a lot of ways."
Spinnelli raised his brows. "Reed?"
All eyes turned to him. "Both were started in the kitchen. Both used natural gas as the primary fuel. Both used a strip of solid accelerant up the wall as a chemical extension of the fuse. The lab came back with the analysis of the solid accelerant used in the Doughertys' house. Ammonium nitrate mixed with kerosene and guar gum. Highly flammable. I should have the lab's analysis on the mix used in Hill's house by the end of the day, but I expect it to be the same."
Spinnelli stroked his mustache. "Are we dealing with a professional arsonist?"
"Not in the traditional sense. Arson for profit is normally committed by property owners for the insurance or by torches who are providing… a service. This doesn't feel like it's about money. It's personal. I mean, he didn't just set a fire. He blew up their houses. How he knew the victims we still haven't figured out, but the use of an explosion just screams Look at me. Look at what 1 can do."
"And Look at them. Look how they died" Mitchell murmured. "It's like a flashing neon arrow." She looked over at Westphalen. "A cry for help?"
Westphalen lifted shaggy gray brows. "More like a cry of rage."
Reed was surprised. He'd expected the shrink to run with the "cry for help" mantra. It was another thing he hated about shrinks: Nothing was anybody's fault. If a criminal committed a crime they were crying for help. That was bullshit. Criminals committed crimes because they got something out of it. Period. If they wanted help, they'd ask nicely, not by nearly blowing up a damn neighborhood.
Spinnelli pushed away from the table and walked to the whiteboard. "So we have what?" He started writing, creating two columns he headed Dougherty/Burnette and Hill. "Time of the crime?"
"Both about midnight," Reed said. "Both were residential structures in middle-class neighborhoods Both used incendiary devices with a fuse."
"Don't forget about the trash can," Mitchell murmured.
"And both had a separate fire," Reed added. "Set in a waste-basket with newspaper and a filterless cigarette. Without the filter, the cigarette burns down to the end, setting the newspaper on fire. It's a very simple, but effective time-delay device."
Spinnelli noted it, then turned around. "Now that sounds more like a novice."
"It means something," Mitchell said quietly. "It's… symbolic."
"You're probably right. What else?" Spinnelli asked. "Sam?"
"Both bodies were charred beyond visual recognition," Barrington offered. "As I said, the degree of the damage appears much greater in the second victim."
"Mrs. Hill," Mitchell murmured. "Her name was Penny Hill."
Something in her face squeezed at Reed's heart but Barrington just lifted his blond brows. "The killer used something different on the second victim. Something that didn't burn off as fast."
"Check for the nitrate mixture," Reed said. "I'll have the lab fax you the formula."
"I'll be waiting for it. Get me the second victim's dental records, Detective. I'll make a positive ID as quickly as I can."
"Yeah," Mitchell said flatly. "I'll be on that today."
Barrington stood. "If there's nothing more, I have a great deal to do today."
"Call us when you have something," Spinnelli said and Barrington left.
For a moment Mitchell glared at the door the ME had closed, then slowly flattened her fist on her thigh. When she spoke, it was quietly. "Marc, Caitlin Burnette's body was incinerated with gasoline. Penny Hill's with something… hotter."