too Good to be Realty

The moon hung overheard like a glowing pocket watch as Franklin and I pulled the car up to the docks. Through the fencing, we could make out the outline of a flivver, and we knew this is where our meat was hiding out. Quietly, we pulled the Scarlet Solver into a space and killed the engine. A cold pizza and cups of coffee were all that accompanied us on this chilly evening. Inside the complex, there was a small building, or maybe a retrofitted shipping container, with a light on, and this Franklin and I watched intently. Hours passed slowly, and soon even rounds "I Spy" became monotonous.

Suddenly, there was slight movement just beyond the chain link. A knowing look passed between us, the pair of dicks in the car; Franklin and I were off like a shot. This was our one chance to bring the guy down ourselves, after that he would either be in the wind or in the cooler. So, we ran. Franklin, being the smaller of us, took a ten fingered boost over the fence, just grazing a hand on the barbed wire on top before dropping down and letting me in. We both channeled every tiger we'd ever seen stalking in the zoo as we tried to surround him. The silence roared in my ears, accented by the blood pumping rhythmically. There was a creak, one of us had hit a door or a wall or something. We heard running, and followed suit. I lost Franklin somewhere in the shipyard, but continued alone, fueled only by adrenaline.

He hadn't seen us coming, and was completely unprepared. He was a little faster than I, but I proved myself more agile. Eventually I gained on him and with a final charging leap I landed on his back, taking him to the ground with me. I called out for Franklin as I wrestled him into a submission hold. At our most defining moment, he looked me square in the eyes and said: "BBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!"

Slowly, I became aware not only of sunlight, but of birds singing faintly in the background. I looked beside me at the bed I had fallen out of and the pillow I now knelt triumphantly upon. Muttering to myself, I reached a series of conclusions: either Franklin and I had better hurry up and put this guy away, or I had better stop eating hard-boiled eggs and drinking shine before bed. I also realized that we needed some more information to work on, and someone who could help us figure out this division in our theories was a professor Books Mahony knew of at the local Brainbank, some University named after a compass direction. I would e-mail him directly.

Set a Course for Justice

It was good to see Franklin back from Hotlanta relatively unscorched, but we'd only run into each other on a few social occasions and the case was going cold as pizza left overnight. We needed to act fast, no matter how good a day-old pizza sounded. Hastily, we met to talk about where things stood and where to go next. It was an overcast but still nice day, and as the office wasn't covered in bees, we set up shop.

"When all leads seem dead, start at the beginning" is the kind of advice I'd expect a mentor to give me, if we'd actually be trained by one. So, we went back to the articles we looked at on Day One and the maps from Day, uh, Several. We knew we needed a snitch, someone who knew the area well and knew the cases better. We pulled a name from the local paper and vowed to at least shoot him an e-mail. If we got a slant of some of scenes, that might also work as some kind of a lead; failing that, there was always the library, the archives or the Buttons.

While looking through our old materials, we came across a mention of a Real Estate fire. This was news to me, Franklin was blank on it as well. We noted it down, but as the night air cooled we gathered our things to head into the Waiting room to finish; preferring to be hard-boiled, not frozen. Something caught Franklin's attention, and he demanded to see the Surveillance photos we pulled. Taking a closer look, there were a few things we saw:

• This cat looks like he's fairly tall, in shape although not the most athletic chump, fairly dark hair, and what looks like muttonchops.
  
• He had a duffel bag, in which he could easily keep a gas can and a few matchbooks, as well as the hat he pulled out by the fourth photo.
• Putting the gas can in the bag, and either carrying or stuffing the tire in his bag, he wouldn't need to show up in a boiler at all. This, fits the profile we came up with.
• He wasn't wearing anything thicker than a t-shirt. After some quick digging on the weather, we crabbed that the weather couldn't've been more than the 23 to 37 degree range--he must have been cold.

There was one thing about the profile that Franklin needed to hear a second time: These kinds of perps usually use matches which they leave behind, or lighters which they take with them. He considered this for a minute.
"It has to be the book." He said. I looked at him quizzically for a moment, so he continued. "If the guy is lighting the tires with a lighter, it would take longer--which isn't easy with a lighter." He was right, the more I thought about it. Lighters would force him to get close to the tire and hold a flame on the gas for a while; A matchbook, he could light the whole thing and toss it into the tire before dusting.

There was one small thing that caught my eye, not as much a lead as a hunch. Looking at the difference between the first three scene photos, and the last one, there is a slight change in our guy. He stands taller and has a slight air of pride. I don't feel like he's congratulating himself on a job well done, my hunch is he's stepping back to see his latest work of art unfold. Franklin says he could see the confidence, but I don't think you could quote either of us on that second part.

A few days later, I tried to contact our egg at the paper. He got back to me, saying he couldn't comment but suggested trying the paper's archive or the library. It seemed that all signs pointed towards Boston Public Library.

The Mind Trap

As I mentioned last week, one of the problems with Arson cases is that the physical evidence is often destroyed by the crime itself. What isn't destroyed, however, are the things we can infer based on what he does--or has to do--to pull the crime off. There are shrinks who make most of their dough doing this kind of jazz. Remember that before we took the case, Franklin and I knew about as much about Arsonists as we do about violins (which isn't much: they're stringed instruments you play with a bow).

What they find about these mugs is that they're generally unmarried men around 27 years old, and they travel solo--few if any friends, and none they'll confide in. They feel like the city has betrayed them, or that they're the mark in some crazy con--which makes them a little more dangerous than your average firebug. They're seeking some kind of revenge for a sleight they feel--which may or may not be real. Don't get us wrong, the guy isn't a total boob--most Revenge-based arsonists are well educated, but he still works a pretty menial job.

There's also a chance they've tried to pull the Dutch act, or have some psychological history; not to mention odds are good they have a criminal record. Probably also huge fans of the giggle juice, may even seek some confidence from the stuff (looks like Centre Street Liquor may be safe). They know their scenes well, usually within two miles of their home or work--and odds are very good (As we've discerned with this case) that he has a car. These cases also tend to be intra-racial--so in our case he probably feels like the grifters were the Hispanic residents of our fair neighborhood. What is also interesting is that most of these kinds of hotheads won't stick around to watch their fire, but they'll be back the next day to check their handiwork over.

The standard profiles more or less back up what we've got, and adds a few new elements to the mix. We have his history of addle-brainedness and a possible criminal past. A taste for alcohol, and the education. It's also pretty likely that he was using a lighter, as these jobbies are as likely to drop a matchbook on the ground as they are to breathe.

Here's a photo of the perp in action, courtesy of BPDNews.com


Recommended Reading:

• Arsonist Profiles at Angelfire (yeah, really)
• Profile of a Serial Arsonist on CBS
• Behavioral Profiling Notes
  

Real Men Never Say Sorry

A strange week it has been. The case has definitely not gone cold, yet, and the trail is far from gone. Just between a couple of side-projects and some unlucky breaks, I for one haven't had a chance to sit down like a real dick and get some legwork done. Tough breaks? How does locking myself out of the apartment and a broken computer grab ya?

Wednesday morning, I was at my desk job by the time I realized the keys weren't in my pocket where I usually keep them. Their location was a mystery, but I am a professional. A little thinking lead me to remember that they were on the mantel at the office. Unfortunately, Tiny "Bling" is out of town and Dreads Mahoney had already legged it to work. When I got to the office, the doors were all locked, and I couldn't make an effective lock pick out of what was in my bag. I pondered grabbing a ladder and climbing up to the deck front office. But in the end decided to go visit Nervous Mahoney in her new place until Dreads got back.

The following night, last night, I had planned to work on what police head quacks call "psychological profile". A lot of people think the whole science is a load, but with arson cases most physical evidence is destroyed by either the crime or by fire crews. Anyway, that had been the plan, and perhaps some filing that needs to be done. Instead, while putting in an update, the Office Computer stopped working, so I ran down to a contact of mine at the Genius Bar. While I was out, ran into some friends from out of town. Did some light research, but nothing yet substantial.

All of this has nothing to do with the case. Maybe I'm making excuses, maybe this whole entry was a trip for biscuits. Either way, real men don't apologize.

The Silver Bullet

With Franklin out of town, I knew that if I didn't get some work on this case, it would grow cold. Cold like the pizza I kept in the fridge overnight. So, I started with some quick research on Forensic Psychology--a few episodes of Criminal Minds I'd been saving--not sure if it was paranoia the research was inflicting or that Lady Luck just gave me a good hand that day, but I found myself on Google Maps again scouring it like a madman. I had something here: Gas stations. If he's using tires and gasoline to make fire, then he is getting them from somewhere. You have to ask yourself, how easy is it to get your mitts these things? All it takes to get a can of gas is a can and a gas station: pull your heap into the station, put the can on the ground and you got a few gallons of 85. Tires, you can probably get, no questions asked, from an auto body or tire store: just say you're putting 'em on yourself (obviously not on yourself, but by yourself maybe).

So where are there gas stations and auto body shops in the Plain? I kicked myself for letting Franklin take the notes and the map when I saw him last, so I noted some down to add later. I was going to hang with Books Mahoney later that evening, and she would be able to return the map. Books, Mix Mahoney and I spent the evening working on another case: Who at Fox Studios was so determined to see the X-Men series fail? Who profits? What happened to Shatner in Abrams' Star Trek?

In the cold light of morning, I went back to the maps. I drew the gas stations in red--maybe a poor choice--and the tire or auto body shops in green. Adding them to the map, I got this:

I then noticed something interesting and circled it: There is a gas station and an auto body shop right next to each other. A pump stand called Hatoff's and a garage that goes by CarStar--according to Google. Convenient location if our boy was in a hurry, isn't it. That's when something else hit me like an idiot's car door into a biker: He was in a hurry on one occasion, wasn't he?

He was hitting places regular for a few months and then stopped, but there was one exception: January 28, Maria's Salon. If you took that one out, it would almost seem like clockwork, hitting towards the beginning of the month in December (the 11th), January (the 6th) and February (the 7th). Which means maybe something got him a little jingle-brained on before the 28th.

He'd have to be on the swift to rush a plan together, and maybe that means he'd have to swing by the corner of Washington and Rockvale, which looks like his personal shopping mall from where I'm sitting. If I've got the right slant on this: Between the 7th and the 28th, he must have heard something about Maria's that set him off, and must have started planning then--The one-a-month thing seemed to be working out for him otherwise.

Something caught my eye then, and I marked a small X on the map. The spot I circled was about the same distance from that point as all of our scenes seemed to be. Odds are that our meat lives near there: he'd probably have a base of operations there he could be at day or night, like maybe his house. I thought maybe he'd take a day off work in that few weeks, but I don't know about that. I also don't know what he took a month off in March. Maybe he thought the heat was on, waited for it to cool? What I do know is that to stay ahead of the buttons, he'd have to be smart and organized. My hunch is, he would plan this out. If we're right, he's been at this a while.

What else I know is that I could go for a sandwich. Later, chumps.

The Wages of Intrigue

Boston, Massachusetts. A city of education, history, and recently, of fire. I saw the story in the day's paper, and it captured my imagination like an inhumane bear trap: Five arsons in my home of Jamaica Plain, a neighborhood as wild as the Jurassic era. The most recent, an auto body shop I had passed once or twice on foot. A few minutes of research later, it hit me like the blonde girl I called "sweet cheeks" the other day. I contacted Peter Franklin, the man who would be my partner, and filled him in on the details: there was a $5000 reward for this guy. Franklin pointed out that we would need a few things, such as vices, fedoras and an office. The porch was recently set up, so i suggested we start there. What follows is a record of our logs, case notes and meeting minutes.

I knew that tracking the perp down would be a difficult task, like playing Guess Who with a phone book, but I knew that between us we had seen enough police dramas and detective films that we just might be able to pull it off.