Dead Cold
Claire Stibbe
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United States of America
Dead Cold
Copyright © Claire Stibbe 2017
Published by Bookpreneur
An Imprint of
Noble Lizard Publishing, USA
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing to Noble Lizard Publishing.
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ISBN: 978-0-9982027-1-6
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Printed in the United States of America
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Cover artwork by Esther Kotecha
ekdesigns.co.uk
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www.clairestibbe.com
Acknowledgements
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My thanks to New Mexico for providing the inspiration for the Detective Temeke series. To my mother for giving me a safe and loving home, and to my father who gave me his love of language and books. Special thanks to the Albuquerque Police Department and the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Department, and to all the police officers, deputies and detectives I have worked with, especially for their dedication and sacrifice. For the invaluable services of Twisted Ink Publishing, The 13th Sign and An Tig Beag Press. A huge thank you to editor Jeff Gardiner and the wonderful proofreaders at Kingdom Writing Solutions for molding the clay into something worth reading.
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As always, I owe the greatest thanks possible to Jeff for his love and support, and to Jamie for his encouragement and humor.
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Claire Stibbe
Albuquerque, New Mexico
October 2017
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Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
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Flynn McCann’s mind might have been on the woman he loved if the house hadn’t been on fire. No alarms chorused above and, despite the heat, he was chilled with sweat as his panic deepened. Between the boards in the hardwood floor, tiny tendrils of smoke reached up like ghostly fingers, rising higher until they reached his nose. He held his breath, trying to make out a pasty glow through a shower of sparks outside the master bedroom.
Peeling his cheek from the floor, he crawled toward the hallway. The cell phone was on the table and he reached for it, but it slipped between his fingers and hit the floor. He fumbled for it as flames crackled from the bedroom door and smoke pushed him back toward the kitchen.
His lips burned as he tried to squeeze air through clenched teeth and turning toward the back door he crawled three feet, knees thudding against the floor. He didn’t care how much it hurt. He had to get it together.
A stench, worse than the burning fabrication in the walls, stronger than gas or burning power lines, and something in his subconscious told him what it was. He tried to remove himself from the thought that he was a failure and this is what he deserved. His mind begged for someone to save her because he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he sure as hell couldn’t.
The fire was closing in on him, and if crawling scraped his knees, breathing was agony. He choked up a cough and peered through the grey haze. The pounding on the side of his head got louder and he put a hand up to stop it. There was a slick stain across his palm and he realized a heavy object must have fallen from the ceiling and knocked him out for a second or two.
There were tiny lights on the bedroom carpet, flickering on and off like fireflies. Only ten feet to go, maybe less. The room was thick with dust and flame and rafters cracked from the ceiling.
He wanted air, couldn’t get enough without that searing pain in his chest. With one hand, he pulled his body across the floor, with the other he covered his nose. If he was lucky he’d make it to the back door in six seconds.
Someone... please... help.
He thought he heard a smoke alarm pulsing in the distance but it seemed muted, as if his ears were clogged with soot. A towel hung from the oven door and grabbing it with one hand, he covered his face and filled his lungs. How long would it protect him against the smoke?
Sirens wailed in the street and he thought he heard breaking glass. His eyes felt like they had been stitched open and no amount of blinking would clear his vision. Smoke and gas gathered in a menacing cloud below the ceiling, and somewhere at the other end of the house the first of the windows blew out.
Flynn!
He ignored the voice. It was only inside his aching head. He couldn’t bear to watch his whole life eaten by flames; the house he’d worked so hard to build.
Each movement made his muscles ache and throb. If he wasn’t careful he’d pass out before he got to the door. Flames licked at his heels, scorching the hem of his sweats and he knew with each passing second the temperature was rising.
Screeching metal and an explosion, then a twist of debris and churning dust. He imagined the bedroom door was open, that she had got out in time. Little by little, he remembered.
It was too late... Too damn late.
TWO
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A sharp wind shook the tree in the back yard and a branch grazed against the window pane. Detective Temeke lay on the couch listening to the sound of his heartbeat as it boomed in the screaming silence.
Nightmares. He dreamed had been fired from the police department after twenty-four years and an officer without a face and a zip for a mouth was throwing a big farewell bash in the canteen. Temeke had set his heart on a large carriage clock for a leaving gift, but all he got was an egg timer. It was offensive and he was bloody glad it wasn’t happening.
He continued to wallow in the residue of something he couldn’t stomach, something that made his hands moist and the sweat trickle down his back. Ever since Serena had left he’d kept every blind open, moonlight breathing an essence of life into his empty house. There was a ball of gray fur on the couch beside him and the soft purr of a happy cat.
He’d get Serena back though. Already planned it. A few well-chosen gifts, a poem, a nice dinner. He’d do something heroic, something she couldn’t resist. And when he worked out what that could possibly be, he’d score big time.
The cell phone rattled on the coffee table and Temeke blinked at the time. Five twenty-eight. The call was from his Sergeant.
Fire at 10508 Vista Bella Place,
Sergeant Moran said. Roasted two people, a third in hospital. Fire investigator requesting homicide.
Alright, Sarge. On my way.
Temeke swung his legs over the side of the couch and staggered to his feet. He wondered if his partner, Detective Santiago had also been called. Incidentally, did you call Santiago?
She’s off. You’re it.
Bloody marvelous,
Temeke muttered before ending the call.
Twenty minutes later he was in the car with the driver’s window open. A bracing wind cut down the driveway and rattled an empty beer can into the road. He made a quick stop at the BadA$$ coffee stop on Fourth and Alameda. If it wasn’t for three shots of espresso and two bites of a cream cheese bagel he might not have had the strength to stand up in a burned out husk of a house.
He hoped the first responder from his unit wasn’t that nosy swine Officer Jarvis. He was bound to tell a sick joke in front the Assistant District Attorney and a swarm of neighbors. When Temeke arrived at the scene, a crowd deeper than a rugby scrum stood gawping at a plume of smoke, many covering their noses from the putrid stench. The street was backlit by the vulgar flash of cameras from a news team as they recorded a bellow of ash creeping behind the reporter.
Temeke counted one ambulance and three station 21 fire trucks as his ears were assaulted by yells. They had already established a water supply, one firefighter standing at the hydrant and another assigned to utilities and ventilation.
Temeke walked towards his team, anxious to get it over with. Some were debating why it took nearly three hours to get the fire under control, while others were wondering which engines were first on. Matt Black, the resident crime scene specialist appeared from the side of the house, muttering a hello through a mask and gripping a pair of shears. He said he had found them in the back shed and there was a smear of blood on the blade edge. Temeke gave them a passing glance, pissed not to have seen them in situ.
He found the fire investigator, Greg Sandoval, face covered in soot and sweat, nudging what was left of the door frame with his foot. Greg held out a grubby glove and showed Temeke the floor plan. A one storey, wood-frame, single family residence identical to the uniformity of the Bandelier housing developments and standing on a six thousand square foot lot.
Homeowner’s name?
Temeke asked.
Flynn and Tarian McCann. One of the fathers was here earlier. Broke through the crowd when they brought out the first decedent. Unzipped the bag and held her in his arms, or what was left of her. Paramedics had to pull him off. He was screaming.
The house seemed to spin for a second and then slow down and Temeke could almost hear it. Poor bastard... You say first decedent. How many?
Two dead.
What are we looking for? A discarded cigarette?
Greg asked him to step inside the house and Temeke covered his face from the odor of smoke and the likelihood of particles in the air. The stench almost made him gag. The forensic photographer was busy taking close-ups of the front door handle and lock, and she turned briefly and smiled.
The front door was bolted from the inside. Standard deadbolt.
Greg led Temeke through the house to the master bedroom, now a smoking mass of furniture and disintegrating walls.
Temeke studied a gutted bedhead centered against the right hand wall and a frame that ran almost to the middle of the room. He could see little on the other side.
It was unlikely anyone escaped the fire,
Greg said. More likely started by someone in the house. Strong smell of gasoline. Not hard to establish the true cause. You get that feeling when a fire doesn’t behave normally.
Temeke knew investigators and firefighters were familiar with all the characteristics overlooked by the untrained eye. He glanced at the walls and the floor, imagining the crackle of flames and the intense heat. The more vividly he pictured it, the more troubled he felt.
Greg pointed up to a blackened beam in the master bedroom. See that? Alligator charring.
Temeke knew what it was. Wood which had given up its water left behind a lumpy texture due to high heat.
Several witnesses reported hearing an explosion at around one o’clock. We reckon the fire started then.
Greg slopped through the puddles the hoses had left behind. For all his keen observation and dedication to his job, he had found a way to master his stress. It gave him the edge.
What color was the smoke?
Temeke asked.
Thick and black. A rapid spread.
Any signs of forced entry?
An elderly neighbor smashed the living room window with a fire extinguisher. Climbed in and didn’t get much further. He was only trying to help.
Temeke tried to pull his mind away from the tragic image. Right now, he needed to focus on the present. Poor old sod.
Take a look at this.
Greg’s flashlight caught fragments of glass glinting on the window sill and the remains of a light bulb which he explained had melted in the direction of the heat source. See the hole in the ceiling? We call that the chimney effect. This is where the fire started. The window was open increasing the oxygen content. Odd, since it wasn’t that warm last night. And this.
Temeke followed Greg around the bed and studied wet soot on the floor, except for the portion that had once been covered by a body. Now a taped off outline and a ghostly reminder of loss.
That’s where they found her,
Greg said. She wasn’t anywhere near the door or other escape route. It’s possible she may have been dead before the fire.
Tarian McCann?
That’s what we think. There’s a compact revolver under the bed and two shell casings; one beneath the window, one slightly to the left of the door.
Temeke could see the evidence markers from where he stood. He was suddenly filled with a raw impatience to keep moving, to keep his mind from savoring the victim’s last moments, however terrible they might have been.
See the soot about a foot down the wall?
Greg said. The char gets heavier the closer you get to the fire. There are polymer shreds on the floor, a tote maybe. Of course, bedding adds to the fodder. Over here is a coil of melted plastic near the bed leg. Looks like the remains of a Gerry can.
Someone give this fire a helping hand?
Looks that way.
Paint had bubbled on the window frame revealing six inch cracks where support walls had burnt away. Temeke glanced at the twisted remains of a double bed displaying tiny shreds of goose down and the residue of burned timbers from the roof.
Any cars in the garage?
Temeke asked.
Two, both gutted. The insurance inspector’s not going to like it.
Neither will the homeowner. There’ll be no payout.
There’s something I want to show you out back,
Greg said.
Through the ribs of the house Temeke could see the back yard where trees were scorched from the heat. He followed Greg through a hole of burnt timber where the kitchen window used to be. A row of floodlights had been erected over a narrow path between the side of the house and the neighbor’s wall, and they stood there looking at a collection of evidence markers.
Plenty of footprints here,
Greg said.
Temeke stared down at a series of indentations in the mud. Yours, three firefighters, two crime scene techs, a suspect and now mine. Let me know if you find anything else.
Greg chuckled and pointed at the ID scales on the far side of the path. Those are lightweight canvas shoes with a waffle sole. Size seven. And over here, bare feet, size eleven.
Bare feet you say?
Temeke looked down and sure enough, the imprint of five toes and a large print. Six clear tracks leading from the shed and slowly fading as the dirt merged with the kitchen door.
When did it rain?
he asked.
Yesterday afternoon. You know how it is. A quick burst and it’s gone. The crime scene tech took a plaster cast and the photographer took a few shots.
How many inches apart?
Temeke asked.
About eighteen.
So, someone running. Someone who may have started the fire?
It’s possible. Only they were leading to the house, not away from it. The field investigators took photos of tire tracks outside the front of the house, latent prints on the mailbox, that kind of thing. But to be honest, there’s not much left.
I see what you mean.
One of the neighbors reported seeing a dark colored sedan parked outside the house at around eleven-thirty last night. Due to the rains there was a thick layer of sand near the curb. Made a nice impression of the tires.
What time did the car leave?
Around midnight. She said she didn’t see the driver. Sure heard the car.
Greg led Temeke through the back yard to a shed which stood about eighteen feet from the house and abutted the back wall. Glass is cracked in the window and covered in soot. Not much damage inside. It’s the chair that bothers me.
Temeke ducked under the tape and waded in, water gushing in through a hole in his combat boots. There was a small window in the east wall overlooking the back of the house and according to the floor plan it would have had a good view of the kitchen.
He was guided by the beam of Greg’s flashlight as it followed the shelves around to a banker’s armchair; the dominant feature in a small space. Straps hung limp from the armrests and on closer examination he could see they had been severed and crusted with dried blood. The wood, once coated with a polished veneer, was now covered in a thin layer of soot. Had someone been tortured? Or had they been living out some sexual fantasy?
No use mentally crossing his fingers and hoping he was wrong about it. In his mind’s eye he could see a victim tied up, ball gagged and forced to submit to a sick craving. A gunshot wound to the head perhaps, then buried in a remote grave where no one would ever find them. Because whoever it was had certainly suffered. No doubt about that.
The beam of Greg’s flashlight danced in the puddles and then crept over the walls at a series of empty hooks. There were shears on the floor beside the chair and a gag, and a Barbie doll on the shelf.
Sitting or lying?
The doll? Sitting. Eyes open, staring in that blank way they do.
Well, we’re not going to get any bloody drier wallowing about in this,
Temeke said, paddling for the door. Any thoughts of terror were quickly spent, leaving emptiness in its wake. See any familiar faces in the crowd when you got here?
Nah.
Greg led him back to the house. I’ll go back in, if you don’t mind. Arson investigator wants my report ASAP.
Temeke nodded and shook Greg’s hand. He liked the man, knew he still suffered from the loss of his wife in a house fire eight years ago. The stench of smoldering timbers had to be a constant reminder.
Keeping behind the tape, Temeke followed the muddy footprints, guessing they were a size eleven. Big guy whoever it was. As for the waffle soles, he couldn’t count how many times he’d seen that print, common shoes that everyone had. Quiet shoes. Distinctive tracks leading to the back door.
Temeke!
Temeke turned at the shout. Baby-face Jarvis was beckoning with a pudgy hand, pants bloused above his boots as if he was expecting a bad case of chiggers.
Found this inside the mailbox,
Jarvis said, gripping an envelope, which he had placed in an evidence bag. You might want to see it.
"Inside the mailbox?"
Yeah, inside.
That’s a felony, Jarv, looking in people’s mail boxes. Was it the only letter?
Yeah.
Jarvis looked down at Temeke’s shoes now planted firmly on the centerline of the street. Been paddling?
Water up to my ankles. Felt like a bloody passenger on the Titanic.
Temeke caught sight of his captain in the crowd, hand patting the shoulder of a new female detective who was wearing a short coat over bare legs. When did Captain Fowler arrive?
Temeke could smell garlic in the air as Jarvis leaned a little closer. About two hours ago. He gave Detective Cornwell a ride. Her hair was all mussed up and I doubt she’s got anything on under that coat she’s wearing. Anyway, he wasn’t interested in going in the house, said there was nothing to see. But he did go in the back shed. Confirmed it was a sexual fetish.
Somehow you associate him with things like that.
Temeke couldn’t help wondering if Sarge had called him as an afterthought.
Jarvis cocked his head to one side. You heard what the doc said? Dead when they found her. Probably murder. Who knows what else they’ll find.
They always find something,
Temeke said, curling his toes and puckering at a whiff of wet sock.
The paramedic said the homeowner had blood in his hair. Shone a light in his eyes and tried talking to him. Nothing. Doctor said he was in shock. Could hardly open his mouth for a swab.
Temeke fed the murder scenario into his mind but somehow the pieces didn’t quite fit. Instead, he found himself staring at white flakes in the air slowly descending on the street like a shower of desiccated coconut.
Jarvis put a finger to his mouth and lowered his voice. I’ll bet you three pints the homeowner torched the place to get the insurance.
Temeke resisted a roll of the eyes. You should have been a detective, Jarv. Now give me that envelope and bugger off.
THREE
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It was seven forty-five on Monday morning when Temeke backed into a parking space. He sat looking at the front of Northwest Area Command, Albuquerque’s largest substation, which sported a gray block façade and an oversized porch. Situated next door to Fire Department Station No. 21, the two buildings dominated the northwest quadrant of the city with a message of strength and stability.
He lit a cigarette and stared at a blue haze that began to collect inside his car. The envelope lay on the passenger seat addressed to a Mr. Flynn McCann, self-seal closure and partially unstuck. Balancing his cigarette on the dash, Temeke snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and worked the tiny hole open with a finger. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper with a message.
I want to tell you how I feel. So there won’t be any doubt. You’re so dead cold to think of. And so hard to live without.
He felt the hair lifting on the nape of his neck and his hands were clammy. A poem, a hidden message and typewritten to keep the author anonymous. Placing the envelope and the poem back-to-back, he eased them into the evidence bag and removed the gloves.
Two things came to mind. No stamp. Hand delivered.
Sticking the cigarette back in the side of his mouth, he opened the car door to a rush of cool air. Sauntering up the front steps, he wondered if yesterday’s flasher was back in the cells again. The judge couldn’t hold him and patrolmen frequently picked up the same offender day after day. The laws needed to change. It was getting old.
Fergus ‘Tiny’ Woodrow, they called him and he wasn’t tiny by any stretch of the imagination. Some prison name he’d been awarded for a certain part of his anatomy he assumed everyone wanted to see. A man who drank a skinful and spent a restless afternoon in one of the cells singing a song at the top of his sod-awful voice. The words he didn’t know came out as a string of na-na-na-naaaa and something about Napoleon surrendering at Waterloo. He got around. Citizens had complained of seeing his ‘tiny’ even as far as Las Lunas.
Temeke spat out a shred of tobacco before flicking his cigarette behind a box hedge. There was a bang on the front window and Sergeant Moran’s haggard face gave him a stiff smile. He also gave him a stiff finger.
Morning, Sarge?
Temeke said, dribbling a leftover trickle of smoke from his nostrils as he walked inside.
I’m surprised that hedge hasn’t caught fire,
Sergeant Moran said.
Officer Manning’s K-9 did an arabesque over it yesterday, Sarge. About a gallon, I should say. That should keep the worst off.
Sergeant Moran idly traced his moustache and studied him as if he was a particular rare clock on the mantel. I’d like you to talk to Mr. Flynn McCann, homeowner of the house on Vista Bella. He wanted to know why we took a swab last night. I explained it was to rule out any DNA in the house that wasn’t his.
Did anyone sweep his hands for gunshot residue?
Yeah. You could tell he was a bit freaked out.
Temeke gave a curt nod, couldn’t wake up any enthusiasm about McCann. Has the arson investigator talked to the first responders? Has he talked to Mr. McCann?
Yes and yes. Preliminary report said doors, windows, fire hydrants, all in good working order. Something about faulty smoke alarms. Investigator said he couldn’t get much out of McCann in hospital. At worst, he was staring at the wall. At best, he was second-guessing himself.
Maybe he ran out of things to say.
Temeke grabbed a newspaper from the arm of a chair and followed the sergeant into the inner sanctum.
"Bad news is he had a long conversation with someone from the Duke City Journal. He was released after two hours, Sergeant Moran said, cracking his knuckles and lowering his voice.
Funny thing is, when they loaded him into the ambulance he didn’t seem upset. Didn’t even ask after his wife."
What were his injuries?
Sergeant Moran grabbed a buff file from his desk and opened it. First degree burns to the feet and calves, trauma to the head. He had minor smoke inhalation and a slight concussion. And bruising to the testicles. Yeah, I know, but that’s what it says here. McCann was found face down on the kitchen floor when they found him.
Skip the foreplay, Sarge, and get to the point.
All these years talking to grieving spouses and victims... why is it they always break out into dry sobs? And why’s he out so quick?
Hadn’t sunk in yet.
If that was my wife, I’d be a mess. He was giving the pavement most of his attention, like he was thinking things over.
Or it may have had something to do with the fact that McCann had narrowly escaped death himself. Temeke kept his thoughts to himself. It was the blood samples from the back shed he was more interested in.
I’d like to talk to Tarian McCann’s father,
Temeke said.
Her father is Richard Walley-Bennett. And, no, he’s not up for interviews until after the burial.
Who spoke to him?
Captain Fowler. He said he was sobbing and incoherent. Conversation was brief by all accounts.
Temeke wondered if his own methods of persuasion would change the family’s
