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  “What’s the story?” I asked, wondering how much farther we would have to go. I resisted looking at my watch. Joan seemed relieved to have someone to talk to who knew nothing of the situation. I understood the inclination to spill emotions to total strangers who couldn’t judge beyond what they were told. Not that Joan was overly emotional. But it was clear that she was unhappy with recent changes to her island, and that her family’s identity as Acadians had, in her opinion, been tainted by those changes.

  She explained that the idea of the plant had been unanimously supported by both summer and permanent residents as a solution to the dwindling year-round population. Well-paying, full-time jobs would be a way for young islanders to make their homes and lives and families right here. Generations of kids had left to find work and never returned; the result was a relatively aged populace. The problem with the ALP solution that nobody foresaw was that there were not enough residents to fill the positions created by the plant to get it off the ground. The folks who had financed the construction of the facility were uptight about getting a return on their investments, so they rushed to a solution that not everyone was happy with. Workers were imported from the mainland. A boardinghouse was built to house twenty of them.

  I didn’t understand what the issue was until Joan shared that the workers had all come to Acadia through a program that gave felons released from prison a fresh start, some of whom were registered sex offenders. “I know that everyone deserves a second chance,” Joan said. “But some of these folks are on their third and fourth chances. The few Islanders with young children have either already moved to the mainland or are thinking about it. And quite a number of summer people have put their places on the market. Real estate values have tanked.”

  Joan slowed the Jeep to a crawl and rolled her window down as we passed an enormous estate. She stopped and pointed at the main house, which was obviously occupied, with a plowed drive and lights on in windows. “The Sterns sold this place for a third of its value. Bailed out. Like rats from a sinking ship. And their ancestors founded Acadia!” Shaking her head in disgust that she had likely shared with many, she closed the window and continued driving.

  “Who lives there now?” I asked.

  “Perverts. Five of them,” Joan stated bluntly. “The investors in the plant bought up houses as they came on the market. The ex-cons weren’t thriving together at the boardinghouse, so the owners have separated the sex offenders from the crooks. And the violent criminals are living on the east side—quite posh. The only two women in the program are roomies in what used to be the Bragg Cottage.”

  “Wow. Sounds like the ex-cons lucked out with this program,” I said.

  “Yup. They are making a great wage—way above the minimum and unlimited overtime during peak season.” Joan sighed. “But maybe not for long. They have demanded so much that the investors are having second thoughts and may pull out. If that happens, the ex-cons will have to move off-island for jobs.”

  The smell of smoke penetrated the Jeep before the fire scene came into view. The majority of my experience in fire investigation had to do with meth labs that had exploded; those odors were complex and noxious. But any house fire had a number of smells associated with the burning of building materials, age of the structure, and various contents. As we crested a slight hill, what remained of the Kohls’ place appeared, still smoldering. Two external walls were still standing, but the roof had collapsed in a charred heap that covered quite an expanse.

  “It was a big place, wasn’t it?” I thought out loud as Joan pulled the Jeep to a stop, expecting no reply and getting none. “Okay, thanks so much for the ride. I’ll need about an hour or so, then I’ll have to get back to the dock.” Joan agreed, apologized for babbling, and promised to “chew my other ear off” on the return trip.

  As I climbed out of the Jeep, a truck rumbled down the hill, pulling in beside us. Joan spoke quieter now. “Don’t get me wrong. This place isn’t as bad as I may have made it sound. It’s paradise, really,” she said with an apologetic tone. “At least we don’t have a drug problem like the mainland. And we wouldn’t live anywhere else.” Windows went down and Joan introduced me as “the insurance lady” to her husband, who explained that he had just returned the fire truck to its garage. His clothes were black with soot and laced with small holes where sparks had landed. His beard appeared to have been singed. A twinkle in his blue eyes double-crossed his otherwise fatigued appearance. I extended my arm to shake hands and Clark gave me his left awkwardly, holding up his right that was wrapped in filthy gauze. “Battle wound.” He turned to his wife and added, “Nothing to worry about.” The couple discussed how best to retrieve the Kohls’ car from the airstrip, and finally decided that I might help them. They explained that the airstrip was right on the way to the dock where I needed to be in two hours, and also where the Kohls liked their car to be while they were away, as weather was often an issue with flying, making the boat a must. Of course I was happy to assist. I couldn’t help but notice that Joan was not talkative in the presence of her husband, but figured that was normal. Without many people to converse with all winter, they must surely have hashed everything over ad nauseam. Joan left to get lunch for Clark, and he promised to be right behind her after showing me what was what regarding the fire.

  “How can I help you, umm, what was your name?” he asked, clearly embarrassed that he had forgotten, although he had never been told my name.

  Decision time whether or not to give him my family name was short. “Jane Bunker.” Clark looked confused for a second. He stood and took a long look into my eyes as if he were trying to remember something. My instinct was to nip any curiosity in the bud. I was here on insurance company business. Business first, I silently reminded myself. “I’m here to take pictures that will demonstrate the degree of damage as well as anything that might tell the story of how the fire started, you know, to rule out arson.”

  I followed as Clark led me through the snow on a path beaten down by footsteps. His broad shoulders said hard, physical work, while a slight slump said tired. Closer to what remained of the dwelling, acrid smoke lingered, hovering just above the remainder of a stone foundation. I could hear a vague sizzling and an occasional, faint pop.

  “At first I assumed that Mrs. Kohl left the teakettle on. But while we were fighting the fire, I noticed a gas line busted by a frost heave. The propane must have settled and may have been ignited by the pilot on the water heater. Just a guess, though.”

  I didn’t know whether to ask for a definition of a frost heave or give him my condolences on the loss of the fight to the fire. As if reading my mind, he continued. “I know. Everything went wrong. This place is isolated, so the fire really got ripping before anyone noticed. Then the fire truck wouldn’t start. The garage isn’t heated, and, well, it was awful cold last night.”

  “When and how were you made aware of the fire?” I asked my routine question.

  “Well, I was asleep and heard the church bell. That’s the Island’s alarm system for any emergency. We all, well, there’s only six of us left, we meet at the garage to learn what the emergency is. By the time I got there, they were already jumping the truck batteries. And I guess that would have been about ten o’clock. One of the guys had to drive by the Kohls’ to get to the garage, so knew exactly where we needed to be. But the damned truck was so hard to get started. She’s cold-blooded, and hasn’t been run since the Fourth of July parade. Anyhow, by the time we got here, we didn’t have a prayer of a chance.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” I said as I attached a lens to my camera and began snapping pictures. “Can’t do much with just one truck.”

  “And with the frigid temps, we had freezing issues. Once we got here, we were quite a while getting water pumping,” he explained while following me around the perimeter of the scene. “Well, if you’re all set, I’ll go grab lunch and come back for you.”

  I thanked Clark and agreed to be ready in an hour. I am usually a good judge
of character, and thought that Clark and Joan were solid people. Clark had been up all night fighting a fire for absentee home owners, and for what? I had written this place off as a total loss from my first glance. Now all I needed was pictures, and my job here would be done. I bolstered myself to question Clark about the Bunkers while I mindlessly snapped photographs of charcoal. I was certain that Clark had recognized my name. Good thing he’s fatigued to a point of numbness, I thought. I wanted to have the conversation on my terms, not his.

  The corner of the two remaining exterior walls held a stone chimney; strong and stark like the foundation bordering the mess. I immediately thought of the Three Little Pigs as I snapped pictures of the unharmed stone structure that stood in rebellion to all that had folded to the flames. I found a gap in the foundation where a doorway must have been, and stepped carefully toward the rubble, putting arms out for balance on the icy path. Quite an anomaly, I thought, to have freezing conditions this close to a fire so hot that it gobbled up a house. Recalling that the wind had been out of the northeast, I realized that the fire must have started on the northeast portion of the house and quickly spread, heat and all, to the southwest. That accounted for the ice on this side of the structure as well as the only remaining walls. Everything downwind of the trigger point had been destroyed. And it had been extremely windy in Green Haven last night. Must have been worse here, I thought. The break in the propane line could have been anywhere. If Clark was right that the water heater had ignited the fuel, it would probably have been located on the upwind side of the blaze. I should get pictures of the broken line as well as the water heater—if I could find them.

  Looking down to find sure footing, I noticed a few spots of blood that had been iced over in the snow. The snow had diffused the blood to dark pink splotches. Judging from the small amount of blood, I surmised that Clark had been honest about his injury—nothing to worry about. There mustn’t be much for medical services here, I thought. Residents are probably very good at taking care of themselves and each other. As I searched for the propane lines and water heating tank, I continued to snap pictures.

  I let my mind wander to Wally, and was immediately struck with pangs of guilt. How could I be so selfish, worrying about how my brother could intrude in my life? Wally had always enriched, never detracted from anything. And I had planned for him to visit Maine this summer anyway. I would have to do some research for assisted-living situations when I got ashore, I thought. I climbed over a pile of smoldering ash and charred wood that still had flickering embers. At least the fire had been contained by the snow, and could not spread beyond this single dwelling, I thought.

  I found what appeared to be a metal tank, still standing upright and partially covered by debris that had fallen onto it. If I moved some of the debris, I could get a few good pictures, I thought. I kicked smoking ruins of what may have been a wall aside with the toe of a boot and put the camera to my eye. Zooming in close, I could now see a small plate on the tank. I wiped the plate clean with the cuff of my shirt and snapped more pictures. I would look up the information from the plate online when I got home to include in my report for Mr. Dubois. Just a few more pictures and I’d be …

  “What?” I lowered the camera from my eye and kneeled down to get a closer look. I took a breath and swallowed hard. A badly bloated and blistered hand nestled in the carbonized fragments of wood. The presence of remains of jewelry led me to conclude that I had found the errant Mrs. Kohl.

  THREE

  Statistics from the Forensics of Fire course completed so many years ago came racing back. The average house fire burns at 1000 degrees Fahrenheit. Gold melts at 2000 degrees. Diamonds liquefy at 6000. Jewelry is nearly always intact in the aftermath of fire, especially the good stuff. Judging from the size of what I presumed was a diamond on the badly scorched finger, the victim, whom I assumed was Mrs. Kohl, had lavish taste in accessories. This rock was beyond bling. In contrast, the remains of a dark red plastic loop had fused around the exposed wrist. The cooling process had left it brittle. I broke off a one-inch section and placed it in my camera bag out of sheer curiosity. I couldn’t help but wonder what political cause Mrs. Kohl supported strongly enough to wear an awareness bracelet on the same wrist that sported a multicarat gem, and assumed that it was not one promoting fire safety. A thin gold chain with a halfheart pendant was in relatively good shape, I thought as I flipped the pendant over and read the inscription: “To the Moon.” I concluded the obvious. The matching pendant must be owned by Mr. Kohl. This thought worked to ground me in the sadness of this accident. Someone had died needlessly. Someone who had been loved. The pendant must have gotten very hot, as it had left a burn on the victim’s neck that could have been mistaken as a birthmark had there not been a pendant of the same distinct shape of the heart split in two. I reached for my cell. No signal—no surprise. Clark would be back soon, I knew. Until then, I would do my thing.

  Any part of Mrs. Kohl that might have been spared by the blaze and crushing impact of the structural failure was now beneath the crumbling, sooty wall and ceiling that had collapsed upon her. I needed to dig her out, I thought as I shifted from insurance to sheriff. Nearly 80 percent of fire deaths are the result of smoke inhalation, so it was likely that Mrs. Kohl had succumbed to smoke and toxic fumes prior to heat and flames wreaking havoc. It was evident that she had not died in her sleep, as the corpse’s location was in what may have been the utility area; surrounded by remains of a water heater and burned-out appliances. Clark Proctor may have nailed it with his theory of a gas leak ignited by the pilot flame of the water heater, I thought. Probably Mrs. Kohl made the mistake of trying to extinguish the fire rather than fleeing and summoning help, I surmised. I continued to toss lengths of blackened wood, asphalt shingles, and unidentified material aside, removing pieces of debris from the heap that entombed all but the left hand until all that remained was what appeared to be fire retardant dry wall.

  Back in the day when gruesome was a daily occurrence, I was known for my strong stomach, but braced myself nonetheless for the sight and smell of what I was about to uncover. I lifted the edge of the wall to peek underneath. There was enough integrity remaining in this small section of the wall to allow me to pick it up on edge and off of the corpse without crumbling, exposing the thoroughly burned body. Recollections from my days spent with Elayne Pope, a forensics scientist at the University of West Florida, hit me with the smell of roast pork that wafted in my face as I let the wall fall on its flip side and away from Mrs. Kohl.

  Pope had done amazing work burning cadavers in different conditions and situations to improve the breadth of knowledge and thus success in forensic investigation of death by fire. Other than the tutorial with Pope, most of the burn victims with whom I had dealt were within the cases of my DEA work; addicts who had blown their own faces and hands off in the midst of mixing a fix. This burn exceeded my past experience.

  As I expected, the head, having little overlying soft tissue, was reduced to charred skull and jaw. Only sockets remained of the eyes. Both feet and legs were gone from below the knee—limbs burn like branches of a tree. And the entire right arm was gone to the armpit. The torso could be described as nothing more than carcass. I shook my head with the realization that I had actually been trained to unravel scenes as these. Most fat is stored in the thighs and torso. Extreme heat splits skin, exposing fat that fuels the flames. Clothing works to wick the fat, resulting in a very thorough burn. I was torn between appreciation for this knowledge and wishing I didn’t have it. The left arm, left side of the neck, and left breast were relatively well preserved, I thought, considering the extent of the … dare I say “damage”? Sadly, once living beings cease to live, they are things to me. Before my drug enforcement gig, I spent years responding to automobile accidents; many of which resulted in corpses more horrific than victims of serial killers. I had to steel myself, or suffer from the nightmares, daymares, and PTSD that drive many officers to drink, or worse. I became hardened t
o it, tough and uncompassionate. That’s why I have never been the officer or investigator asked to inform loved ones of their newly deceased. “No bedside manner” is how my superiors put it early in my career.

  I wished I had something with which to cover the corpse out of respect for Clark Proctor and anyone else who might happen upon the scene. But there was nothing other than my own coat. And I wasn’t about to part with that in these temperatures. The focus of my camera lens was now the cadaver. Mr. Dubois would be alarmed to learn that one of his favorite clients had been consumed along with her property. Death in a house fire complicated the investigation as well as the paperwork. I assumed this would mean more trips to Acadia for me, since there was no fire marshal or formal investigators. I had learned in my few cases based out of Green Haven that I would not have much support or help from anyone who had the requisite expertise or experience. I would head up, and facilitate, and do the leg work, ground work, follow-up work, and closing work of whatever Mr. Dubois would require to finalize the insurance claim. And I had done everything but perform autopsies on behalf of the Hancock County Sheriff’s Department. If there was an opportunity to get the corpse in a body bag and off on the next boat with me, that would be ideal, I thought. My work here would be done. I wouldn’t return until I had both time and inclination to do some personal, firsthand genealogical research.

  I made my way back to the perimeter of the fire, slowly and carefully stepping over and around the rubble of the building, which seemed to clutch the last of dying, orange, glowing embers. Beams and framing pieces reduced to fragile spindles looked as though they might give way to any applied weight. In striking juxtaposition, the corner of a slate sink jutted from another pile of rubble and feathery ash. No more meals in this place, I thought. I wondered if Joan Proctor had reached Mr. Kohl. I hoped not. Better now for the officials to break the sad news of his wife’s death. I wasn’t sure who that would be. But it wouldn’t be me.