Chapter 6

“Bob,” Sgt. Digby said. “Good of you to come.”
Prominent dimples appeared on each of her chubby cheeks.
Smith’s chest began to warm up.
“Well, I tried thinking about baseball,” he joked, “but it didn’t work. I had to come.”
She tilted her smile at him. “That’s cute, Bob. Listen, have you had any breakfast yet? We sent one of the Windsor Rurals off for donuts. He should be here any minute.”
“Sounds good. But, in the meantime, why don’t you tell me about that.” Smith pointed his gloved hand across the lawn to the path in the snow marked with police line. “You got some footprints there?”
“Yeah. Well, not really footprints, so much as big holes broken in the snow. We’re waiting for the Rurals to track down some foam and acrylic so we can make a casting of them, but I’m not too optimistic. I called Jerry in from Halifax.”
Cpl. Jerry Hoare was a Forensic Unit cop out of H Division headquarters. An expert in footwear impressions.
“The holes do seem to suggest that our suspect is a big man,” she said. “They look to be about a size twelve to fourteen foot.”
“Fourteen? Jesus, I don’t think my thighs are size fourteen,” Smith said, giving Digby a little hug around the shoulder.
“Oh, I thought you were going to say something else?”
Smith squeezed her shoulder again. “No my darlin’. Nothing on me is a size fourteen, believe me. Not even that. I just wear flattering pants I guess.”
Digby’s breath steamed out of her mouth in a little white cloud.
“Anyway, it’s definitely arson. Aubrey Microys found several glass shards, from at least two liquor bottles.”
“What kind of bottles?”
“Clear glass. One firebomb was chucked through each of the two living room windows. We don’t know what the fuel was yet. C’mere, let’s take a closer look….”
They walked across the lawn to a semi-circle of thawed grass with no snow, approaching the stinking wet, burned-out front windows of the bungalow. Det. Sgt. Smith found himself looking at the back of her hair as they walked, not her ass.
Oh, you got it bad, boyo.
The lights from various emergency vehicles were casting a spotlight on the front windows.
“It looks like two craters,” Digby said as they reached the porch.
She pointed out the damage patterns just inside the window. Smith leaned his head inside. The house stunk badly, like the sweet piss smell of burned wood, paint and plastic.
“Aubrey Microys says he’s not sure if it was gasoline or not, judging by the way the fire spread, or didn’t spread. He says it definitely wasn’t a plain gas Molotov coctail. Something was different. The bomber may have known what they were doing, in other words.”
Smith nodded. “What do you mean it didn’t spread?”
“Well, look at the craters. It looks like a grenade exploded. None of the fire spread past the living room.”
Smith rubbed some ash off his shoulder.
“You know, I’ve never known a first-time firebomber to experiment with the tried-and-true method. Gasoline, bottle, rag. That’s the beauty of the Molotov coctail. It’s so simple. If somebody altered the recipe, and it worked, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance they’ve done this before.”
Standing closer to the damage now, Smith could see that the firefighters had been able to contain the blaze long before it spread beyond the front rooms, which seemed surprising given that the fire had breached the structure and that the nearest fire station was several kilometres away in Brooklyn. The whole house should have been incinerated from top to bottom, or at least that wouldn’t have surprised anyone.
“So you agree?” Digby asked. “Bikers? I mean, who else would do this to a jail guard?”
Smith rubbed his charcoal-stained fingertips onto his pants. He shrugged at her. “It’s too early to say. A burnout is the tool of retribution at any level of the drug trade. Anytime there’s a firebombing, I know it involves the drug trade, but not necessarily bikers. In this case, we know it was at least a slightly more sophisticated firebomb. Do I detect the distinct feces smell of bikers? Yes. Will I say this is definitely a biker case? Not yet.”
“But will you help me anyway?” She gave him a playful pleading expression with her big green eyes.
“Digby, I’d help you if this was a Jesus jaywalking.”