His desk phone rings. “Ron Moquin, how can I help you?”
“It’s me, Kennedy. I’m up here in God’s country.”
Rick’s car is still parked in the McKeever driveway. He looks out his window at the torched home boarded up with sheets of plywood. He wipes soot from his free hand onto his work pants. “You sound unusually cheerful, Ron.”
Ron leans back in his chair. “New company rules – pleasant greetings despite the fact I only handle fraudulent claims, but rules are rules. How’d it go?”
He and Rick go back years—back when Ron had a shock of dark hair and Rick was still a cop in Chelsea. Ron was his first client when Rick started the investigation agency.
“Well, it’s arson but it’ll be difficult to prove,” Rick says.
“Why’s that?”
“No burn patterns and the locals have already called it electrical.”
“You mean that crockpot crap?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why are you convinced it’s arson?”
“There’s grease residue everywhere and the air stinks of it.” The pungent smell still in his nose.
“A grease fire?”
“Yes, but not from cooking because the smell and residue are in every room. I’ve got at least five points of origin.”
“You think he spread cooking oil all over the place?”
“I don’t. Too messy and too difficult to ignite. My guess is potato chips.”
“Potato chips?”
“Very clever, actually.”
“So, I have to pay this one?”
“Maybe not. I’m still looking.”
Rick peers out at the garage.
Ron cradles the phone in the crook of his neck while he types on his computer. “Rick, you there?”
“Yes. We may be over thinking it. We both know this McKeever guy torched his house. He hasn’t worked in two years; mortgage is way overdue. The family was two minutes away at church when this happened. He told me he left during the sermon worried about the crockpot, poked his head in the kitchen, saw it was okay, and then went back to church.”
“Why would he say that if he was guilty of arson?”
“Because he knows there must be forty neighbors who saw him leave and come back. He needs to control the narrative.”
“It’s all very iffy at this point.”
“The guy’s guilty, Ron. Nothing iffy about it.”
“I’ll decide that. This is where you make me nervous. You get all righteous about your old man, but how he died can’t inform every arson investigation, Rick. Sorry.”
Ron hangs up. Rick looks at his phone.
***
RON’S SHOT ABOUT HIS FATHER hit a nerve. His dad died fighting a fire an arsonist started and got away with. He knows McKeever used an accelerant—just not the kind everyone expects. But that can be remedied. In Rick’s mind proof is a relative thing.
He exits the Volvo, slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves, and walks to the garage. It’s a two-car structure with sliding doors like a barn, one of which is wide open. Rick retrieves a gas can he saw earlier, looks around, then lugs it to the west side of the house, says to himself, “It’s not really planting evidence when the guy is guilty.”
He looks around then sets the can behind a badly scorched rhododendron. The bush is more like a tree. Stiff, burnt branches poke him as he places the can inconspicuously. He steps back, takes a few close ups with his Nikon, and then struggles to get out.
“What are you doing?”
Rick jumps. He wasn’t expecting anyone much less a large young man who looks a lot like Grizzly Adams.
“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.”
“Answer my question.”
“Investigating this fire. May I ask who you are?” Rick positions himself to hide the can.
“I own this house.”
“Mr. McKeever? We talked on the phone…”
Dennis McKeever tilts his head to look around Rick.
“What are you hiding back there?”
Rick gives Dennis his best puzzled look.
“Move aside.”
“Dennis, is it? Can I call you that?”
Dennis smoothly pulls a small handgun from his jacket pocket as if he’s practiced it. Rick can’t help but think everyone carries up here in the boonies and wishes he hadn’t left his piece in the glovebox.
“I said move aside.”
Rick moves, revealing a glimpse of the gas can.
“Why did you put that there?”
“No, no, I found it there, during my inspection.”
“Bullshit. I saw you on the phone. Then you went into my garage. You think I’m stupid?”
Rick stares at him, stunned into a submission that could land him in jail, lose his livelihood, or, in this case, get him killed.
“No, man, I don’t think you’re stupid. In fact, I think you’re pretty sharp. What’s that grease on your jacket? Potato chips? How’d you do it?” Rick feels a subtle shift in control.
“Who were you talking to?”
“Your insurance company. They hired me.”
Dennis glares at him. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them you burnt down your house, so if you shoot me there won’t be any mystery about who did it. Lots of people know where I am, Dennis.”
“You lied to them. You’re planting evidence.”
Rick’s snicker provokes Dennis to punch him in the stomach. Rick doubles over, gasping for air.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. You have no idea what I’m going through. What I’d do for my family…”
Rick holds up a hand in truce, still reeling from the punch.
“Okay, Dennis. Apology accepted. How do you want to handle this?”
***
THE GARAGE IS POORLY LIT with only a dim bulb dangling from a wire that loosely crisscrosses the rafters until it snakes down to the bulb. Once inside Dennis slides the door shut. He unfolds a lawn chair and points to it with his gun. Rick gets the message and takes a seat. His long legs are bent awkwardly. His gray Carhartt pants smudged with soot and soil.
“You’re Richard Kennedy, private eye or whatever, the guy who called me.”
“Everyone calls me Rick. I’m an arson investigator.”
“Your car has Mass plates. Are you from Boston?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“You must think we’re hicks up here in East Millinocket.”
“Not true, Dennis. I’m just a guy doing a job, nothing more…”
“You’re not the one who decides if I get paid, correct?”
“Exactly right.”
“So, let’s start by telling me what you told my insurance company. And don’t lie.”
“Like I said, I told them you burned down your house but not with gasoline. I said you were cleverer than that. I’m pretty sure you piled up a bunch of potato chips in each room and lit them.”
“Did they believe you?”
Rick shrugs. “I’m not sure. I told them I can’t prove it because you didn’t use gasoline so there isn’t the typical evidence like burn patterns on a floor.”
“If you can’t prove it, they have to pay me.”
“Not necessarily. Let me explain how this works. Do you mind?”
Dennis nods.
“The insurance company needs Motive. It’s everything. Why else would anyone burn down their home? And they have it. Your mortgage and tax bill are in arrears. Your bank has threatened foreclosure. You haven’t worked in a long time. I don’t know how you do it on EI. Your wife’s job at the grocery store can’t keep you afloat.”
Dennis looks away, a worried expression ages his youthful face. Rick continues his investigation tutorial, enjoying the moment.
“And they need Opportunity, which simply means you had the chance to do it. Dennis, you walked home during the sermon. Minutes later your house is on fire. You had opportunity.”
“But I was worried about the crockpot.”
“You seriously expect me to believe that?”
“Believe whatever you want. Freeman believes it. They can’t prove I did anything wrong, so they have to pay me.”
“Actually, they don’t. They’ll deny your claim and take their chances in court. Present the financial evidence together with my own testimony. I’ve been investigating fires for thirty years. That’s a year older than your Chief Freeman.”
“But what if you call them back and tell them you were wrong. You checked again. You’re convinced it’s the crockpot.”
“I can’t do that. I have a reputation…”
“Screw your reputation, Rick! I have a wife and a four-year-old son. I need the money to pay the bank and start over again somewhere else. There’s nothing here for us and I wouldn’t get shit for this house.”
Dennis stifles a sob that snorts out unexpectedly.
“So, the insurance company should make all your troubles disappear? Because the local paper mill shuts down? Is that the insurance company’s fault? Why not make the mill pay for your house?”
“Nice story, Rick, but I have zero empathy for some insurance company…”
The sliding door opens flooding the garage with sunlight that stretches past Rick and Dennis, illuminating rusty yard tools on the back wall, fishing poles that haven’t been used in a while, and a boy’s bicycle. Standing in the doorway with the sun at her back is a woman. Rick stares at her a little too much. Dennis does too, but for different reasons.
“Kathy, why are you here?”
“Who’s he? And why are you holding a gun?”
***
KATHY MCKEEVER TAKES A CAREFUL STEP into the garage. Her dark hair is tied behind her head, except for a few strands that slip across her forehead. She frowns and stares at Rick sitting awkwardly in one of her lawn chairs. She sees Dennis put the gun in his pocket like the boy who got caught. She seems to have aged five years in the short time she’s taking this all in.
“Kathy, where’s Michael?”
“What’s going on, Dennis? I got a call from the daycare. You forgot to get him. I had to leave work.”
Dennis slaps his forehead.
“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.”
“Dennis, who is this man? And why were you pointing a gun at him?”
Rick seizes the opportunity. “I’m Rick Kennedy. Mrs. McKeever, I presume? Your insurance company hired me to investigate the fire to your home.”
“Investigate? For what?”
Dennis’s mouth hangs open as if he’s thinking about what to say. Rick fills in for him. “Your insurance company believes this fire is suspicious, Mrs. McKeever.”
“Suspicious? There’s nothing to be suspicious about…”
“Well, actually, there is. Whenever the bank threatens to foreclose and then the house goes up in flames, well, let’s just call that a big red flag.”
“What are you talking about?”
Rick doesn’t answer, opting instead to put Dennis on the spot.
“Kathy, I haven’t paid the mortgage for six months. They’re breathing down my neck.”
“You didn’t pay them? Are you out of your mind? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Jesus, Dennis. I’m not a child. My God you piss me off sometimes. So, we just have to settle up, pay them…”
“We don’t have the money, Kathy. When interest rates went up a few years back our mortgage spiked, and then I lost my job.”
“My parents will help. We can pay them back in time.”
“Hell, no. I’m not taking charity from your old man. He already thinks I’m a loser. I can handle this.”
Rick stands up and stretches his lanky arms. “Well, folks, this feels like a family discussion, and I really should be going.”
Kathy looks at him as if she forgot he was there.
“No, wait. I want to know what you’re doing.”
“I already told you and Dennis. He can fill you in on the details. I’m leaving.”
Kathy reaches into Dennis’s jacket to retrieve the gun. Dennis’s arms instinctively rise. She points the gun at Rick.
“No. Not till you tell me what’s going to happen to us. This is our home.”
***
RICK SITS IN THE LAWN CHAIR. He holds his face in his hands, long fingers reach up to plow his thick brown hair. “Kathy, if I may. Your husband burned your house down. I assume you were with him at Mass when he left halfway through. There are at least five points of fire origin which means a single crockpot was not the cause of this fire. But your husband is very smart.”
Dennis suddenly finds his voice.
“I filled paper grocery bags with potato chips and placed them in different rooms. I lit them all.”
“Is that what you were doing in the basement? Stuffing bags with potato chips?”
Dennis nods meekly. Kathy shakes her head as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing or hoping to wake from a nightmare. She looks at Rick.
“What does this mean for us?”
“It likely means you won’t get a dime of insurance money. And whatever they’re paying you to temporarily live with your parents will stop.”
Kathy points the gun at Rick, holding it firmly in both hands.
“But that’s only if you tell them what happened.”
“I already did, but they have to decide.”
“What do you think they’ll do?”
Rick tilts his head to look past her as the shadow of a child stretches across the garage floor.
“Mommy, I’m hungry.”
Kathy drops her arms and turns to see her four-year-old son holding a toy truck. Dennis runs toward him.
“Michael.” He holds his son.
Rick doesn’t get up, watching her as her body shakes with sobs. The gun drops from her loosened grip. The sound of metal hitting packed dirt. Then the explosion of the gun firing.
***
KATHY’S SCREAM IS DELAYED. Blood saturates her husband’s pants where the bullet entered. Dennis collapses onto the dirt floor, gripping the back of his thigh, wailing like a wounded animal as blood gushes through his fingers. Michael doesn’t understand what happened. “Daddy, get up.”
Kathy rushes to Dennis, tries to stanch the blood with her hands. Rick has already removed his belt. He stoops next to Kathy and tightens the tourniquet above the wound. He cinches it one last time, watching for the flow of blood to slow before wrestling Dennis upright. He looks to Kathy. “Help me.”
Kathy holds Dennis from the other side while they wrestle to Rick’s Volvo.
Dennis hollers, “Stop! I can’t…”
“You have to, pal. Just a few more steps.” Rick sees Michael standing in the doorway of the garage. “Get your son.”
Kathy runs back for Michael, scoops him up while Rick struggles to open the back door, then gingerly lies Dennis in the backseat.
“The hospital is 15 minutes, route 157.” Kathy sits with Michael on her lap in the front seat. Rick guns it and follows her pointed finger down the road.
***
THE TV IN THE CORNER OF THE ER waiting room is dark, and it looks like it hasn’t been on in a decade. Rick sits in a hard plastic chair. Michael sits next to him playing with his truck. In the cupholders are paper cups—cocoa for Michael, coffee for Rick—both gone cold. A few candy wrappers have fallen to the floor.
Michael gazes up at Rick. “Is my daddy sick?”
Rick looks away from the boy, then says, “He’ll be fine. The doctors are very good here.”
“Do you have a daddy?”
Rick nods and says, “I used to have one.”
“But not now?”
Rick realizes his mistake—no need to burden a four-year-old with death—and faces the boy. “Yes, I have a daddy, Michael.” He can’t help but wonder what his old man would say if he knew he planted evidence to make a case. But Dennis admitted he burned his house down, so was he so wrong to toss that gas can behind that bush? He imagines his father’s disappointed expression, and that’s all the answer he needs.
“My daddy is good to me,” Michael says, “but Grandpa doesn’t like him very much.”
Rick snorts, surprised by Michael’s perceptive ability. “You’re a smart little boy.”
Rick reaches for his cup, sips coffee and grimaces. “Yuck, my coffee is cold. Do you want another cocoa, Michael?”
Michael shakes his head.
“Is your daddy good to you?”
Rick seems taken aback, as if the boy was reading his mind. “He is now.”
Kathy bursts through the swinging doors to where patients are treated. She rushes to Michael and hugs him. “Daddy is fine, honey. He’s going to be okay.”
Rick lets out a breath of relief, then gathers the cups and wrappers while Kathy clutches her son. He stands, which gets her attention. She looks up at him as if just realizing how tall he is. “I don’t know how to thank you. The doctors said your belt saved Dennis’s life.”
Rick shrugs. “No worries. Happy to have helped.”
“They said he needs to stay overnight. You don’t have to hang around. My parents will come for Michael and bring me some fresh clothes.” She glances at herself. “I won’t leave until they release him.”
“Are you sure I can’t do anything? I suddenly have lots of time.”
Kathy smiles at this, shakes her head. “You’ve done enough already.”
Rick takes her in. Her blouse and jeans are smeared with her husband’s blood. Her hands are caked with it. She looks like an extra in a horror movie, but not at all scary. He looks away.
Kathy pushes her hand through Michael’s hair, then says, “What’s going to happen to Dennis? Will he go to jail for what he did?”
“I’m an arson investigator, Kathy. I work for insurance companies, not the cops.”
“Then I guess we won’t get paid. Our home won’t be…” She shakes her head, then says. “I can’t think of this right now.”
Rick stoops down to speak with Michael. “Your daddy will need you to be a big boy, and your mommy. Will you do that for me?”
Michael nods. “Thank you for the cocoa, Mr. Kennedy.”
Rick shakes his little hand then stands up.
“Well, Kathy, it’s been a minute, hasn’t it?”
She nods.
“Listen, you worry about your husband and this sharp little boy. Okay?”
Kathy looks into Rick’s face, which unnerves him. “I’ll be going then.” They shake hands. He turns to leave.
***
RICK SITS IN HIS CAR before starting the ignition, relishing a moment of quiet. It’s still daylight, not a cloud in the sky. He reaches into his pocket for his phone and dials. It rings three times before Ron answers.
“Ron Moquin, how can I help you?”
Rick smiles, looks in his rearview mirror and notices a smudge of Dennis’s blood on his face. “Ron, those company rules are working nicely on you. Do you have a minute?”
[Image Credit : Photo by Declan Sun on Unsplash]
by 
Bill Garvey
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