A Perfect Match

"I did, but no other neighbors were there. Unit one is vacant, and the other neighbor is on vacation, I already confirmed his whereabouts."

I thank her again for the work she has already done, and she leaves to go back to her office. Now it's time to get to work.

I watch the video of the fire department doing their initial walk through and take note of what they're saying. Ethyl acetate or acetone. I type both of those into a Google search and get an idea of what they are and their properties. Highly flammable and common additives in commercial products. Ethyl acetate is so common, it is used as a decaffeinating agent in some teas, but it wouldn't retain its flammability in that mixture. Both have a fruity smell which the fireman pointed out, and the only thing I can find that could have either is nail polish remover.

I do a YouTube search to find a video of it burning. A test is conducted where nail polish remover is poured into a bowl then a lit candle is placed next to it. They are both placed into a box to act as an enclosed space and within minutes the candle ignites the vapor from the nail polish remover even though it never came into contact with the liquid itself. The fire was also short lived and lasted only about forty seconds before exhausting itself.

"Interesting," I say aloud to myself.

This fire was strong enough to collapse a ceiling, but the primary fuel source burns up extremely fast. Something else is at play here. It sounds more like shoddy craftmanship of the building itself. I need to coordinate investigation priorities with the fire investigator before I start so as to prevent redundant actions.

Lauren left me a number in her notes to call Sheryl House. I dial it into my phone and place it to my ear.

"House," a voice replies once it connects.

"This is Detective Kaiser with homicide," I say.

"I was wondering when I'd hear from you. Where are you right now?" she asks.

"At my desk," I say.

"Great. I'm downstairs in your loading dock with Jill Whitaker lighting shit on fire," she says, and I laugh a little.

"I'll be right down," I say and hang up. I take the elevator to the first floor and head through the facilities room to go out back to our designated smoking area. The area seems more crowded than usual with uniformed onlookers watching in amusement at Jill and Sheryl starting controlled fires.

"Weather is perfect. No wind, less environmental variables. I'd much prefer an enclosed space, but it'll do," a woman I will assume is Sheryl says to Jill.

Sheryl looks to be in her early forties but has aged as well as Jill has. A little chubby, but in a cute minivan mom kind of way. She dresses similarly to Jill with charcoal colored 511 cargo pants and a short-sleeved button-up blouse. Her light brown hair is the only part of her that has aged with silver streaks she feels no obligation to dye. Truthfully speaking, it is a good look for her.

"What do you guys know so far?" I ask as I approach. Sheryl turns and offers a handshake when I arrive. "Detective Kaiser. Will."

"William Kaiser? How often do you get..." she starts to ask before I let her know, all the damned time. "I can't say shit. Sheryl House is basically Sherlock Holmes. I think my father was disappointed I wasn't a boy. He named my brother Mycroft."

"Wow, that's...weird," I say and she just kind of shrugs. "What do we have so far?"

"We did narrow down the accelerant to acetone from nail polish remover. We found melted plastic containers all around. Whoever it was likely thought they would burn up in the fire. Best thing, we can pull prints. I got Heath working it right now," Jill says, looking rather impressed with herself.

"You can pull prints off of something burned in a fire?" I ask.

"It's delicate, but possible. Light smoke, and some of the fire was suppressed in the collapse which preserved a lot more evidence than we thought. With most of the bottles, this wasn't possible. One of them was in the corner of the room where the fire was least intense. Only the half exposed to the fire melted, the half against the floor didn't. I got a nice clean right-hand thumb print," Jill says, holding her hand out like she was holding something to demonstrate how it was likely held.

"Bottles?" I ask, and they both nod.

"We found evidence of at least eleven," Sheryl says.

"Sounds like we have a lot to work with," I say.

"We'll run the database for prints. I just need a list of people to check them against, you'd be amazed how broad results can be. So, anyone who entered the house from the investigation side to rule out our own potential contamination and anyone who was a common or recent visitor," Jill says and I say I'll start my interview process.

I call the hospital to check if the family is still there, but they have already been discharged and are staying with one of the mother's friends. I call the mother directly and ask if she could come in for an official statement, and she says she could be there within the hour. While I wait, I read over initial evidence that was found and do a quick background check on her as well.

Kimberly Drew, age twenty-seven. Never married, no convictions but not unfamiliar with the law. She has been arrested twice in the last five years, but the charges were dropped both times. One of those charges was for domestic assault of her then boyfriend Dean Hoffman, but the case was dismissed because he refused to testify. The other was a first-time drug possession charge was thrown out because the arresting officer didn't arrive at court. I then see the arresting officer was Helga Texada. The court likely didn't want to touch that with a ten foot pole.

Kimberly Drew has a son named Jacob Drew whose father is listed as Brent Pascal. Brent Pascal has a record as well, but his is a little more colorful. Aggravated assault, breaking and entering, trespassing, public intoxication, illegal possession of a firearm, a slew of unpaid parking tickets, and was released from county jail about ten months ago for that firearm charge. He's currently on parole.

The victim in the fire was Micah Xavier, the ninety-two-year-old grandmother of Kimberly and the great grandmother of Jacob. Disabled with limited mobility who was collecting social security checks since the moment she could. Micah was the paternal grandmother from Kimberly's father. Her parents divorced when she was twelve and she took her mother's maiden name of Drew after the divorce.

I am going to submit a warrant for finances, looking for the usual things, like an insurance policy recently purchased. I open my shell document and keep scanning her background check as I type. I then notice something about her employment. Kimberly works at a beauty parlor called Nailed It. The home of a person who works at a nail salon, was burned down with nail polish remover. I don't know if I do, or do not, want her to be that stupid.

I submit the warrant before she arrives, and we occupy one of the small offices for interviews. I have a stacked deck for this conversation, so if she is the perpetrator, it will be easy to get her to confess. I make sure the camera in the top corner of the room is recording before we begin.

"Is your son with your friend?" I ask first. She nods and says yes after a moment. This woman is not collected or calm. She arrives emotional, her face still swollen from tears and her body aching from the effort of trying to restrain it. I come close to wanting to rule her out entirely, but that's not how my job works.

"Has anyone told you that your grandmother was found?" I ask, and she shakes her head. "I hate to be the first to let you know that she is indeed dead. She passed away in the fire," I say, hiding the fact I know she was already dead.

"I was too scared to believe that," she says, crying, and I move a box of tissues closer to her.

"I need you to walk me through that night. From the moment you woke up, to the moment emergency services arrived," I say, and she nods repeatedly, trying to pull herself together and start talking.

"Okay...umm...I heard a popping sound," she stammers out, and I want to pause here.

"In your initial statement, you described it more like an explosion or a gunshot," I say, and she freezes.

"I was startled from the sound, whatever it was," she says. I notice the retreat to vagueness. "I left my room to see what it was, and I saw bright light coming from the living room. It was so hot the closer I got I couldn't get all the way to the living room. My instinct was to immediately get Jake out of the apartment," she says.

"Where was Jake?" I ask.

"In his room. He was already awake, like the sound had woken him up as well," she says, and I wait for her to continue. "We then got out through his window."

"Was the window already open, or did you open the window?" I ask, and she tries to think. Is she remembering or trying to lie?

"I think it was already open," she says. Preset escape plan. Works at a nail salon.

"Is this when you called?" I ask, and she nods. "When did you grab your phone?"

"What?"

"Your phone. Did you grab your phone when you went to investigate the sound, or when you went back to get Jake out of the apartment?" I ask, and she pauses again.

"I took the phone with me when I first left my room. I was using the flashlight on it," she says, and I want to roll my eyes.

"Why not just turn on the hallway light?" I ask.

"The switch for the light is in the middle of the hallway next to the living room. I usually have to use my flashlight to find it when I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night," she says, and I pause this time. That makes a kind of sense. I'll have to look at the schematics of the house or do a walkthrough to determine if that is plausible. Glad I didn't roll my eyes.

"In your initial statement, you said you warned your neighbors upstairs, then called for help," I say, and she nods.

"Not quite. Glenn was already outside because he smokes, and then he went to get his wife out," she says to add detail.

"When did the fire trucks arrive?"

"About five, maybe ten minutes later," she says.

The emergency call came in at 01:53 and first responders arrive at 02:07. Not quite five to ten minutes, but not exactly what I need to be pressing on.

"Do you know what started the fire?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"No, but, grandma smoked. Like, a lot," she says. "Chain smoker. All she did was watch gameshows and smoke."

"Do you think she could have fallen asleep with a cigarette in her hand?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"No. Before I go to sleep, I make sure she has her oxygen mask on and move her cigarettes. I usually get woken up to put them back in range for her," she says, and I find that interesting. She didn't just jump right onto an alternative theory.

"Could she have gotten up and retrieved them herself?" I ask.

"She's mobile enough to go to the bathroom by herself and check the mail, but I don't think she would have. Her oxygen tends to knock her right now," she says. That could have been the explosion she heard. The oxygen tank could have exploded.

"Had anyone been to the apartment recently?" I ask.

"A couple of my friends from work. Grandma had a nurse stop by once a week, he would have been there on Wednesday," she explains.

"Names?" I ask.

"My friends are Natasha, or Nat, and Ryan," she says.

"First and last."

"Natasha Silva, and Ryan Lopez," she adds.

"The nurse?"

"Jerome Alberts," she says.

"Who does he work for?" I ask.

"I don't know, her insurance covered him. I've only been there when he was there a few times," she explains, and I make notes to look into these people.

"Where do you all work?" I ask.

"A nail salon. Nailed It! Stupid name, but the tips are, decent, I guess," she says without any hesitation. Now it's time to start dropping what I know.

"We have discovered some very concerning things about the fire," I begin, and she looks like she's bracing herself. "It was very likely, an arson." It's time to lay on the adverbs thick.

"An arson? Who would do that?" she asks.

"We found a very large concentration of acetone that was used as an accelerant. Do you know what acetone is?" I ask.

"Yeah, it's used in nail polish remover," she says, and realizes what she just said. "Am I a suspect?"

"Nearly a dozen bottles of nail polish remover were found in the living room," I say, and she clams up. "Our evidence lab has a clean print on one of them."

"I was asleep, I...I didn't do this," she says quickly.

"How many bottles of polish remover did you keep in the apartment?" I ask.

"Do I have to talk to you?" she asks.

"It helps you if you do," I say.

"Can I have a lawyer?" she asks. Wow, her personality has changed.

"I never said you were a suspect, so why do you need a lawyer?" I ask.

"What happens to me, if I try to walk out of this room?" she asks, and I sigh.

"It's better if you stay."

"For you or for me? Am I in custody?" she asks, and I finally have to relent, but only because she accidently asked the correct question.

"You're not in custody," I say. And just like that she's gone. I calmly stop the recording and take some notes.

I call Glenn and Marisa Reynolds, the neighbors upstairs but receive an outgoing message after it rings. I leave a message with my information and ask to be called back.

-

I go back to the office and see that Midge is here on her day off with Graham going over some files on her desk. The look I give her must have asked what she was doing here.

"Working a case. I've been told specifically, to keep you in the cold on it. Sorry," she says and now I want to know even more. "How's the arson?"

"Fire was started using acetone-based nail polish remover as an accelerant. The granddaughter of the victim works at a nail salon," I say, and her face is incredulous.

"You gotta be shitting me?" she asks, and I shake my head.

"During the interview she stormed off when I dropped that bit of info on her. We also have a clean fingerprint on one of the bottles. I didn't know you could pull prints from a fire," I say.

"I could have told you that. Unlike you, I've worked arsons in property. Also helps that my baby daddy is a fire lieutenant," she says with a grin.

"Did it take?" I ask and she nods.

"First, fucking, try," she says triumphantly and pumps her hands in celebration. "I found out this morning. Could be a false positive, but here's hoping."

"I'm looking forward to having a woman pregnant at home, and at work. It's going to be exhausting," I tease, and she laughs.

"On a side note, Graham and I are going to take a road trip. Going on official TDY for travel. Not a field trip though, it's for this investigation," Midge says and now I am more curious. A super-secret investigation that I can't know about with paid travel.

"Why can't I know about this case?" I ask.

"You know better than to even ask," she says, and I just let it go.

"Waiting to hear from her lawyer at this point. She's taking the fifth from here out. That's always been suspicious to me," I say, and Midge's face transitions somewhat. She looks a little more serious.

"Why is taking the fifth, suspicious to you?" she asks.

"You know why," I answer.

"No, I don't. If down the road Ursula is arrested for anything, guilty or not, I know for a fact you've told her one thing. Get a lawyer and say nothing. That's what I've told Wendy and the boys," Midge explains. "There is a reason even a lawyer gets a lawyer."

"The fifth is a refuge for criminals."

"And the innocent."

"Innocent people don't need it."

"Tell that to the hundreds of proven false confessions. Innocent people have plenty to hide. Give me your cellphone and let me see your search history," Midge says, holding her hand out. "I'm serious. Give me your phone."

"No," I say.

"Why not? You got nothing to hide, right? Nothing embarrassing? No pictures of you and Abigail doing the naughty? A Grindr profile?" she asks, and I say nothing. "Let me frame it this way. Is it weird if I call my representative or approach my government for a redress of my grievances? No, right? Because I'm constitutionally afforded that right. I can own a gun as afforded by the second. So why is exercising the fifth the only right you find suspicious?"

I don't have an articulate response to this.

"People say dumb things to police, all the time. Often in good faith, but dumb. They like to tell stories, to embellish a little. Doesn't make them guilty. You and I know most criminals are stupid anyway. In my opinion, smart people exercise their rights, because they're smart. Smart people get a lawyer, smart people don't tell people like you and me a thing. I don't find anything suspicious about that, because that's exactly what I would do."

"Do those people work at nail salons and have a house burned down with nail polish remover?" I ask.

"Sounds like you don't need a confession if you have the evidence," she says, and I try to think.

"It helps."

"It helps you. Talking to you, doesn't help them," she says and stands up from her chair. "I got bags to pack and travel to arrange. I'll see you when I get back next week. Don't burn the place down when I'm gone."

Midge leaves the office and I start looking up Kimberly's co-workers at the nail salon. Natasha Silva, no priors. Ryan Lopez, no priors. I look up Jerome Alberts, parking tickets and prior civil court dismissals for fraud and forgery. Interesting.

Thankfully the documents were not sealed, and I start looking them over. You'd be amazed how easy it is to acquire court documents on nearly everything.

Jerome Alberts had a lawsuit filed against him for forging a doctor's signature on medication. They couldn't prove it, but the hospital still fired him, and he's been floating around ERs across the state for several years. He's been employed by seven in the past five years alone.

"Detective, finance warrant is through," I hear a voice say as someone from legal drops it into my inbox. I say thanks, and immediately start going through it. I want to know one thing in particular. Who is the beneficiary for the life insurance policy, because I have a feeling there will be one.

Micah Xavier did indeed have a life insurance policy. That was amended two weeks ago, changing her primary beneficiary from her granddaughter Kimberly, to her nurse Jerome Alberts. You stupid mother fucker.

I call down to CSI and get in touch with Heath.

"CSI, Heath speaking," he says.

"It's Detective Kaiser. You get a print off that bottle?" I ask.

"Running the search now. Got about forty hits on it," he says. You can get that many hits from a fingerprint? "I'd get more if I connected with the FBI."

"How do you get that many hits?" I ask.

"Angle of touch, force of pressure, material it was left on, lot of factors. The search field finds similarities, not exact matches, because no print will ever fully match the controlled environment of the booking process. Once we have a suspect list, we can start examining certain people."

"Who have you checked?" I ask.

"Kimberly Drew is a big no. Still waiting for a list from you."

"Is a Jerome Alberts on that list?" I ask, and I hear him typing.

"No, but he has no prints on file. Let me try FBI...nope. US Marshalls...nope," he says. "Is it an assumed name?"

"Hold on," I say and start looking through his litigation again.

'...the defendant, Jerome Alberts [Legal name at birth Walter Dwyer]...'

"Try Walter Dwyer," I say, and I hear typing.

"O-R?" he asks, and I correct him. "Walter Dwyer has an arrest record in Illinois for practicing nursing with forged documents. Fingerprints popping up now, comparing with those found at the fire, give the computer a sec." The next thirty seconds are agonizingly slow. "He's a possible match, let me take a look myself...oh yeah, that's him."