Page 71 of On Fire

There’s a white noise in my ears I can’t control. They are all talking about me as if I’m not here in the room with them, and then I realized they’ve probably already had this conversation. They are chatting as if this was a case of a violent stalker.

The white noise begins to fade when I watch them talk to each other, stating and restating hypothesis as if this was a normal case.

But it is a normal case.

Think.

“I have a different hypothesis,” I say slowly. They all fall silent. “Keller and I brought Carlson’s houseboat up from Portland last week. Guess who was in the slip next to us?”

Finn gives a long low whistle. “Did he see you two kissing or being affectionate?”

I can’t keep up emotionally with what is going on. Finn is discussing me kissing another man in a room of straight men.

Be professional.

But their faces only register polite anticipation of my experienced assessment—nothing more.

I adjust the knot on my tie. “Probably. I think I was targeted because of it. He’s seen me before, in the press. We were at the TTX training. Betrayal, feeling ‘conned,’ the idea that I’m somehow ‘passing’ in a macho environment. That’s what made it personal.”

Finn turns to the others.

“This shifts Graham from not just hate crime but to a revenge mindset. Hate crime does often have a revenge element to it—but this escalates that motive.”

Carlson tosses more photos on the table. These are of the raid they made the evening after I was in the hospital. Graham, of course, wasn't there, but his basement and the den were filled with evidence. The basement was where he stored igniters, chemicals, and hardware. The den had three folding tables set up mostly filled with hardware.

I stare at the photo of the third table. There is something wrong. The first two tables are a mess of wires, switches, clips, and plastic and metal frames he had torn apart and was in the middle of assembling. The third table is more organized. The tables seemed to be arranged in order of completion. I take photos of each.

“There's something missing.” I pointed to the last glossy photo. “Bryce, Mateus, what am I not seeing?”

Bryce leans over the table and picks up the glossy. Mateus holds up the other two.

“You're right,” Mateus says. “There is something off. I can't put my finger on it.”

I shift gears. “And I take it his cell phone is a dead end.”

Carlson nods. “We've tried tracking and he's either tossed it or turned it off.”

“His van?”

Jackson sets down the photo he’s holding. “We think he dumped it.”

I point out the obvious. “He’s going to have to surface at some point. He’s going to want to know what’s going on. His ego is too fragile not to be paying attention to the news.”

Finn is counting on this. “The moment the guy’s phone goes into use—the moment he shows up at a café and climbs on the internet, we can grab him.”

“You know, both Keller and Turrow told me Graham always retells this story about his brother dying and that’s why he became a fireman.” Everyone turns to me.

“So?” Carlson looks puzzled.

I shake my head. “No. I mean exactly the same way. Same inflection, same cadence, same words. It’s rehearsed. Keller brought it up this morning. I think it’s worth finding out about. It aggravates Turrow, and I think there’s something there, a nugget of deception he’s picking up on. We sense what we can’t see sometimes.”

Carlson stares at me for a moment. “I’ve got a bomber out there, a known entity and you want me to go over the death of someone thirty years ago?”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause. “Okay,” Carlson says. He trusts me. “I’m limiting the time on this, though.”

Carlson opens the door for a moment, takes a peek at who’s available and makes a decision. “Wilson.”