Burning Justice
by Tee O'Fallon

Copyright © 2023 by Tee O'Fallon. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

CHAPTER ONE

Bright orange-and-yellow flames licked at the night sky as if they were alive, consuming the warehouse and everything in it like a starved animal. Which it was.

Fire is irrational. It destroys that which feeds it.

Tonight, it was a hungry beast.

Over the roar of the blaze, firefighters trained hoses on the structure, starting to get it under control. Eerie creaking rent the air as corrugated metal walls began to bend and buckle. Thick, black smoke seeped from the four loading bay doors and billowed through the collapsed roof. Every so often, glowing embers drifted upward, reminding Brett Tanner of the fireflies he and his brothers used to catch when they were kids.

Even fifty yards away, standing on the edge of the road behind the guardrail and well behind the safety perimeter, Brett felt the intense heat. It was like standing outside in the hot Denver sun in the middle of summer. Sweat trickled down his temples and his back, adhering his polo shirt to his body as if it was glued on. Whether it was from actual pain or repressed memories, the burned skin on his forearm and back tingled and stung.

When the wind shifted, bringing with it the acrid smell of smoke, he tugged on his dog’s leash and backed them both farther away. The warehouse contained not only wood and tools but all kinds of building supplies. The air had a pungent chemical odor, telling him the fire had finally reached the solvents—ignitable liquids that acted as accelerants.

The hackles on his neck went vertical. Those smells—smoke laced with chemicals and burning foam—never failed to hurl him back in time to two other fires, ones he kept reliving over and over again.

As night terrors.

Though it had been twenty-five years ago, he remembered everything about the fire when he was eleven years old.He’d gotten out alive. His two best friends hadn’t.

A house fire a year ago that had killed two teenagers and left him badly burned kickstarted his guilt all over again.

Since then, Brett had been hunting the arsonist he believed was responsible for torching that house. In the process, he’d discovered another arsonist, this one lighting up dumpsters, and now this warehouse. The PD called him anytime there was a fire of questionable origin. Like tonight.

Blaze, his ATF K-9, snorted, and Brett turned to find Sergeant Danny Lopez heading their way. Behind Danny, red-and-blue strobes flashed from police units blocking the road in both directions. One unit moved to the side of the road, and more fire trucks rolled past the barricade, their air brakes hissing as they came to a stop.

Behind the warehouse were several hundred yards of wide open, grassy field edged with thick stands of ponderosa pines and aspen trees. Two scorched industrial dumpsters sat off to the side of the asphalt parking lot, ones that had been deliberately torched only a few days ago. Way too much coincidence in Brett’s book.

The gold badge on Danny’s uniform glinted in the flickering light. “Might take a while to knock this one down.”

“Looks like.” Judging by the staccato of loud pops and mini explosions now coming from one side of the building, the flames had just hit more cans of solvents and strippers. “Thanks for the call.”

“You got it.”

A woman standing about a hundred feet away snapped images on her cell phone. She stuffed the phone in one of the back pockets of her jeans, then tugged a small pad from the other.

“Who’s that?” Brett tipped his head in her direction. “Reporter?”

Danny shook his head. “Gemma Scott. NICB. She got here before you did.”

Interesting. Considering he’d hauled ass from Lakewood doing over ninety down I-25 to get here. Maybe she lived in the area. Or she had an inside source.

“Catch you later,” Brett said. “C’mon, boy.”

Thinking he was about to go to work, Blaze happily fell in step beside him, flicking his tail back and forth as they walked over to the NICB investigator.

In his ten years with the ATF, Brett had encountered agents of the National Insurance Crime Bureau several times before. They were the intermediary between the insurance industry, law enforcement, and the prosecutors’ offices. If insurance fraud was suspected, NICB occasionally referred cases to the local PD. Depending on the circumstances, and if arson was suspected, they reached out to the ATF. But he’d never heard of Gemma Scott, and no one in his office had ever mentioned her.

However, since this was the second warehouse fire in the Springs in as many weeks and at the same warehouse, it didn’t surprise him that NICB had sent one of their people.

Brett was convinced this was the work of the same arsonist who’d been setting the dumpster fires all over town, including the ones right behind this very warehouse. Unlike the fire a year ago that had burned him and killed those teens, at least these fires hadn’t killed anyone.

As he and Blaze drew nearer, Brett thought the woman looked familiar but didn’t think they’d ever worked together. Ms. Gemma Scott wasn’t someone he’d be likely to forget.

At about five-one, she was petite. Thick red hair that fell to between her shoulder blades glowed like hot coals in the firelight. She was dressed in jeans, work boots, and a long-sleeve white shirt rolled up to her elbows. Apparently hearing his and Blaze’s approach, she stopped jotting in her pad and looked up.

Brett held out his hand. “ATF Special Agent Brett Tanner.”

For a moment, she hesitated as her gaze dipped to the badge and gun on his belt, then she took his hand in an unexpectedly firm handshake. Not manly, just confident. “Gemma Scott. NICB. And this is?” She smiled at his dog.

Gemma was an attractive woman, but when she smiled, she was pretty. Really pretty. Not for the first time, he could swear he knew her but couldn’t place where or when they might have crossed paths.

“This is my partner, Blaze. Blaze, shake hands with the lady.”

His dog sat, then held up his paw and cracked his jaws as if he were smiling back.

Gemma leaned over and shook Blaze’s paw. “Nice to meet you, Blaze. He’s a big one. What is he, a Chessie?”

“You know your dogs.” Most people didn’t know what a Chesapeake Bay Retriever was. Given his eighty-five-pound muscular body, Blaze was usually mistaken for a Labrador mix on steroids. “You sure got here fast,” he said, still wondering if Gemma had an inside source.

“The owner’s son, Logan Hicks, called me.” She pointed to where a man stood talking to the fire chief. “This is the second fire they’ve had here in the last two weeks.”

“I know,” he answered, casting another glance at Hicks. There was always the possibility this fire was set by the owners themselves, who stupidly thought they could burn down their own building and collect on hefty insurance claims.

“And who called you?” Her brows rose for an instant, then quickly lowered. “I didn’t refer this case to you. In fact, I haven’t referred it to anyone.” Her words held an unconcealed note of suspicion, as if she wasn’t thrilled by him being here.

“The PD called me. I’ve been investigating the arsonist who’s been torching all the dumpsters down here.” In Colorado, anything south of Denver and the I-25/C-470 interchange was referred to as “down here.”

Gemma subtly shook her head. “I think you’re on the wrong track. I don’t think the dumpster arsonist you’re looking for set this fire. This is either insurance fraud—and I really don’t think it is—or something else.”

“Something else? Mind sharing?”

Eyes that he thought were hazel—but he couldn’t be sure in the dim, hazy light—studied him intently for a long moment. “This company, Frodo Building Supply, is doing very well. With Colorado’s housing boom, real estate prices everywhere are through the roof, and the building industry is skyrocketing. Not only is Frodo in the black, but the owner, Robert Hicks, is planning on his son taking over the business when he retires.” Again, she pointed to Logan Hicks. “They have no reason to burn down their own warehouse. And before the first warehouse fire last week, they’d never filed an insurance claim. They’ve been cooperating fully with the claims adjusters and now this happens.”

“So you do agree that it’s arson.”

“Of course.” Brett could swear she rolled her eyes at him. “Two fires at the same warehouse in two weeks? But again, not the arsonist you’re looking for.”

Brett chuckled. “The dumpsters next to this building were torched a few days ago. Where arson is concerned, I don’t believe in coincidences.” Like the fact that Torrance Lane, the location of the fire that killed those kids a year ago, was barely three blocks from where they were standing.

“I think that’s exactly what you’ve got here. A coincidence.” She planted one fist on her hip. “These warehouse fires don’t fit the same pattern as your guy. This warehouse was hit twice. This is personal. Whoever torched all those dumpsters did not set this warehouse fire. I think whoever did set this fire may also be responsible for other house fires around Colorado in the last few years.”

That pinged Brett’s radar. While eventually deemed accidental, the Torrance Lane fire had, in Brett’s estimation, been suspicious in nature. “I don’t see the link between these warehouse fires and house fires.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said with no small amount of exasperation. “I, however, would, because I have direct access to something you don’t, the ISO—Insurance Services Office—database. And I found something. I—”

Brett held up his hand.

Movement. A shadow thirty feet away, barely visible in the field behind her. He continued watching, waiting. It could have been a small tree he hadn’t noticed in the middle of the field.

But the tree began to move.

“Are you even listening?” Gemma made a hmphing sound. “Right. I didn’t think so.”

“Let’s go!” Brett and Blaze leaped over the guard rail, then took off at a dead run. Whatever was out there wasn’t a deer or a bear. It was human, and it was running away.

Brett’s heart pumped faster as he raced through the parking lot, trying to keep his eyes on the location where he’d last seen the shadow. Given that he usually ran at least seven miles every day, he was in good shape, yet Blaze loped easily beside him, forced to go at Brett’s relatively slow pace.

They dodged a glowing piece of the building that had become airborne. Blaze jumped as the debris landed next to them and exploded in a fiery burst of embers. When they reached the field on the other side of the building, Brett halted his dog and tugged a small, powerful, tactical flashlight from his belt. Breathing hard, he punched on the light, cutting through the darkness, but saw nothing in the field.

He unclipped Blaze’s leash and pointed. “Seek!”

His dog took off, his golden-brown coat visible for a few seconds before Brett lost sight of him. Blaze wasn’t cross trained as a patrol dog, but if this runner had come into contact with so much as a drop of accelerant, Blaze could track him.

Brett raced after Blaze, pounding over the hardpack terrain, his boots crunching on the dry grass. He couldn’t see his dog anywhere and stopped to swing the flashlight beam left and right in a broader arc.

Panting hard, he tried to slow his breathing to listen. A piercing cry drifted on the wind, and he aimed the beam toward the sound and took off running again. Eventually, his flashlight hit on Blaze’s coat.

Blaze sat, his big body trembling. A man on the ground scrambled backward on his elbows. Blaze was by no means an attack dog, but anyone with half a brain would be intimidated by his size. That didn’t stop Blaze from eyeing the suspect with the same intensity he’d afford a strip of bacon.

With his free hand, Brett drew his weapon, aiming in on the suspect. He shined the light into the guy’s face, blinding him and forcing him to fling his hands in front of his eyes.

“Police. Don’t move!” He focused the light on the suspect’s hands, checking them for weapons, but there were none. “Roll onto your stomach! Do it now!”

The man complied, mumbling, “Just keep the dog off me.”

Brett stuck the end of the flashlight in his mouth and holstered. He grabbed a set of handcuffs from the back of his belt. In seconds, he had the guy cuffed, then patted him down for weapons.

The guy was more of a kid, really. Tall and lanky, covered in soot and smelling like smoke and some kind of accelerant. Probably what Blaze had hit on so quickly. No guns or knives that he could feel. He pulled several items from the guy’s pants pockets. Two small butane lighters and a box of matches.

“I didn’t do it,” the kid shouted. “I swear it. I didn’t set this fire.”

Yeah, right. The evidence in his pockets said otherwise.

Behind him, boots pounded over the hard earth. Another flashlight beam bobbed closer.

“Brett, you good?” Danny asked between breaths as his light landed on Brett’s prisoner.

No longer needing it, he took the flashlight from his mouth, clicked it off and stuck it back in his belt. “Yeah, I’m good,” he called over his shoulder, then slipped Blaze a freeze-dried liver treat as a reward. “What’s your name?” He hadn’t found a wallet or any other form of ID. “What’s your name?” he repeated more firmly when the kid didn’t respond.

“Gavin.”

“Gavin what?” Again, no immediate response. “You’re going to be lying here face down in the grass for a long time if you don’t tell me your full name.”

Gavin exhaled on a groan. “Aldrich.”

“Well, Gavin Aldrich. Are you willing to talk to me?” If so, Brett would read him his rights and get straight to the point.

“Yeah. I didn’t do it,” he repeated. “I didn’t set this fire.”

The possibility that he was telling the truth was about as likely as Blaze standing up on his hind legs, saluting the American flag, and singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then again… His dog actually did salute, and he did like talking back to the TV.

He hauled Aldrich into a sitting position, then read the kid his rights, grateful for Danny’s presence as a witness. Whatever else Aldrich admitted to, Brett didn’t want to risk losing it on a technicality.

“Well?” Brett prodded. “You said you were willing to talk, so talk. Why’d you torch this warehouse?”

Aldrich’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. His lips compressed into a tight line. The kid looked away, his lower lip trembling. Seemed like the moment of cooperation was now null and void. Whatever was going on, he’d get it out of the kid sooner or later. Nothing like a night in jail to loosen lips.

“Let’s go.” Brett grabbed Aldrich’s elbow and helped him to stand.

Surprisingly, by the time they returned to the warehouse parking lot, the fire was nearly out, which was a good thing. The priorities and necessities of fire suppression could inadvertently destroy or conceal evidence, and Brett wanted to get Blaze in there ASAP.

As they drew nearer, a firefighter approached them. “The fire’s still burning on one side of the warehouse, but we found something you need to see.” The firefighter—S. Downing, according to his coat name tag—hitched his head toward the side of the building that was no longer on fire.

Gemma appeared behind them, holding up her credentials. “I’m coming with you.”

Downing looked at her, then gave a slight shake of his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s still dangerous in there. It’s—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” This time, Brett was sure Gemma rolled her eyes. “The fire might restart. We could be electrocuted by downed power lines. Residual particulate inhalation. Structural weakness could cause the rest of the building to collapse on our heads. I’m aware.”

“Apparently so.” Downing cleared his throat. “My mistake.”

Brett did his best to contain a snort. The lady might be small in stature, but she had balls, and she knew her fire scenes.

“No problem,” Gemma replied as she began tapping the tip of her boot on the asphalt. “Let’s go. Time’s a-wasting.”

“I’ve got him.” Danny grinned, obviously amused by the ballsy exchange as he took custody of Gavin Aldrich. “I’ll put him in my car.”

“Thanks.” To the firefighter, he said, “Give me a minute.”

Brett and Blaze jogged back to his SUV, where he grabbed pairs of vinyl and unused, virgin leather gloves, along with a few evidence bags he stuffed into a thigh pocket. “Show me,” he said when they’d returned to the same firefighter.

They went inside one of the doors that had been broken open to vent the building. Though the fire was out in this part of the warehouse, firefighters continued spraying water to disperse any remaining vapors. Burned and charred debris lay everywhere, wispy gray tendrils spiraling upward. A multitude of smells permeated the air.

Smoke. Burned rubber. Melted plastic. Chemicals. Smoke was still the dominant scent, but now that they were inside, the chemical odor was stronger, similar to the stench of permanent markers.

Blaze tugged at the leash, his nasal receptors already pinging with accelerant odors even Brett could smell. “Seek.”

His dog began sniffing, circling twice, before leading them to the remains of a small sofa plunked in the middle of the smoldering warehouse. Blaze sat, and Brett slipped him another freeze-dried nugget. “Here’s the fuel package.” He nodded to the sofa. Upholstered furniture was made of metal, wood, natural fibers, and foam padding, most of which were fuel for a fire.

“He must have used these.” Downing pointed to a dozen rectangular cans scattered on the floor.

Most of their labels had been burned away. Brett nudged one of them with his foot. Empty. The letters MEK were barely visible. Methyl ethyl ketone.

Brett gripped Blaze’s leash tighter. There wasn’t a single bullet point on an MEK label or Material Safety Data Sheet that he couldn’t recite by heart. Approved usages. Health hazards. Exposure limits. Toxicity. The label is the law, but if improperly used, MEK could quickly become RBS. Really bad shit.

MEK was a colorless, highly flammable liquid that smelled like acetone. As a readily available industrial solvent, it was commonly used as a degreaser to remove adhesives and paint and often used in the aircraft refurbishing process to prep the fuselage for repainting.

Brett stared at the cans. Gasoline was the universal accelerant of choice for an arsonist, so why use MEK? Because it was readily available on the warehouse shelves? Maybe. Or because the arsonist was familiar with it, knew exactly what kind of damage it would do? Most arsonists found a method they liked, then stuck with it.

MEK had also been the culprit at the Torrance Lane fire. For various reasons Brett disagreed with, arson had been dismissed as the cause. Despite that determination, to this day, he still suspected arson. Since then, he’d followed up on every single fire in Colorado Springs, to the detriment of his personal life and his sanity. Somewhere out there was the missing piece of evidence he was convinced existed to prove that fire was arson. Until he found it, he’d never give up, never stop searching, and never find peace.

“What’s with the rope?” Gemma pointed to pieces of singed rope dangling from stacks of burned, blackened lumber. “Trailers?”

“Yeah.” Brett nodded. “Fire always tells you where it came from. Before they burned, those pieces of rope probably ran all the way to the sofa. That way, he could be sure the fire would hit whatever was on the shelves.”

Telling them whoever set this fire wanted to make sure it destroyed as much of the contents as possible. Maximum destruction. Brett looked around at what little remained of the shelving and warehouse stock. The arsonist had pretty much accomplished his goal.

“This way.” Downing went ahead, sidestepping a pile of debris and a row of collapsed metal shelving.

Gemma followed, skirting the same debris, but her shirt caught on a piece of jagged metal sticking out from the damaged shelf. She uttered a soft cry, then started falling. Headfirst.

Brett lunged, wrapping one arm around her waist, then scooping her up against his chest the same way a groom would carry his bride over the threshold. “I’ve got you.”

Her chest heaved against his. She was small and curvy, fitting perfectly in his arms. Somehow, in the midst of all the residual smoke and chemical smells in the air, Brett breathed in something pretty and sweet.

For an infinitely long moment, their gazes met and held. Something seemed to sizzle between them. A spark of electricity.

She pushed at his chest, her hand searing an imprint straight through his shirt to his skin. “Thanks, but um. You can put me down now.”

“Uh, right.” He released her legs, letting her body slide down his to a standing position.

“Hey, back here.” Downing waved them over to a corner of the warehouse, where he pointed to the floor.

Before Brett could identify what the firefighter was pointing to, he smelled it. The sickly scent of burned hair and flesh. The body was charred beyond recognition. No remaining hair or identifiable facial features.

He blew out a breath. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. The charges had just changed. Drastically.

For this fire, Gavin Aldrich would be charged with arson and now…

Felony murder.

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