“Exactly,” Benton agreed. “This is a blitz attack. Something set this guy off and he went berserk. I seriously doubt he intended for this to go down anything like it did, which is also evidenced by the fire. It appears he lost control of that, too.”
“In my mind, the guy didn’t hang around very long after he killed her,” McGovern said. “He torched the place on his way out, thinking it would cover up his dirty work. But you’re absolutely right. He didn’t do a good job. And added to that, when the lady’s fire alarm went off at one-fifty-eight A.M., trucks got there in less than five minutes. So the damage was minimal.”
Kellie Shephard had second-degree burns to her back and feet, and that was all.
“What about a burglar alarm?” I asked.
“Wasn’t armed,” McGovern replied.
She opened the manila envelope and began spreading scene photographs over a desk. Benton, Gerde, and I took our time studying them. The victim in her bloody pajamas was facedown in the bathroom doorway, one arm under her body, the other straight out in front of her as if she had been reaching for something. Her legs were straight and close together, her feet almost reaching the toilet. Sooty water on the floor made it impossible to find bloody drag marks, had they existed, but close-ups of the door frame and surrounding wall showed obvious cuts to the wood that appeared fresh.
“The fire’s point of origin,” McGovern said, “is right here.”
She pointed to a photograph of the interior of the scorched bathroom.
“This corner near the tub where there’s an open window with a curtain,” she said. “And in that area, as you can see, are burned remnants of wooden furniture and pillows from a couch.”
She tapped the photograph.
“So we’ve got an open door and an open window, or a flue and a chimney, so to speak. Just like a fireplace,” she went on. “The fire starts here on the tile floor, and involves the curtains. But the flames didn’t quite have the energy this time to fully engage the ceiling.”
“Why do you suppose that is?” I asked.
“Can only be one good reason,” she replied. “The damn thing wasn’t built right. I mean, it’s clear as day the killer piled furniture, couch cushions, and whatever into the bathroom to build his fire. But it just never got going the way it needed to. The initial fire was unable to involve the piled fuel load because of the open window and the flame bending toward it. He also didn’t stand around and watch, either, or he would have realized he screwed up. This time his fire didn’t do much more than lick over the body like a dragon’s tongue.”