SKETCH

Chapter One

Sergeant De Witt’s welcoming smile turned into a grim line as he spoke to the fire inspector.  Their conversation couldn’t be heard through the glass walls of the chief’s office, but it was obvious from De Witt’s expression the fire inspector confirmed what everyone in the precinct suspected. Arson. Two fires in as many weeks, started by a cop-hating arsonist. Last week Roger Dardin drove home for lunch, pulled the squad car alongside his house, and found his porch on fire. This afternoon, Whitey Foster’s garage was burnt to the ground. No coincidence.  

A palpable hush spread through the squad room as the fire inspector left the precinct. 

De Witt strode out of his office, wearing a glare that spoke volumes, but still no match to the decibels in his voice. “Everyone’s priority just changed. Catching this bastard is job number one. I don’t care about the drug ring in Franklin Park or the John Doe we found floatin’ in the river this morning.”

Irene swept her arm across her drawing table, hiding the sketch of the John Doe she’d been toying with; trying to form structured bones out of the bloated face captured in the photograph. 

“Whitey’s girls okay, Serge?” Rege asked.

“Family’s fine.” De Witt nodded. “Barrett, I want you, Ringgold and Jones out talkin’ to neighbors. Asshole’s starting fires in the middle of the afternoon, someone had to see something. Solomon and Beatty, hit the stores. Look for anyone buying an unusual amount of drain cleaner.”

“Hydrogen bombs are what he’s using?”

“He or they,” Serge said, using his thumbs to tug his suspenders away from his barrel chest.

“Think there’s more than one?”

De Witt’s scowl widened. “I don’t know, Pete! That’s what I want you all to find out.” He let go of his suspenders and they snapped against his chest.

Pete’s face reddened.

Mania replaced the hush in the room. Everyone started moving and talking at once.  Phones rang.  Sirens blared.

“Irene.” Serge ordered. “I want this bastard’s face on paper, but until we find a witness, give that profiler in Newark a call. Get us a feel for who we’re looking for.“ 

“No problem, Serge. ” There was no way she was about to say otherwise after watching Pete’s slapdown.  She fought the urge to look at her watch, and picked up the phone.

It came as no surprise the profiler had gone home for the day.

The room emptied as the squad members hustled out the door, as much to cover their assignments as to get away from De Witt’s wrath.

While De Witt often bellowed demands, he didn’t shake easily, and Irene suspected his commanding performance was his way of stifling their panic. These fires were personal; a threat to themselves, their families, and their possessions. Including Whitey Foster’s pride and joy--a 1948 Chevy Fleetmaster he’d kept pampered in his garage. Gone.

“Hey, Irene,” Smitty Sloan greeted. “De Witt said for you take a look at these.”

Irene took the photographs out of his hand. “Dardin’s porch?”

Smitty nodded.  “What’s left of it.”

Irene studied the pictures. Not much but ashes. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”

He shrugged. “Guess Serge thinks your artist eye might see something we can’t.”

“I draw faces. I’m not Columbo.”

Smitty laughed, his one gold crown visible. “Thought you were too young to ever have watched Columbo.”

Irene smiled. “Repeats.” She flipped through the photographs.

“Whoa.” Smitty pointed to her hand. “Where’d the rock come from? You get engaged?”

Irene’s smile brightened, and she stole a glance at the emerald-cut diamond. “Last night.”

“Ah, Irene, that’s great news,” Smitty gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Bet your folks are thrilled.”

“Guess they will be. They don’t know yet. Todd and I were going to go over and tell them tonight. Dad’s grilling.” She did look at her watch then. “Probably won’t make it in time now.”

Smitty laughed. “Yeah, knowing your dad, the grill’s already lit and the steaks sizzling. How’s he doing anyway?”

Call and ask him, Irene thought.  “He’s good.” She tried to smile. “Keeping busy. Been making wooden bird houses.”  

“Yeah?”

“He’s been thinking of resurrecting the old bowling league,” Irene said, hopeful. “You, Guido, Abe and everybody.”

Smitty shook his head. “Wish I had the time.”

Disappointment enveloped her.  Since her father retired from the force two years ago, he rarely heard from Smitty or the other old-timers he’d once considered his best friends.  She’d been with her dad one day when he ran into Abe, and had seen the hurt in her dad’s face when Abe didn’t pick up on the banter they’d once enjoyed.  

“Tell him I asked about him,” Smitty said. “And tell Todd he’s a lucky man.”

Irene watched him as he walked away.  It’ll happen to you soon enough, she thought.  Smitty had about three years left before he retired. He, too, would be cut out of the conversations cops thrived on. No comparing leads. No more angles about how best to catch the bad guy. No more camaraderie or a thermos of coffee shared at a stakeout.  Smitty, too, would be sitting at home making wooden bird houses.

Irene grabbed her pencil and sketch pad. Her dad’s face was rounded, much like her own. But where his chin squared, hers pointed, giving her face a heart shape. She drew her dad’s hairline, the low forehead.  They’d both been blessed with thick dark curls. Though his was gray now, it had retained its rich texture.  She’d inherited his dark green eyes, too, but that was where their resemblance ended.  The rest of Irene’s appearance--the full lips, narrow nose, and spindly legs--came from her mother. 

She used the tip of her finger to shade in her father’s eyebrows, and erased a section of his nose. She’d made the nostrils a bit too wide--more like her brother’s than her dad’s.  She’d noticed in the past few months how much Hugh was starting to resemble their mother as he aged. Irene had been a change-of-life baby and Hugh eighteen years her senior.

“Irene!” Serge rushed out of his office. “We got a witness coming in. Kid says he saw the whole thing.”

“How old of a kid?” Irene asked.  In her three years working for Trenton’s Police Department, she’d found kids under ten to be better at describing a perpetrator than adults.

“Not sure. Fourteen, maybe.” Serge nodded toward the door. “Wouldn’t you say?”

Lieutenant Kramer led the boy in the door.  His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. Dark hair cascaded down over his forehead into his eyes.

“Draw fast,” Serge whispered. “Maybe we still have time to get the sketch on tonight’s news.”

“Hi,” Irene greeted. “Have a seat.”

He sat down, dropped his gaze to the floor and rubbed his nose.  Irene stifled a smile. He was a teenager for sure…with all the self-consciousness that that implied. “Name’s Irene Slavick. You?”

“Rupert.” His mouth twisted in a grimace, leaving no doubt he hated the name. “Lafferty.”  

“They say you saw the guy who started the fire.”

“Yeah. Close up.”

She looked at the hair hanging in his eyes, and wondered how accurately he could have seen anyone through it. “Can you describe him?”

“He was under six feet tall. Not fat, but not--”

“I meant his face. Did you get a good look at his face?”

“Yeah, man,” he said, excited now.  “I was this close to him!” He held his hands two feet apart. “Sparks were flying around his face.”

"You actually saw him starting the fire?”

“I just said. Sparks burnt his face.”

“Where?”

“Right under his eyes. Like red tears.”

Irene grabbed the sketch pad to flip the page. “Was his face narrow or round?”

Rupert pointed to the pad. “Oh, cool! Someone else saw him, too.”

“What?” Irene shook her head.

"That’s him right there,” he said and reached for the sketch pad.

No. Irene almost laughed. That’s my dad.

He tapped on the page, his fingers hitting the bridge of her father’s nose. “That’s him. He’s the one who started the fire.”