And since very few people choose to start a fire and then hang around inside a burning apartment – suicide by self-immolation is extremely rare – it seemed likely that someone other than Redwine, someone long since gone, had been responsible for both the fire and Redwine’s death.
This left two possibilities. Either the arsonist had killed Redwine and then set the fire to cover his tracks; or it had been the fire itself that had killed Redwine.
The crime-scene photographer was already there. Patrese and Beradino watched as he fired off round after round of shots, changing lenses and films with practiced ease.
In close for the serious detail, magnifying things a few millimeters across up to the size of a normal print; mid-range images which concentrated on specific objects; and wide-angle images capturing as much of the room as possible.
He was using both black-and-white and color films. Color is usually better, but gruesome photos are best shown to squeamish juries in monochrome.
Beradino glanced across at Patrese, who read in the furrow of the older man’s brow exactly what it meant; concern, that all this would scald Patrese’s memories. It was barely three weeks since his parents had perished in a freeway fireball.
‘I’m OK,’ Patrese said.
They looked round what was left of the room. It was rectangular, though not by much; fourteen feet by seventeen, at a guess.
At either end of the longer side were the windows and a pass-through to the kitchen. The shorter side was bounded by walls, one exterior and one interior.
There were two sofas; a two-seater beneath a window, and a three-seater up against the exterior wall. In the corner between them sat a low, small table, and in the nearest corner to that, where the windows met the interior wall, was a plasma TV.
All of them burnt to the edge of recognition, as was Redwine’s body.
His skin was cracked and patched charred black and bright red, splashed with different colors where his clothes had melted on to him. He was hunched like a prizefighter, arms drawn up in front of him and legs bent at the knee.
This in itself proved nothing, they knew. The position was caused by muscles contracting in response to the heat of the fire, and could not indicate by itself whether the victim had been alive or dead when the fire was set.
But the color of the body could do so.
Reddening of the skin, and blistering, tend to take place on a victim who was still breathing rather than one who wasn’t.
Beradino crouched down by the body and took a small dictaphone from his pocket. He was gospel strict about making contemporaneous notes. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t rely on remembering everything when it came to writing things up a couple of hours later back at the station; it was also that making notes forced the investigator to slow down, think, take his time.
After all, the victim wasn’t going anywhere.
Beradino looked closely at what had once been Redwine’s face.
He didn’t think about what Redwine might have looked like in life, as that was no longer relevant. If he thought of anything, it was of over-barbecued meat. The less emotive and more commonplace he could make it seem, the better.
Twenty-five years on the homicide squad hadn’t hardened him to things, not really. It had merely made him better at coping with them.
There.
‘Around the nostrils,’ he said into the dictaphone. ‘Beneath the burn marks. Smoke stains, clearly visible.’
The pathologist would doubtless find blackened lungs when he came to do the autopsy, which would confirm it; but for now, Beradino had more than enough to be going on with.
Smoke stains meant inhalation. It was this which had almost certainly killed Redwine – breathing in smoke finishes people off before burning flesh does – but it didn’t alter the chronology of what had happened, or the central conclusion.
Michael Redwine had been alive when the fire had been set, and he’d been burned to death.
The doorman was dressed in a suit which, Patrese thought, almost certainly cost more than any of his own suits, and very possibly more than all of them put together.
He tried to ignore this slight on his sartorial standards, and instead read the name on the doorman’s lapel badge. Jared Foxworth.
Foxworth handed Patrese two lists.
The first showed which apartments were occupied and by whom, though some of the names were of companies rather than individuals. The Pennsylvanian was a popular locale for corporate lets, allowing companies based outside of Pittsburgh to put up employees or clients here instead of paying for hotels.
The second was a record of every visitor who’d gone up to the apartments today. The Pennsylvanian’s rule was simple; you asked at the reception desk, the doorman rang up to the apartment in question, and if you went up, you signed in with him first. If you stayed in reception and waited for a resident to come down before leaving the building, you didn’t need to sign in; but Redwine’s killer couldn’t have done that, as Redwine had been found in his apartment. Anyway, he’d had no visitors at all today, said Foxworth; none, full stop.
There were, he added, no other ways into the building unless you knew enough about The Pennsylvanian’s layout to sneak in through the underground parking lot or up the fire escape; but even then you’d have to rely on doors being open that shouldn’t have been, and risk being spotted by someone who might ask you what you were doing. Hazardous, to say the least, but not out of the question.
Whichever way Redwine’s killer had entered the building, he – of course it could be a ‘she’ too, Beradino said, but since the majority of murderers were male, they would for simplicity’s sake refer to the killer as a ‘he’, all the while maintaining an open mind – had not had to force the door of the apartment itself. The firefighters had broken down the door when they’d arrived on scene, and they were adamant both door and lock had been intact.
Which in turn suggested two possibilities.
Firstly, that the killer had a key with which he’d let himself in. This might have been a surprise to Redwine, or he might have been expecting it. Perhaps the killer had thought Redwine would be out, and the surprise at finding him in the apartment had been mutual.
Secondly, that Redwine had known the killer, and opened the door to him.
There were two sets of crowds out front. First, the building’s residents, who’d been evacuated and were massed under the canopy waiting to be questioned. Second, the rubberneckers who’d heard that there’d been not just a fire but a death too, which was for a dispiriting number of people more than reason enough to drop everything and stand behind police barriers for hours on end.
One of the uniforms was subtly filming the latter group. Murderers sometimes returned to the scene of their crime; arsonists often did. The detectives would study the footage later, looking for known troublemakers or simply those who looked shifty.
A film crew from KDKA, Pittsburgh’s local TV station, were also on site. The event was newsworthy because of The Pennsylvanian’s prestige as a place to live, and the fact that the victim had been a surgeon, but the body language of the reporter and cameraman betrayed their instinct that this was not a major story.
Man dies in fire. Tragic, but happens every day. The TV crew would go through the motions and hope for something bigger, more exciting, or quirkier next time.
Beradino and Patrese introduced themselves to the residents and asked if a Magda Nagorska was among them as, according to