The Canefield Killer - A John Riley Novel

Chapter 3

For the second day in a row, the phone had woken him up before 6 AM. The time on the clock read 4:47 AM, and for a second, he considered just ignoring it, but only just a second. He didn't have that luxury.

"Yeah?"

"John, it's me." Dimes sounded like shit, and that immediately got Riley's attention, pulling him into one hundred percent consciousness.

"What's going on?" Riley pushed himself up in bed and swung his legs over the side.

"We lost Bennett, John," Dime said, his voice cracking slightly. "And Dale."

Riley's stomach sank, "How?" There was no trace of sleep in his voice anymore.

He suddenly felt a pang of guilt as he remembered that he had never called Dale back to cancel target practice on Friday. He had meant to, but it was just one of those things that had kept not getting done.

Shit.

Riley got dressed while Dimes filled him in as best he could.

"They called into dispatch about returning a minor to his house, and then three minutes later there was a short, unintelligible, call from Dale. Really hard to make out, and then silence. They sent out a couple of units for backup... but it was too late. The house was on fire, Riley."

***

The neighbourhood was a flurry of light and activity; floodlights cast everything in a flat white light that scattered the gray of the pre-dawn night and split shadows. Two fire engines sat in front of the house along with several police cars, both marked and unmarked, and an ambulance. News helicopters presided noisily over the ground activity, immune to the privacy customarily afforded to crime scenes by yellow police tape.

Fire hoses trailed across the road and lawn, limp and empty. A few firemen were reeling them in while others stomped through the debris of the house.

A uniformed cop lifted the yellow tape for Riley to slip under. Neighbours had come out of every house on the block, standing in their own doorways or shuffling along the sidewalks talking to the other neighbours for probably the first time in months. Others opted to come right up to the thin police tape.

Further down the street media vans whirred as their rooftop satellites unfolded. Inside the vans reporters, intent on staying warm until the last minute checked their makeup in mirrors and practiced delivering their lines.

Dimes and another cop stood in the driveway, next to a car with open doors, no doubt the one from the low-speed pursuit.

"Figure out what happened in there yet?" Riley asked.

One of the firemen appeared in the doorway and signalled to Dimes.

"Come on. I made one sweep then got out of the way for Fire to clear the house." Dimes put a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the door. "That's the car behind us. Arnold is going to start processing it now so we can get it towed."

Detective Arnold Gray was the "third wheel" in the Homicide Department; a Detective who frequently worked alone to handle the smaller assault charges that also fell to Homicide and fill in holes in the regular teams when other Detectives were out. His presence was a signal that Riley was probably not here in an official capacity.

Dimes and Riley paused at the doorway. A stern-looking uniform handed a clipboard to them and Dimes signed Riley into the crime scene.

The inside of the house was black, charred and smoky. Everything was wet. Steam still leaked from some of the debris and despite the chilly morning, they had walked into a sauna. The rain and fire hoses left the air in the house humid and heavy. The roof had collapsed in the kitchen area and more rain misted through the gaping hole threatening to wash away evidence.