Flashover

By Colin T Nelson

A series of fatal fires unnerves the city. Fire investigators and law enforcement race to apprehend the serial arsonist. Facing political pressure and public hysteria, the prosecutor, Zehra Henning, charges a suspect with arson and murder. But Zehra questions the rush to judgement and her crises of conscience propels her into action---and danger. As she prepares for the trial, many other suspects may be the true arsonist instead of the one charged. Zehra must solve the mystery before the serial arsonist is able to strike again and cause destruction and death to hundreds of people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colin T Nelson
• Release date: Apr 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370927074

Colin T Nelson

I have practiced criminal law both as a prosecutor and defense lawyer for over 30 years and have some wonderful, crazy, touching, terrible stories to tell. I write mysteries/suspense that put people in large conflicts: against religious intolerance, terrorists, menacing government agencies, dangerous criminal clients, and personal challenges.For the benefit of my readers, I have three series of books started. Two involve crime and courtrooms---the Zehra Henning series and the Ted Rohrbacher series. I have also started a new series with Pete Chandler who travels to exotic places in the world to solve mysteries---usually places I've been to and have done a ton of research.I add true things that I'm curious about and will interest readers. And, I always try to make my stories "page turners" that I hope you can't put down!

Book preview

Prologue

Summer 1978

In a suburb of Minneapolis, a frame house shuddered from the explosive power of the fire. Orange sheets of flame licked up the outsides of the structure. Across the street, a fourteen-year-old child heard a hissing noise, as if the fire were a living animal that craved the same thing the child needed—oxygen. The parents remained trapped inside.

The neighbors had rushed out of their houses to watch. Someone yelled that the fire department would get there soon and that the parents would be okay. A tsunami of heat rolled across the street and over the lawn and struck the child’s body. The heat seared through clothing and burned the face like standing too close to a campfire.

How’d it start? someone asked.

Two men charged the house for a rescue attempt, but the fire knocked them down. It drove them scrambling back across the street on their hands and knees, their faces red and shining from the heat.

So far, there wasn’t much smoke. The glass in the windows had popped out to reveal blue-green balls of fire consuming the house.

It’s going to be okay. An elderly neighbor named Dotty hugged the child. Dotty’s hair twisted around rollers covered by a hairnet. Your parents know how to get out. Dotty jerked her head and pretended to hear something far away. That must be the fire trucks now, she said to convince the child, but her voice cracked with anxiety.

Another wave of heat hit the crowd and drove them farther up the lawn. The youngster started to sweat, even to the point of its rolling down behind fire-reddened ears. Watching the undulations of the flames was hypnotizing even though the heat caused dizziness. The juvenile stumbled up the incline and turned for a moment into Dotty’s sagging chest for protection.

Like incandescent dancers, flames wove in and out of the downstairs windows of the house, twisting and curling in contorted movements as they rose to the second floor toward the parents’ bedroom. The flames were translucent, as if they weren’t real. Ghosts. Then the fire would turn fierce again and race across the floors and walls, causing them to explode in loud pops, followed by showers of sparks more impressive than any fireworks display.

Although Dotty tried to move everyone further away, the youngster refused to budge, fixated on the spectacle before them.

Smoke billowed toward the group. It stunk and smelled rotten, like burning plastic. It curled around the child, heavy and greasy, and stung the eyes.

Sirens echoed as the fire trucks screamed around the corner. Looking back toward the house, the juvenile gasped at how far the fire had climbed. It licked around the windows of the parents’ bedroom, still dark inside, and climbed toward the roof. The left side of the house glowed as if the fire were living inside the walls.

Two fire trucks rocked to a halt at angles in front of the house. Several firefighters jumped out of the trucks and charged toward the blaze. Lay a line, one of them yelled. Two folds. They clamped the fire hose to a hydrant. At a signal, the lead fighter jerked a lever. Water, silver and spraying like a showerhead, burst out of the fog nozzle. The team struggled forward to engage in the fight.

Suddenly, one of the firefighters stumbled backward and screamed, Flashover!

The flames, the fire, and the smoke exploded, flattening the firefighters carrying the hose. A fireball roared over the ground. The force of the explosion blew sections of window frames, twisted bits of a refrigerator door, plastic pieces from a toilet seat, and chunks of brick in all directions. Walls collapsed in sparks and flame as the house shuddered to its death.

Dotty, sobbing, tried to turn child to the side, away from the disaster. Reluctantly, the youngster obeyed, but while buried in Dotty’s large chest, a smile creased the orphaned child’s soot-smudged face.

Chapter One

Summer 2012

The nightmare plagued Zehra again as a daydream. It was the vacation with her parents to Warwick Castle in England when she was fourteen. She’d seen a torture chamber used for dissidents during the English Civil War—a cavity in the stone floor about the size of a large suitcase in which prisoners were folded in half and stuffed inside. Across the top, a metal cage fastened shut. Zehra imagined herself, once again, trapped in there for her refusal to obey the king. Claustrophobia. Then panic. A charley horse stitched pain along her right thigh, but she couldn’t straighten her leg. A howl erupted from inside Zehra as her mind disintegrated into serrated pieces, and her face turned black and started to melt as if it were wax before a fire—

Her office phone rang several times until she blinked and answered it.

It’s an emergency. I need you, so get up here now.

Zehra Henning, a prosecutor in the Hennepin County Attorney’s office, had never received a command like this one from Bud Grant. She hung up the phone and glanced at her watch. Seven fifteen. Her boss, Ulysses S. Grant, the elected county attorney, had never arrived at the office this early either.

Zehra scrambled to find a legal pad and a pen. Her office occupied the largest corner on the floor overlooking Minneapolis and the Mississippi River as it curved around the sprawling University of Minnesota campus and east across to St. Paul. Even this early in the morning, the intense summer heat made the buildings of St. Paul dance on the horizon.

Since she’d won the murder trial a year ago and had exposed an international terrorist group, the FBI had taken over to break up the criminal network that trafficked in illegal contraband, including humans. Zehra’s career had also taken off—she had tried several of the most serious cases and won them all. Grant thought she walked on water, although Zehra had never tried. Happy for her success, she didn’t feel a need to point that out to Grant.

But the fact was, they needed each other. Her dream and plan for becoming a judge in Minnesota was on target. Grant would be the key to making it happen.

Clutching her legal pad in one hand, Zehra tried to run a brush through her black hair, but it had a life of its own. The humidity curled it beyond any control Zehra could exact over it. Her skin looked like she had a perpetual tan—even during Minnesota winters. She wasn’t scheduled for court today, so she was dressed casually in dark pants and a pink blouse. She’d applied little makeup because she never needed much and wore even less jewelry.

Next to her door hung a small yellow banner that read: You’re the GREATEST! After she’d won the last difficult trial, her parents had given it to her as a gift. They meant the world to Zehra. They’d supported her through so many things. But now that she was engaged to Paul—a Christian, after all—she worried what would happen to those family bonds, with her mother in particular.

Avoiding the elevator—part of her commitment to a healthy life-style—Zehra opened the steel door into the staircase and walked up one level to the twenty-third floor of the Hennepin County Government Center. Grant’s office was in a corner at the opposite end from Zehra’s. She hurried through the sheetrock hallways past mostly- empty offices of other assistant county attorneys until she came to her boss’s office. The door was shut.

Pausing to take a breath, she heard Grant shouting from inside but couldn’t make out the words. He spoke quickly in a voice that had gone crisp around the edges from the cigars he smoked. Tension twisted around her insides. Zehra knocked firmly.

Grant barked for her to come in. She found him sitting behind his big desk, looking out the window. Off in the corner stood her old mentor, Elizabeth Alvarez.

Zehra noticed the local newspaper, the Star Tribune, unfolded across Grant’s desk. It didn’t surprise her that it was opened to a front- page article about a series of fires that had broken out in the last few months in the city. The fire last night had killed the president of the Minneapolis City Council, Frank Martini. A suspect had been arrested. Arsons were rate crimes and seldom garnered much attention. The death of Martini made this one different and made the others suddenly more serious as well.

The tension in Zehra’s stomach grew as she intuitively put together the clues before her. She and Liz gave each other a quick hug. Zehra searched Liz’s face for some sign of what was to come. Liz maintained a poker face, which was one of the reasons she had been such a good prosecutor. She had blond hair with dark roots that showed more than ever, and she’d been unable to lose the weight she had promised to months ago.

Grant, nicknamed Bud after the legendary Vikings football coach, puffed on a Punch cigar. It was officially a non-smoking building. He waved his thick arm through the smoke toward the chair in front of his desk. He set the cigar down and came from behind the desk to sit in a chair next to Zehra, bringing a sweet smell with him that she liked. Although the air conditioning was on, it didn’t run all the time because of budget cuts. Humidity hung in the office, heavy like the cigar smoke.

Liz, who’d recently become Grant’s First Assistant, moved away to the side to another chair. Her phone rang, and she answered it.

She had mentored Zehra in the years when they both worked in the Adult Criminal Division. Recovering from a heart attack, Liz had accepted the new position to give herself relief from the stress of trying cases in the courtroom. Still, she’d beaten three other applicants to get the job. No one dared to cross Elizabeth Alvarez—not even Zehra. Liz followed Zehra with her eyes but kept talking on her cell phone.

Grant wore a pair of blue-framed glasses that contrasted with his black skin, and Zehra noticed the familiar freckles across his nose and cheeks. She hadn’t seen Grant in a couple weeks and was surprised by his eyes. They were rimmed in red and sagged around the corners.

Bud, are you okay? she asked.

He shook his head. Getting plastered by McCormick.

Ralph McCormick had been an assistant Hennepin County attorney until he had quit in order to run against Grant for the office of county attorney in the upcoming election, less than four months away.

I don’t know him well, Zehra said, but he’s a cowboy. He used to think he was more of a ‘top cop’ than a lawyer. Why are you worried? I never thought he was that smart.

But he’s ambitious, Grant said.

Even though Grant had done a good job, he had his enemies. Most of the large law firms opposed him. The local newspaper, the Star Tribune, was expected to endorse McCormick. Grant had taken some controversial positions on recent prosecutions, which upset many people. But Grant was a man who marched to his own drummer. It was the best thing about him, Zehra thought, and one of the main reasons she continued to work for him.

I’m so low in the polls, I should quit now, Grant said. He leaned forward in the chair over his bulging stomach. He raised his head and looked at Zehra. Hey, forgot to congratulate you on your engagement. Paul’s a lucky guy.

Thanks. She remembered she had to call her mother, Prisha, who had invited her and Paul for dinner. It would be another difficult conversation.

Bud, stop the pity party, Liz said. She snapped off her phone. We’re going to bury that schmuck.

I know, Grant barked at Liz, but the support’s thin this time. McCormick’s winning in the polls. Voters are falling for his simplistic message.

That’s why you’ve got to follow the damn plan.

Sweat dampened Zehra’s armpits. Over the years and many tough cases, Grant had always been a fighter. She’d never seen him this discouraged. His color looked ashen, and he breathed heavily.

Bud took another deep breath. His face brightened when he looked at Zehra sitting next to him.

Uh . . . and why am I here? Zehra asked quietly.

He leaned back. Five fires already this summer. Know what McCormick’s doing with them?

Zehra shrugged her shoulders.

He’s blaming me. Of course, the fire department and the police investigate those fires, not us. But the public doesn’t get the distinction. They think we’re all law enforcement. Now we’ve got the fire last night that killed the city council president, Frank Martini. McCormick’s blaming me for not solving these fires. He insists they’re arson—which it looks like they are. And he’s saying because I haven’t solved them, I’m not competent to be re-elected.

That’s ridiculous. Don’t let him fan the flames.

Bud’s head twitched in response. I don’t need your usual humor, Zehra. The public’s buying it. People are getting worried and scared, and they want to blame someone—me. Grant grunted as he pushed off from the worn armrests and walked to the window, looking out at the cumulus clouds piled high into the air, framing his head.

Zehra wondered why they were talking to her. Although she’d participated in a few campaign events for Grant, she certainly didn’t know anything about politics or running a campaign. She was a trial lawyer, and her battleground was the courtroom. Besides, she didn’t have any interest in politics.

With his back still toward her, Bud said, I need your help. He turned and came over to stand above her. His eyes bored into Zehra’s, and his face softened. You’re my best prosecutor. I need you out front to diffuse this issue.

Me?

Right.

Zehra stood up. Something was terribly wrong. Her stomach tightened again. I don’t know anything about fires—

That’s okay. Liz walked over to stand next to Zehra and leaned toward her. She could smell the tobacco on Liz’ breath. I’ll be straight with you. Her cell phone rang; she answered and told the caller to wait. We need some cover for this phony issue. The press is on my ass about it, and McCormick’s riding it all the way to the election. Unless we hit back. That’s where you come in. We want to be able to tell the press we’ve assigned our best prosecutor to work with the arson squad and charge the suspect, Cyrus Miller. Liz turned her head to talk into the phone. Get your butt out on the streets, she shouted. We’ve only a couple months left.

But we never do that, Zehra protested.

Bud’s eyes opened wide as if he were talking to a child. That’s the point. I’m doing something extraordinary and proactive in order to solve these arsons.

What about the suspect?

Holding her hand over the phone, Liz coughed and turned her head back to Zehra. Simple: charge the sucker with the arson and murder and start to prosecute the case. We need to get ahead of this issue before McCormick destroys Bud’s campaign.

Grant interrupted, You get together with the arson investigator and—

Wait a minute. Zehra’s breath quickened. I don’t know anything about arson. Never even tried an arson case. All I know is they’re almost impossible to prove. The evidence is all burned up by the time the investigators get there. I don’t want to take on something like that. Give it to one of the new people. Let them stumble around with it. She wanted to laugh out loud but saw they both were serious. Do we have enough evidence to charge out a complaint?

Uh, you’ll have to talk with the fire investigator. But Zehra, Grant raised his voice. I want the case charged. Immediately.

We’ve got an ethical duty not to charge someone if we don’t think we can prove the case, she reminded them.

Off the phone, Liz responded, Of course. Meet with the investigator, a solid expert named Quinn Hartley, and you’ll see we’ve got enough to charge. Besides, Miller’s already been tipped off. He hired our old employee, that screw-up Ted Rohrbacher, as his lawyer. We have to work fast now.

Grant, who hadn’t been in a courtroom in years, said, Under the rules, we’ve only got thirty-six hours to charge him or he gets out of jail free, right?

Yeah, Liz said.

Even if he’s released, we can still get him into court with a summons. Zehra shook her head. We’ve got plenty of time.

No we don’t. Grant’s voice rose to a scratchy level.

Zehra said, I remember Ted when he worked here years ago. He’s had his problems, but he was good. It’ll be a tough fight. She’d do anything to help Grant, but this idea was crazy. Besides, she didn’t want to take on a high-profile case that would be a loser. It would hurt her reputation and her chances for a judgeship.

Liz wagged her hand in front of her. Ted was another protégé of mine—one that didn’t turn out nearly as well as you. She cleared her throat, turned her eyes on Zehra, and bored in. Think about your future, Liz reminded her.

Well, sure, but—

First thing, I need your help. Grant’s eyes went wet and soft. He sighed. Now that the president was killed, we’ve got the entire city council and the mayor of Minneapolis after us to do something—yesterday. I don’t want to screw up here. His words lanced into Zehra. I know you’ve got a full caseload. I’m relieving you of all of them, and they’ll be reassigned. This case will be your only one. I want a big win on this one. He circled away from her.

Grant was a master politician and very persuasive. Zehra wiped her damp forehead. I don’t want the new case. She remembered reading about it in the Star Tribune. The suspect, Cyrus Miller, was the owner of the house Frank Martini had been renting. Of the four previous fires, Miller had also owned one of the buildings, a small retail store that had burned to the ground. Both had been heavily insured shortly before the fires. Pretty suspicious. But that didn’t mean Miller was guilty or, worse yet, that he could be proved guilty in a trial.

While they waited silently, Zehra considered Grant’s idea and discovered that the possibilities of this case tugged at her. Challenged her.

But then she remembered that she had absolutely no experience in the legal area of arson. Wouldn’t that be obvious to the fire investigators? Wouldn’t she feel like an idiot hanging around them? It could be a total disaster for everyone, mostly her.

Grant walked back to tower over Zehra. She could feel the force of Grant’s personality as he came closer. He once told Zehra that his grandparents had run a juke joint out in the bayous of Louisiana. He’d come a long way from there and would not fail now. Standing next to her, she could hear his breathing—damp, slow. In and out while he waited.

Zehra shifted her weight from one leg to the other and tried to stall for some time to think this over.

Bud’s voice softened. If I can get re-elected, I’m in tight with the governor. I know you want a judgeship. I can’t guarantee you one, of course, but I can sure put the squeeze on the governor to consider appointing you. If I lose, well, I won’t have any juice to help you.

I don’t need your help, Zehra snapped. I’ll do it on my own efforts and my own record. She looked up and met Grant’s eyes. Even though her words made her sound independent, they both knew if she took the case and won it, Grant would owe her the world—and a judgeship. I’ll agree to at least meet with the fire investigator. But I have to be convinced that we can prove Miller guilty before I actually charge him, Zehra insisted. If she took it on, she wanted a winner. She felt the closeness of the warm room.

Of course. Grant gave her a Louis Armstrong smile, big teeth dominating his face. Without dropping his smile, he growled, But once you’ve met with Hartley, I want the case charged right away. You’ll have to. I’m going public with it as soon as I can.

Zehra smelled cigar smoke and the claustrophobic feel of damp air.

She felt trapped.

Chapter Two

The writer sat alone at a wooden desk with a laptop opened, anxious to finish the new novel. The act of creation. The book grew from imagination and from all the experiences and stories heard over the years.

The vanity publisher in Amarillo, Texas, had e-mailed again. They wanted the completed manuscript uploaded as soon as possible in order to get it into print and e-books. Even though it would be self-published, the writer had a deadline and had already chosen a pen name: Pat Olson.

Was there a way to translate the power, the danger, and the destructive aspects of fire to a reader so that he’d understand? Or how about the excitement of starting a fire, seeing it grow, and the almost sexual thrill of watching it? The smell of smoke floated in Olson’s memory.

The main character should be a woman, because the instructors in the writing classes said most readers were women. A female lead would appeal to them. She would be a firefighter, risking her life, using her finely honed skills, and kicking some ass to catch the bad guys. Of course, there needed to be sex. The firefighter would be beautiful and hot—as hot as the fires. What a great simile, Pat decided, proud of the clever use of the literary tool. The keys of the laptop clicked as the story came to life.

The main character would be named Heather Smoke Beale. She worked as a lead firefighter in Chicago—a city with a famous history of fires. Olson smiled at the resonances set up by that correlation. No doubt, the book would sell well.

There must be a villain, too. Someone as cunning as the main character—but not quite as smart.

Beale would be an action character, beating the sickos at every turn and, eventually, bringing the fires under control and the main villain to justice. Most importantly, the story would tell readers about the fascinating subject of fire.

With fingers tapping the keyboard, Olson continued where the story had left off from yesterday . . .

Smoke Beale’s lithe body squirmed carefully under the smoldering floor. Going into the cramped basement was one of the most dangerous things a firefighter could do. One time, the men on her team had refused to go down into a burning basement, so she did it herself. She’d started down a set of rickety wooden stairs only to have them collapse under her. Luckily, she was quick-witted enough to grab for the railing and swing her shapely legs gracefully up to lock around it and hoist herself out of danger!

Her slender body started to sweat. Rivulets of water gushed down between her generous breasts toward her stomach. Civilians would never understand how tough it was to wear the protective uniforms required for safety. The heat caressed her, and she felt maddeningly alive. Fires turned her on. Of course, she’d never admit that to anyone, but Heather was born to be a smoke eater. She had raven black hair, shiny and full. Her face centered on a small nose, and she had obsidian eyes that revealed brilliance and generous lips, designed for attracting men.

She worked to get farther into the basement of the burning mansion that overlooked the Chicago River. Some firefighters hesitated until the fire was under control before entering. Not Heather Beale. She wanted to attack the source courageously as soon as possible.

She’d already been told there was a dead victim in an upstairs bedroom, a big shot. President of the Chicago city council. Too bad, but Smoke didn’t have time to cry. She had a fire to stop! In the basement, her thin model’s legs stepped cautiously over the floor.

She could smell the sharp odor of gasoline. The igniter, probably.

Pat stopped for a moment, drawing upon experience and imagination. The action was going so well!

Through the thick smoke choking her, Heather saw the red plastic gasoline can in the corner. The top of it had melted down like a dying ice cream cone. Using her wrinkled gloves, soot-streaked and charred, Heather gently lifted it. The handle still held. She shook it tentatively but didn’t hear any sloshing noise from inside. Evidence, nevertheless. Smoke’s sense of smell was so good that, like a dog on the scent, she could smell the presence of gas even after it had burned.

This was probably the work of the serial arsonist who had been starting fires in Chicago for several months. So far, he’d eluded everyone, but she was tenaciously determined to do what she could to stop him!

Then, with a sixth sense, Smoke felt the intense heat growing again, surrounding her like the hot embrace of a man . . . Out of so many men who pursued her, she thought fondly of the previous night and the heat she and Ben had created in bed!! His perfect body, lean and rippling with sinew and muscle, had turned her on more than usual. They’d made love seven times before the sun reluctantly rose and drove the wild night away.

Smoke laughed insolently in the face of the burning heat because she knew how much she really loved fire.

Pat looked at the clock on the desk. Three hours had passed. Time for a break. Scraping the wooden chair over the floor, Olson reluctantly powered off the laptop and stood. It was almost finished and would soon be in the bookstores and selling like wildfire.

Chapter Three

The next day at the Minneapolis Fire Department, Quinn Hartley slammed her phone onto the cradle, trying to break it. Battalion Chief Clyde Oakley was asking—no, ordering her again to go back to a firefighting team. Son of a bitch. Quinn had been on a team for over seven-teen years and, at thirty-seven years old, she knew her body wouldn’t hold up forever. How could she get out of this?

The phone rang again. Quinn let it ring a few times, preparing to fight Oakley. She picked it up and yelled, Now what?

Hello, are you Quinn Hartley?

Yes? The word rang with hostility.

My name is Zehra Henning. I’m an assistant county attorney. I’ve been assigned to the case you’re investigating. The Miller house fire?

Right. What do you want?

I need to meet with you.

Why?

We’re thinking of charging the suspect with arson and murder. But before I do that, I need to talk with you about your investigation. When could we meet?

I don’t have time . . .

I won’t get in your way, Zehra pushed her.

Although Quinn’s investigations were searches for the truth, nothing secret, at this point the investigation was for police and prosecutors only. She’d heard about Zehra Henning—one of the best prosecutors in that office. I’ll be back at the scene this morning in an hour. Meet me there.

Quinn thought back to the grind of firefighting, and even though she was in great physical shape and strong, the work had taken its toll on her body. It wasn’t so much the physical strain, but all the chemicals one breathed at the fire scenes. Quinn had been promoted as a fire investigator several years ago against stiff competition, just because the chief wanted to pay back a political favor by moving a young male firefighter into her position. Now Chief Oakley wanted to pull the rug out from under her, and she wasn’t giving up without one hell of a fight.

She turned to her computer and sent another e-mail to her union president, Randy Polsfus, to ask for the union’s support against Oakley. Polsfus hadn’t answered the previous two e-mails.

Quinn’s early years with the department had been rough. In spite of the rhetoric about diversity, it didn’t cover gender. The fire department had been a good old boys’ club that reluctantly opened its closed doors to women. She had to prove day after day that she could do the work. Some women gave in by dating their male counterparts and thus received some form of acceptance. Quinn didn’t play that game, so her drive for acceptance had been more difficult.

She remembered the recruiting poster at the library in Linden Hills that said: YOU THINK WOMEN CAN’T BE FIREFIGHTERS? In her