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as
gasoline, paraffin, or fuel oil, the examiner could determine which
accelerant may be attributed to the fire. These sorts of tests
could go a long way in discovering whether the fire was accidental
or intentional, thus making Isaac’s job of finger pointing a little
easier.
    As Simmons charged back up the stairs with
the manila folder, Isaac’s cell rang. He removed it from his belt
and glanced down at the incoming number. It was Chief Stevens.
    Simmons ducked under the police tape and
stormed into the room with folder in hand. “I got the photos,” he
said, holding the folder out in front of him.
    Isaac had his phone up to his ear,
listening.
    Simmons opened up the folder and looked
through the photos again, searching for any minor differences in
the room. He found none. Everything looked the same as in the
photographs.
    “We’ll head right over,” said Isaac, and
hung up the phone.
    He snatched the manila folder from Simmons
and flipped through the photos until he came to the one he had been
searching for. In this particular photograph, most of the horror
was not apparent, but what it did show was a clear view of the
windowsill and the dresser.
    Simmons stepped closer as Isaac pointed to a
small object lying on top of the dresser.
    “What in the hell is that?”
    Simmons narrowed his eyes. “It looks like
some kind of small figurine.”
    Isaac turned and pointed at the dresser.
“How come it’s not here now?”
    Simmons was amazed that Isaac could remember
something that small was missing from the room, so small he had
overlooked it just moments before.
    “Maybe somebody moved it.”
    “Moved it?”
    Simmons said nothing.
    “Well, it’s probably not important anyway.
We’ve got to go. There’s been an incident.”
    Simmons raised his eyebrows. “An
incident?”
    “Yeah, with the parents,” said Isaac,
placing the photographs back into the folder. “At the motel.”
     
    3
     
    A couple of fire trucks were in the parking
lot of the Goodnight Motel on the corner of Harbor and Fairway when
the detectives arrived. The motel was only a single story and had
sixty rooms in total. One of the cheapest lodgings in town, and it
showed. Parts of the roof looked to be falling inward, gutters hung
loosely at the lip, and the piss yellow paint had blotches of green
fungus growing up the wall along the walkway. Unless you were
incredibly impoverished, dealing drugs, doing drugs, or banging a
hooker behind your wife’s back, you’d be better off staying away
from the Goodnight Motel.
    Isaac pulled into the lot and parked the
Charger near the motel offi . . . well, I guess you could call it
an office. The office consisted of a small booth enclosed by a
double layer of glass and two filthy green plastic chairs sitting
outside the door. A sticky note was taped to the front glass with
words scribbled on it in black marker: Knock hard, if
asleep. What a nice place to throw your feet up, read a dirty
magazine, and check in the drunken scumbags.
    Isaac walked over to one of the firemen
standing just outside room number 38. With Isaac’s permission,
Simmons headed into the musky room.
    “By the time we got here there was no fire
left to put out,” said the fireman.
    Isaac watched Simmons carefully walk into
the room like he was afraid of stepping in an ant bed. “So, how bad
is it?”
    The fireman shook his head. “Pretty
bad.”
    He didn’t look proud to say it either.
    “I figured. Any idea on what may have
started the fire?”
    “Haven’t a clue. We didn’t find any gasoline
or matches. And neither the man nor his wife smoke.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Because that’s what Mr. Ackerman told
us.”
    “Mr. Ackerman? And where is he now?”
    “He left.”
    “What do you mean he left?” It wasn’t so
much a question as it was a statement.
    "He said he had to go and get his
daughter."
    "No. His daughter's dead. Did you happen to
notice what kind of car he was driving?"
    "I believe it was a blue