Gabriel's Rage

Chapter 1

Two years ago, my life changed overnight when my Great Aunt passed away. She had raised me after my parents died in a car accident when I was a child, and it took months of meetings and an army of lawyers and accountants to settle her estate. As her sole heir I became a multi-millionaire, entrusted to continue the philanthropy she had made her life’s work. My name is Daryl Richardson. At the time I was forty-two years old, single, a former police detective with a law degree and was enjoying prominence as a successful Assistant US Attorney in Boston.

In hindsight, I came to realize my success as a Federal prosecutor was because my detective skills outweighed my legal prowess. I preferred to work side-by-side with the police on their investigations rather than spend my days inside courtrooms. I was drifting along, dodging the occasional bullets that found their way in my direction when our casework threatened the freedom of miscreants who had chosen crime and violence as their vocation. In mid-summer I stepped back from work to see what road my life would next take and agreed to work as a major crime’s legal consultant.

I don’t know if it was divine intervention, karma, or fate when it happened. I walked into a hotel lounge one afternoon and there she was tending bar; Ms. Mandy Simmons. It was kismet from the first moment.

Fast forward to this morning, my now fiancee Mandy is sitting at the kitchen island in the Berkshire’s home I inherited; a handsome Frank Lloyd Wright design style estate on seventy acres, locally known as ‘Stonegarden.’

She looked up at me from her tablet computer and asked, Did you see this? In Pennsylvania there’s a big investigation of priests who sexually abused children; boys and girls. It says in the past seventy years there’s been more than a thousand cases covered up by the Church. How can that happen Daryl?

As I stood at the kitchen counter and fixed my coffee, I tried to think of a response to her out of the blue comment. Every day is a new adventure I thought to myself as the strong aroma of fresh-brewed coffee from the Keurig wafted into my nostrils and helped clear the fog that remained in my brain from last night’s sleep.

Daryl? Did you hear what I said? These priests sexually abused children, and it says the Church shuffled them around from parish to parish. They didn’t treat this as crimes. How sick is that?

I heard you, Hon. Yeah, that’s awful. I guess that’s one reason so many people have dropped out of organized religion. You know, it’s not just the Church; every other day we read or hear about a teacher or a coach, or a relative who has molested a kid.

Daryl, this is horrible! These are priests! They’re supposed to be men of God! That makes me so mad. Those poor kids, how do they ever get over that?

I don’t know, Hon, I answered hoping she’d drop the subject.

The memory of a human-trafficking investigation I had led in Boston two years earlier flashed into my mind as I walked over and slid onto a stool next to her. I had seen victim kids before; most would be forever haunted. Later in life some would turn to alcohol or drugs to ease their pain. Others would take their lives to end the shame they suffered. I sat down next to her and reached over to take a donut from the plate she had set out. She grabbed my wrist just as I captured my prey.

Just one, Little Boy! she admonished. Remember? I put you on a diet. I’ve been feeding you too well and you’re showing it. You need to exercise before you have a heart attack, she said as she released her grip and I guided the baker’s masterpiece to my mouth.

I thought to myself if being shot at twice in the past six months hadn’t brought on cardiac arrest, I doubted a lemon-filled chocolate topped donut would be the Grim Reaper’s successful invitation for me to join him in eternity.

As she got up to clear the donut plate away, I snatched another treat. I exaggerated a sad face as a defense, she paused her hand mid-slap as I took one quick bite and smiled shamelessly. She shook her head in resignation as she went over to the kitchen counter.

You know? I was thinking, maybe we should build a home gym for the both of us, she said looking over her shoulder toward me as she covered the plate with foil. Her change of topic threw me, but she was right; I said I would think about it. She wiped down the kitchen counter and went into her adjacent home office. I reached over and turned her tablet toward me to look at the story she had been reading.

The Pennsylvania Attorney General had released to the public a Grand Jury report documenting the findings of a two-year probe of allegations the Catholic Church had covered up sexual abuse of minors by priests in many of the dioceses.

Quickly scanning through the article, I was sickened as I read an excerpt from the Attorney General’s report of the abuses: a priest who raped a young girl in the hospital after she had her tonsils out; a victim tied up and whipped with leather straps by a priest; and another priest who was permitted to stay in ministry after impregnating a young girl and arranging for her to have an abortion.

Where the hell were the parents? The police? The Church leaders? How could this happen?

I Googled the phrase ‘Pennsylvania church abuse’ and saw a recent news article reporting the Illinois Attorney General had also made public a grand jury investigation report, after issuing subpoenas to Church leaders for more information on sexual abuse claims in that State. More horrors, more shattered lives

As I was reading, my cellphone beeped; I saw it was an incoming call from my friend and former boss, US Attorney Damian Costigan in Boston. Whenever he called it wasn’t to ask about the weather. I answered with hesitation.

Hello, my friend. How’s everything going for the rich and famous down there? he asked.

I gave him a quick rundown, reporting we were resting after a tough six months of work and asked him a few questions about the status of prosecutions in a mass murder and drug trafficking investigation I had recently led for his office. He reported the case was making its way through the pre-trial hearings and he was pleased with the progress.

Daryl, the reason I’m calling is I need a favor, he said changing the subject with noticeable reluctance in his voice. Here it comes, I thought to myself.

You made it clear you needed to take a few months off from your work, and I hope the time you and Mandy have had together has helped her get over Barden trying to kill you. His reference to the incident when the mass murderer showed up at our house and shot at me was the memory Mandy and I were trying to put to rest. I explained Mandy was doing much better, we were staying close to home to avoid the onslaught of curious neighbors we’d been suffering when out around town. All in all, she seemed stronger after the experience. I didn’t know why he had called, but his tone sounded troubled. He said he wanted my help with something. I knew I couldn’t allow any favor to a US Attorney erase the progress Mandy and I had made to return our lives to normality, but I had to hear him out.

Daryl, I’m in a bind. I’m getting ready to wrap up a major mortgage fraud case we’ve been working on for months and I’m short on staff. The US Attorney General’s office called me and asked me to contact you for some investigative help with a series of church fires.

Boss, I told you before, I’m taking a break. The last thing I need is to do is go down South and deal with feuding religious fanatics who can’t tolerate the beliefs of others, I said firmly.

Not down South, Daryl. Right here. Eastern New York, Vermont, and last week the Massachusetts nursing home for priests that burned and killed three clergy.

I saw the story about the nursing home fire on the news, I informed

him. Do they know the cause yet?

There’s evidence all the fires were arsons, he answered. Daryl, some psychotic claiming his name is Gabriel has sent bizarre letters taking credit for the fires and threatening more will happen.

I wasn’t expecting Damian to brief me on a murder mystery. Arson isn’t my field, Boss, I responded. I’m sure there’re skilled investigators who are experts and will help you.

We don’t need help with the arson investigations, Daryl; we need your insight on the arsonist. He’s been sending tokens with his letters; scapulars. Do you know what a scapular is? he asked.

I had to think for a minute. Yeah, isn’t that a cloth religious necklace that Catholic kids receive when they make their first communion? I asked.

You’re partly correct, he answered. That used to be the custom when I was growing up, but the practice seems to have faded out. This Gabriel has been creating handmade scapulars that depict the Archangel Gabriel surrounded by flames and sending them and handwritten letters to the police departments and Church leaders in the different dioceses where the fires have occurred.

Okay, that tells me Gabriel is psychotic with fixations on religion and fires, I offered as a theory.

No Daryl, the letters tell us the fixation is pedophile priests.

Karma, I thought to myself. Mandy’s comments this morning about the Pennsylvania priest sex abuse cases and now Damian’s call both were too coincidental. I believe in God, but I’m not an overly religious sort of person. I had an eerie feeling I couldn’t rationalize; a shiver ran down my spine. Is this how God talks to you, I wondered?

Boss, what help do you want from me? I asked, my curiosity aroused.

The elderly priest home fire is in Washburn Mass. I looked at a map and that’s about thirty-five miles northwest of you, right on the New York-Massachusetts border, he said. Washburn is a little village and doesn’t have their own PD, they fall under State Police coverage. I thought maybe your friendship with that State Police Major we worked with a few weeks ago could help me get more information without drawing too much attention.

Major Rich Prince, yeah, he was great to work with, I said. I can give hm a call if you’d like.

It might take more than a phone call, Daryl. The PDs have been keeping the letters under wraps trying to avoid a serial arsonist scare. I need more info from them; more details but discretely if you get where I’m going with this.

You’re dealing with a psychotic, Damian, and you’re saying he’s; what did you say? Killed three elderly priests?

Exactly Daryl. That’s why I called you. We need to find this guy before he kills again.

Okay, Boss, I’ll contact Rich Prince and see what I can do. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what he thinks, I said and ended our call. So much for my planned rest I thought to myself. I wasn’t looking forward to telling Mandy about Damian’s request, knowing I was breaking my promise to her I’d take time off from my work. I went out to the kitchen and saw she was at the computer in her office. I went in to talk with her.

What’s up? she asked as she stood, crossed the room, and took some paperwork from the printer. My mind raced to come up with the right words to avoid setting off her anger. We had been together for almost nine months, and I couldn’t recall one harsh word between us. I didn’t want our winning streak to end this morning.

I read through that article about the Pennsylvania churches you were talking about. Did you know recently there’ve been two church fires near us? And a fire at a retired priest’s nursing home that had three fatalities? I asked.

She slowly sat down, put her papers into a manila folder and swiveled in her chair to face me. The look on her face was serious.

I didn’t see that about a nursing home fire, she quietly answered. The look on her face gave away her first thoughts of suspicion. Does that have anything to do with those degenerate priests? Did God send the Devil to take them to Hell?

Apparently, someone has been setting the fires and sending letters claiming they were punishing the Church for covering up the sex abuse, I calmly answered as I shifted my weight on the couch

Now you’re sounding like a detective again. What’s really going on Daryl? she asked bluntly as she stiffened her back and leaned forward. Her posture had confrontation written all over it.

Damian just called me, Hon. He asked me to help him do some background work on the nursing home fire.

As I started to explain what Damian had said, she held her palm up to stop me. Wait a minute, I want to say something, and you need to hear this, she commanded with authority in her voice. A few weeks ago, some psycho murderer came to our house and tried to kill you. Thank God we got through that and you promised me we would get our lives back to normal. I listened and started to respond, but she cut me short.

Now, once again, Damian Costigan barges into our lives and you become Daryl Richardson, Federal Officer. Do you even know what normal is anymore? she asked. Her voice was raised, but there wasn’t anger in her tone; it was a plea for me to slow down my life.

I stood up, tucked my hands deep into my pockets, went over to the office windows and stared at the back meadow. After a minute Mandy walked over and pressed her body against my arm. I’m sorry Daryl, I mean it, I’m sorry, she whispered. I came so close to losing you a few weeks ago, I don’t want to go through that nightmare again.

I turned and gave her a hug, brushing her hair from the side of her neck I gave her a soft kiss on her forehead. I get it, Hon, I said as I took her hand and led her back to the office couch. We both sat down.

Mandy, I felt sick to my stomach when I read that article about the priests you told me about. I hadn’t realized the abuse was so pervasive. The word repulsive doesn’t even come close to the depraved things they’re accused of.

Damian said the Department of Justice is reviewing the Pennsylvania Grand Jury report on how the Church has handled the abuse complaints and he’s been asked to discretely get some background information on the rest home fire to see if there’s a possibility it’s connected to the abuse investigation. Since it’s close to us, he asked me to help him.

She nodded her understanding, got up and went back over to her desk and sat down. I could see she was thinking about what I had told her. I watched in silence as she took a deep breath, glanced out the window for a few seconds before looking over at me. This isn’t what I wanted for us, but, okay, help Damian, she said with obvious resignation. Where do you start?

A sense of relief washed over me. I explained Damian had suggested I contact State Police Major Rich Prince because his department was working the nursing home investigation.

Oh! I remember him coming to the house the night you got shot at; he was nice, and seemed level-headed and very professional, she said. I agreed with her assessment of him, adding I would call him.

She turned back to her computer and began typing. Her Master’s degree in finance gave her the background to manage the charitable foundation we had set up with funds from my inheritance. She had turned managing the fund investments into a job she worked at several hours each day. For the moment, her work was the distraction I needed

I left her to finish whatever it was she had been working on before I had interrupted and walked out to the kitchen. Over the past few months, she had done some case research for me and I quickly learned she had a talent for it. My hope was the more she understood about how I made a living despite my inherited wealth, the happier our home life would be. Now, if I could avoid getting shot at again, my plan would work.

Chapter 2

I called State Police Major Rich Prince, he was surprised to hear from me and asked how Mandy was doing after our recent brush with death. I told him we were doing well; he had a fit of almost uncontrollable laughter when I explained Mandy referred to the event as The Great Stonegarden Estate Snowplow Incident.

For you readers who may want to know the full backstory, a psychotic rogue FBI agent who had committed five murders stormed our property intending to shoot me. Mandy was out plowing the driveway with our Bobcat machine and stopped the agent cold in his tracks when she dumped a bucket of snow and ice onto him after he fired a shot at me. All that was missing to make this story truly historic would have been the love of my life looking back to me and remarking, Hold my wineglass, I’ve got this, as the intruder made his move.

I explained to Rich that Damian Costigan had asked me to gather some information about the recent nearby priest rest home fire. Man, you can’t catch a break, can you? he commented expressing sympathy.

I downplayed his question, saying that Damian was only asking me to develop background information on the fire.

He responded by asking me if I knew that there was already talk that this fire was related to two other church fires in recent months. I told him yes, Damian had briefed me on the other fires.

This fire was bad Daryl. The State Fire Marshals working on the case have found evidence of arson. Their preliminary report says the back of the house was doused with an accelerant and it’s theorized an explosive device was the ignitor. The blast weakened the structure holding up the second floor, it collapsed quickly. They’re still working the crime scene collecting evidence.

The Major provided me with the background facts: It was a large wood frame colonial manor style house, ten rooms for elderly and impaired clergy, with two staff personnel providing assisted living services on-duty around the clock. There were eleven occupants at the time of the fire, eight escaped with minor injuries, three of the priests were in their rooms and trapped. They burned to death.

Rich, that’s horrible. Weren’t the staff on duty? I asked when he finished.

Yeah, the two aides, a man and woman but they aren’t spring chickens themselves. They helped the other priests get out, but the fire at the back of the house spread too quickly to save the three that died.

You said an explosive is suspected as the ignition source. Isn’t that high-tech for an arsonist? I asked.

Daryl, everything is high-tech these days. Did Damian tell you about the letter?

He did, Rich. Have you seen it?

Yeah, I have a copy of the one my department received three days after the fire. We’re dealing with one sick son-of-a-bitch. It’s handwritten in pencil, the words he uses, his grammar, the way he constructs the sentences, and with what we’ve learned of his method of setting the fire, everything makes us suspect he’s highly educated. He refers to several priest sex abuse incidents that we’ve never known about. He accuses the Church hierarchy of covering up the abuse and writes that the hour of God’s retribution is upon us. This is no rambling nutcase we’re dealing with Daryl; this person is psychotic. I’ve seen nothing like this in my entire career.

Rich, Damian said the writer is signing their name as Gabriel, and he or she encloses a scapular with each letter. Is that the case here? I asked.

It sure is. Hell, I’m Presbyterian and I had to look up what a scapular is. I also learned the Church calls Gabriel an Archangel. I had to look that up too.

Damian told me the scapular looks handmade, I said. "What do you think?

It is, I’ve seen it and I can send you a photo. The necklace part looks like a common brown shoelace, both the tab panels as I call them are small rectangular pieces of thin woven twine with a picture of an angel being engulfed in hand painted flames.

Rich would you mind if I took a drive up to Washburn to look at the burned rest home. I’d like to get a feel for the location, see how someone could get onto the property unnoticed and set the place up for a fire.

Sure, we can use all the help we can get on this one. Let me know when you can come up and I’ll meet you there.

I told him I’d meet him tomorrow at ten AM., he agreed, and we ended the call. In our home office Mandy was putting the finishing touches on the Foundation’s quarterly tax package for the accountants. I asked if she would have any time for some research to help me, she stopped everything, and sat down at her desk, pencil in hand.

I asked her to print out anything she could find on recent church fires, specifically Catholic churches within a hundred miles of us, and articles about the priest rest home fire. She went right to work despite my caveat there was no rush. As she typed away at her keyboard ignoring me, I took the hint and left the room, taking my laptop with me. Mandy could handle research on the fires with no problem, I thought. What I needed now was to learn about the Archangel Gabriel. Once again, my friends at Google were a step ahead of me.

I learned Gabriel is the angel of revelation or announcement and is symbolic not only in Christianity but also Islam, Judaism and several other faiths. In Christianity, he’s viewed as God’s messenger. The thought of a human assuming a divine persona speaking for God by burning down churches deeply troubled me.

I read about scapulars, their origin and evolution through the ages. After a few minutes of reading complex religious interpretations of the symbol I realized divinity studies would remain in my knowledge deficit and I gave up. What I filed in my memory, though, was that in a religious context, Gabriel’s scapulars were white with a rainbow of colors emanating from the angel image. A rainbow; not flames.

My cellphone beeped signaling an incoming text message. I opened it and saw Major Prince had sent me a photo of Gabriel’s rendition of the scapular. I enlarged the image; the level of detail was incredible; the rainbow of colors had been changed to flames. The text message instructed me to check my email for Gabriel’s letter. I opened the attachment, within two minutes of reading it was obvious the police had a big problem.

Gabriel’s letter was more like a manifesto, meticulously crafted to condemn the Catholic Church for committing in his words, The most depraved mortal sins the earthly world has suffered, for which there may be no hope of salvation for the evil ones, may they burn for eternity in the fires of Hell.

Leaning over to set my phone on the coffee table I suddenly felt weak. I don’t scare easily but admit, Gabriel’s words frightened me. His letter was telling us he had set the fire, and the phrase alluding to the evil ones being doomed to the fires of Hell suggested to me he would strike again. There was nothing I could do about it today; it took effort, but I got through the rest of the day with only a few lapses of my mind wandering back to Gabriel and his letter.

The next morning after I cleaned up and dressed, I went out to the kitchen as Mandy was getting ready to head out for her business appointments. She had said the night before she was having brunch with Lindsey Moran, our friend and Foundation attorney, before they met with our accountants.

I left printouts for you on your desk, she explained, pointing to the. office. I found there’ve been three church fires within a hundred miles of us, not two, and some articles about the priest nursing home fire.

I also printed out some social media posts I came across. They’re all attacks against the Church, the Bishops, and the Pope, accusing them of mishandling priest sex abuse complaints When I come home, you can tell me what you want me to research next.

I kissed her goodbye, thanked her for her work, and watched as she went out to the garage. I brewed myself another cup of coffee and looked at what her research had found.

The first church fire was this past January at St. Anthony’s, a small rural parish near Rhinebeck, New York. The local fire marshal initially had ruled the fire accidental, caused by a boiler malfunction in the hundred-year-old building. The wooden structure was a total loss. Three days later, when the police and Bishop’s office received Gabriel’s letters taking credit for the fire, it was ruled an arson.

The second fire was in February at Our Lady of Perpetual Light in South Prescott, Vermont, west of Rutland. The parish served three communities and included a small parochial elementary school. The news article described neighboring residents hearing a loud explosion in the middle of the night and seeing the old wooden church was on fire. It was damaged heavily, as was the school. A follow-up article Mandy had found, written two weeks after the fire, stated the cause was still under investigation.

A third church, St. Michaels, near Kingston New York, suffered a fire in late March. A quick response by fire-fighters saved the historic building, which suffered some structural damage. Follow-up news articles reported that evidence at the scene found the cause to have been arson.

The last articles Mandy printed were about the priest nursing home fire and included brief obituaries of the deceased victims. As I read through them, I saw two were elderly, in their mid-eighties. The article briefly described St. Dymphna as providing assisted living and hospice care.

To my surprise, the news reported the third victim, Father Albert Rastone, was only fifty-eight years old. I wondered if perhaps he was infirm from cancer or another serious illness. His obituary was noticeably vague compared to the others, saying only he had served at several parishes in Pennsylvania.

The various social media comments Mandy had printed out from reads reacting to the news articles shocked me with their vicious attacks against the Church. I agreed with the position they took that child sex abuse was horrifying, but I was taken aback by the words they used to condemn the priests and was amazed by the length of their comments. Two writers caught my attention by their posts in which they had copied and pasted lengthy newspaper articles reporting the abuse cases. Judging by the number of their posts, they weren’t just passionately opposed to the Church; they were rabid. I wondered, who would take the time to write all this? Defenders of the clergy were far and few between and were viciously attacked with raging name calling and insults for their replies to others’ comments. I could understand why there were so few who sided with the Church. What type of mind would sit in front of a computer and comment as if it were their life’s work to criticize and condemn others who dared oppose their views? After reading Mandy’s findings I realized there were many potential Gabriels out there.

I put the printouts in a folder, locked up the house, and set out for my forty-five-minute drive up to Washburn to meet Major Rich Prince. The early April sunshine and mild temperature made for a pleasant ride as I crossed over into New York State and picked up Route 22 North until I crossed back into Massachusetts.

Within the shadow of the Jiminy Peak ski resort, Washburn was as Damian described it; a small village. I dropped my speed down to a crawl as I entered the half mile stretch of commercial buildings lining what I generously suspected was Main Street. It was classic New England; a gas station, deli market, a real estate office and a bed-and-breakfast lodge.

Up ahead visible just above the tree line, I saw the top of a construction crane and headed in that direction. Two minutes later I pulled into the driveway of the Saint Dymphna Manor Care Center.

The Manor had been a stately home in its day; now, it was a charred shell. I parked and as I got out of the car, I immediately smelled the odor of burned wood still lingering in the air.

I walked around to the side yard where I saw Major Rich Prince standing amongst a group of construction workers who were clearing fire debris. A few yards away from him I saw an older man in a wheelchair, being attended to by a woman dressed in dark clothing, a shawl covering her head.

As I neared them, Rich nodded at me but suddenly turned to look over at the workmen as one of them called out, We’ve found it. The shawl woman helped the older man from his chair; as he stood, I saw he was a priest. They slowly walked over to the huddled group of workers who had stepped back from their work.

As the priest approached, two workers and the aide assisted him closer to the debris. Rich walked over to me and we shook hands. Pointing to the priest and workers he said, That’s Monsignor Thomas Hennessey. He survived the fire and every day he’s been insisting to come back and retrieve his chalice; he was the resident chaplain here. The construction company owner agreed to help him by removing debris to get access to the altar and tabernacle.

We watched as a worker carefully lifted a charred square box from the rubble and placed it on a sawhorse in front of the Monsignor. His aide handed him a small satchel from which he took items and he appeared to bless the box, his aide’s hand on his left arm to steady him.

I watched in silence as the huddled group of workers all took a knee and removed their safety helmets as one of them pried open the box door and stepped back. Msgr. Hennessey reached inside, lifted the undamaged gold colored chalice to his lips and kissed it. He clutched the chalice to his breast, slowly turning to the workers blessing them with the sign of the cross. The emotional moment humbled the workers, and admittedly also me. It was if we were in the presence of the Holy Grail.

The aide helped the priest back to the wheelchair and pushed him toward us. As they passed, he looked at us and smiled, his grip firmly clutching his treasure. I turned and watched as they made it to a waiting wheelchair van parked in front. They don’t make priests like that anymore, Rich observed as he nodded toward the van.

Do you know him well? I asked.

A few years ago, he gave the invocation and keynote speech at a police awards dinner I attended, Rich explained. During dinner he was seated next to me. He’s old school Irish Catholic, born, raised and ordained over there. He came to the US as a young priest. He told me in his youth he was a boxer, and he had our table laughing all night with his stories.

Rich continued, He’s well educated too. He has a Doctorate degree in Psychology and taught for years at a seminary outside of Albany. From what we’ve learned he’s been here at the Manor for three years, as Chaplain and counsellor to the priests who’ve been sent here for respite.

What do you mean, sent here for respite? I asked.

Rich looked around as if checking to see that no one would hear him.

Daryl, the Manor wasn’t just an old priests’ retirement home. We learned that some residents were sent here by their Diocese when they were going through troubling times; to get counselling, or rehab from alcohol abuse, or moral issues.

Moral issues? I asked

‘Yeah. As I understand it, sometimes a priest will develop personal relationships with parishioners that will cause them to re-think their calling, he explained. I’m sure you’ve heard stories over the years of priests that give up their vows and leave the Church," he added.

How about priests who are accused of sexual abuse? Would they be sent here for counselling? I asked.

Hell, I don’t know. The Church is very secretive about those things.

Yeah, I know, and I suspect so does your arsonist Gabriel, I responded.

As we walked toward the back of the building a young man wearing State Police coveralls saw us approach and waved us over. Rich introduced him as Trooper Kevin Gallo, assigned to the State Fire Marshal’s office. Major, look at what I found, he said as he motioned toward a piece of plywood on the ground.

This looks like part of the igniter, he said pointing to a small partially melted plastic and metal case with two charred stubs of wire protruding.

Looks like a burnt timer device to me, Rich pronounced his opinion.

Exactly, Trooper Gallo responded. He picked up another charred flat piece, This is what’s left of the case it was in, see, it was battery powered. I’m thinking the timer activated a device that triggered the explosion. I’m looking for any traces of blasting cap debris or a spark device right now.

Any idea what the accelerant was? I asked.

Not yet, I took swabs from the siding to send to our forensic lab for analysis. It smells like gasoline. You can see the point of origin was here, he said as he walked over to the building and pointed out a dark fan-shaped burn mark near starting close to the ground and widening as it climbed what was left of the building wall.

Don’t nursing homes need to have sprinklers to meet code? I asked.

They do, he answered, but here the system was pump driven, not a gravity feed. The pump didn’t start up, or maybe it did and then failed. I can’t tell yet; I have to look at the pump test records.

I thanked the Trooper for his information and told Rich I wanted to take a few photos of the building to send to Damian. He nodded, we walked toward the front of the property, stepping around the deep ruts in the lawn left by the fire trucks and construction equipment. I saw the yard was strewn with burned lumber and broken glass left behind by the inferno.

As I was taking photos with my phone he asked, Why did the US Attorney send you up here, Daryl? Is he going to open a Federal investigation?

I don’t know that, Rich, I answered. Damian asked me for help to develop a profile on Gabriel, but that’s not my area of expertise. I’m going to recommend his office contact the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit for assistance. They’re the experts, especially in cases that have a bizarre angle to them.

That’s a great idea, Daryl, I think Gabriel’s letters would qualify as bizarre, but I’m thinking these fires are at the least hate crimes in three states; and we have three deaths. That suggests we should have Federal involvement more than just a consulting role to profile Gabriel.

What are you getting at, Rich?