Chapter Thirty-one

Working on Sunday had advantages. Distractions and interruptions were practically non-existent. But when it came to food, the station break room didn’t exactly offer a smorgasbord. Normally, Parrott carried power bars in the glove compartment of his car, but he’d eaten the last one and forgotten to replace it.

Parrott brewed a pot of strong coffee, his beverage of choice when he was working a case. The vending machine boasted a wide array of junk foods, the most nutritious of which might have been salted peanuts. Parrott purchased two packages. He could do worse than coffee and peanuts.

While Sylvester worked on deep background, Parrott would re-focus on the meth explosion. That investigation remained primarily in the hands of the Po-Mar-Lin Volunteer Fire Department, but police and fire departments often conferred when they had cross-over cases like this one.

Parrott searched on the Po-Mar-Lin website’s list of active crew until he found Skip, the firefighter he’d worked the scene with. Skip’s last name was Oppermann, and he’d been on the force since 1974. Parrott called the fire station, assuming he would have to leave a message, but the scratchy-voiced dispatcher who answered surprised him twice.

“Detective Parrott? Yes, I know who you are. You worked the scene at the meth lab explosion at the Whitman place. You’re in luck. Oppermann is off most Sundays, but he’s subbing for another guy today. Let me put you through.”

Parrott thanked the dispatcher and waited. He finished his peanuts and downed the rest of his coffee. He was eager to hear what Oppermann had to share.

Parrott identified himself, and the fireman replied with a friendly voice, “Hey, kid. Glad to hear from ya. You at work? This case must have your balls in an uproar, eh?”

Parrott smiled at the colloquialism. “You might say so. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“Not at all, kid. You at the station right now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir.’ Skip is just fine. But listen, how ‘bout comin’ over. We can sit outside in the back and talk about this crazy case. Much better than talkin’ on the phone.”

The fire station was only a few minutes away. The prospect of an in-person meeting outdoors on a beautiful summer day held a great appeal. Depending on when they finished, he might be able to pick up the evidence from Tammie’s.

He parked at the curb, so as not to block any of the four vehicles, two full-size engines and two smaller trucks. A man stood on the long sidewalk, leading to the station’s front door. As Parrott climbed out of the car, the man strode down the walkway to meet him.

Parrott accepted Skip’s outstretched hand and shook, saying, “You look a little different outside of your hazmat suit.” Skip’s suntanned and deeply wrinkled face showed the firefighter’s maturity and experience. Parrott guessed his age at late-sixty-something. Though not as tall as Parrott, he seemed lean and fit, and his gait was easy.

“Those suits. Till you’ve worn one, you have no idea how hot and uncomfortable they are, eh? Come on around back. We’ve got a table and a couple of benches. Can I give you a bottle of cold water?”

“No thanks.” The two men sat, facing each other. Parrott admired a guy like Oppermann, a volunteer fireman who put his life on the line in the interest of public safety. “I was hoping to hear what you know about the meth explosion.”

Skip nodded and showed overlapping teeth in a smile that crinkled the lines around his eyes. “We’ve learned a few things, and I’ll bet you have, too. Want me to go first?” Skip leaned forward on his elbows.

“We did a thorough sifting through the fire debris. Our mission, of course, was to find evidence of arson, and, if so, what accelerants were used. The more meth-related evidence we found, the more we homed in on what products and method had been used in making the meth, whether this was a full-fledged meth production lab or something more amateurish.”

“There wasn’t much to go on when I was there.”

The fireman fidgeted, scraping a fingernail against the ridges in the table. “True, but you’d be surprised what we can tell from the tiniest fragments.”

“So, what did you find out?”

“Well, we found millions of glass fragments, and no fragments from plastic two-liter bottles, which told some of the story. Fragments of lithium battery. Residue analysis from the lab showed anhydrous ammonia.”

Parrott knew enough from a workshop he’d taken a few years ago to understand where this was leading. “You think the cook was using the Nazi method.”

“Exactly. Not the most convenient for a small-time meth cooker, but easier for us to trace, if we want to track the person who purchased these supplies.” Skip clasped his hands together and rolled his thumbs around in a gesture that reminded Parrott of his grandmother. “The modern home meth cooker typically uses over-the-counter drugs. Almost anyone has or can get those. They’re generally unsophisticated.”

“So, are you thinking this was a big-time meth operation?” Parrott’s gut told him that wasn’t the case, but he needed to ask.

Skip cleared his throat. “The method would indicate that, but, no. We don’t think so. Mostly, it’s a matter of volume.” He took swung his legs over the bench and stood. “If there had been a big meth production lab there, we would have seen way more glass, way more battery fragments.”

“Well, let me say this.” Parrott took a deep breath. “The coroner says the victim died before the explosion. There was no meth in his lungs.”

Skip nodded. He’d probably seen the autopsy report, too. Parrott asked, “So, if someone wanted to stage a meth explosion to cover up a murder, how easy would it have been for him or her to do so?”

“It wouldn’t be all that hard. Basically, gather up all the necessary ingredients. He might have had a glass full of solvent on a hot plate. Turned on the hot plate and left. Maybe left a burning cigarette or candle nearby for insurance. The solvent would heat up slowly and volatilize until it reached an explosive level, and boom. The resulting explosion would make it hard to figure out exactly how it happened, but if all the components were there, it would look like an accidental meth lab explosion.”

This was the kind of information Parrott needed. Thoughts about next steps rolled around in Parrott’s mind. “I’ve spent the past several days trying to ID the victim, and I think we’ve got a bead on that, but I wish I’d been able to analyze the debris with you. Maybe with more eyes at the site, we would have found more.”

“Your time was better spent on the victim. Besides, the fewer people messing with the toxic materials, the better.”

“Speaking of that,” Parrott said. “I’ve got what looks to be a metal strongbox, found in the debris, partially melted. Wonder if you could help me open it.”

“Bring it on over, and I’ll take a look. Don’t get your hopes up, though. Exposed to intense heat, whatever was inside’s most likely turned to dust. Anyway, I have something else I think you’ll be interested in.”

Disappointed, but not surprised, about the metal box, Parrott glommed onto Oppermann’s words. “Tell me.”

“It might come to nothing, but we found several little pieces of plastic in the mess.” Skip pulled out his cell phone and tapped on his photos. “Here. Take a look.”

Tiny chills raised the hairs on the back of Parrott’s neck as he peered at Skip’s phone. Bar code fragments stared back at him, universal product codes from objects purchased in a store. At least seven of them. “If you want, we can transfer custody of these babies to you. I trust you know what to do with them.”

Parrott high-fived the volunteer firefighter. If the bar codes matched the meth-making supplies, they might provide good evidence.

After leaving Skip, Parrott met Tammie at her West Chester townhouse. She gave him a hairbrush and a well-worn hoodie of Tripp’s. Finally, some puzzle pieces were starting to fit together.