Judge eyed the middle building, one of three arranged in a triangle, the floor where the Planned Parenthood office was. Or used to be. A hook and ladder engine, some police vehicles and one emergency van still sat helter-skelter in the parking lot, close to one of the entrances. Firemen continued pouring water into the gap that was once a large portion of the building’s third floor, damaged as bad as if a small plane had hit it. The brick corner was missing, blown out from the intense fire, all the windows on this side of the floor gone, the tan brick above them discolored by black fingers of smoke that reached up and connected with the floor above. They reconned the perimeter, staying on the blacktop and away from snaked fire hoses, Judge holding his leashed deputies, Owen alongside them. More fire equipment plus an unmarked cop car in the rear parking lot, where crime scene tape surrounded a yellow Hyundai sedan, the body removed. Here they were able to get close enough to see between the buildings, where the carnage had gone down.
Wall-to-wall scorched black earth. Yellow tape sealed off the sidewalk, keeping bystanders from the corridor, in it a tiny paver patio, a charcoal barbecue sitting amid metal picnic benches on more pavers, and the skeletal remains of a Corona umbrella sprouting from a circular stone table. The shrubs and grass and everything at ground level were gone, the black from the fire creeping up one wall. For Judge, a throwback to a crazier place and time, in Iraq, where occasional scorched earth initiatives produced similar results. He coped with it, stayed in control. At the base of the blackened wall, on landscape mulch tamped down by heavy-footed firemen, a pink spray-painted outline stood out. More spray-painted grass and sidewalk were in evidence beyond it amid the char-broiled scenery: three fluorescent pink amoebic outlines that looked vaguely human in shape. The remains of these people had been removed. Judge found a fireman and volunteered his services and those of his deputies.
“They’re trained as military working dogs. Explosives detection and fugitive tracking. Need any help?” He did the introduction up right, badging the fireman with IDs.
“Check with the federal agent over there. He’s in charge of the criminal investigation.”
Judge learned quickly the agent was Homeland Security, and like Judge, a former enlisted Marine. The agent said no, he didn’t need their help but yes, he’d share what he knew. He pointed at the third floor, “a flamethrower did that,” then at the exit corridor on the ground, where four of the five people had died, “and all this. The guy left the flame-throwing equipment behind, on the third floor.”
“It’s a woman,” Judge offered. “Here.” He handed him Ms. Jordan’s mug shot. The agent barely looked at it, handed it back, looked Judge over instead.
“We know.” The agent sniffed, his way of apologizing for having shaded the truth. He suddenly tired of Judge’s questions. “Look, sorry, Gunny. The gender info is part of the person-of-interest qualifier we’re holding back. Keep your mouth shut about it. Now go, so I can get back to work.”
Owen was doing his own thing near a transit stop, talking to two women who had just gotten off the bus. Judge checked his phone. Multiple texts had queued up.
From Geenie:
—On my way, love. Be there by eight tonight. Where to meet?
From LeVander:
—IEDs and flamethrowers and shit? For real? Cut bait dude. Feds will handle it. Bail gets settled either way, just not by you.
One of the two women Owen was speaking with, a teen, was whimpering. Owen offered her a hanky, seeming genuine about it. The older woman accepted it on the younger one’s behalf.
“Gracias,” the older one said. The girl continued crying. Owen had them sit on an empty bench inside the bus stop enclosure. Judge and his dogs kept their distance but Owen soon motioned them over. Maeby was a hit with the teen, the girl’s tears finally receding. She scratched Maeby’s brindle head, was entertained by her wiggling stubby tail. His German Shepherd deputy J.D. stayed out of it.
More Spanish between them. It was a mother-daughter thing, with Owen eventually in the middle of it, holding his own in the conversation. He sounded serious, compassionate. Their bus arrived.
Owen tucked a business card and some cash into the mother’s hand, then took down some info in return. Mother and daughter climbed aboard, peered out the window from their seats, the mother throwing a kiss in Owen’s direction. He gave her a thumb’s up.
“I’m afraid to ask,” Judge said. “What was that all about?”
“The daughter’s pregnant,” Owen said. “They have no money and can’t afford to travel to another clinic. I gave her a few bucks and my phone number, told her to call if she needed more help.”
“Generous of you, Owen, but it’s not like you live around the corner.”
“I’ll figure it out. Right now, I feel a social media rant coming on. Let’s get back to your van.”
They started back to the other side of the building. Owen stayed quiet, his silence masking a mounting anger or a resigned hopelessness, Judge not sure which. “Hey. Looks like you could use some fur.”
“That sounds so wrong, Judge, but yeah, sure, if you’ll let me walk your dog, I’d like that.”
He handed him Maeby’s leash. Owen pet her tight brindle coat, she gave him a lick on the hand, then tugged him forward.
They hadn’t had this conversation, hadn’t shared their views, pro-choice vs. pro-life, and Judge didn’t plan to. It had to have been conflicting for Owen, with him maybe even buying into his mother’s reasoning for not wanting him, knowing how things continued to be a challenge for a person his size. Judge expected the other part of him was just thankful he got to have this discussion with himself at all. It was something this young girl might now get to do, her options maybe kept open because Owen had offered to help.
Judge texted his girlfriend Geenie as they walked:
—Find a restaurant dtown DC. Text me when you can.
He sent the next text to his bondsman buddy LeVander:
—Still out here fishing dude. She’s a cold-blooded killer. I’m in it for the duration.