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DR. ROACH ZIPPED the body bag closed and asked her assistants to carry the female victim out to the van. Roach was petite, in her forties, wore her thick graying hair in a ponytail and her glasses on a beaded chain.
“There was no ID on her,” Dr. Roach told me. “All I can say is that she looks to be a juvenile, maybe a teenager.”
“Not Beam’s wife?”
“The ex–Mrs. Beam lives in Oakland,” said the sheriff, closing his cell phone. “She’ll be here in a few.”
Hanni began a run-through of the fire for our benefit.
“The fire started inside the passenger compartment,” he said. “Paper and wood were piled up in the backseat directly behind the driver. And this is a tow chain,” he said of the heavy links lying across the victim’s lap.
He pointed to a metal bar down in the driver-side foot well, explained that it was a steering wheel lock, like The Club, and that it had been passed through the chain and locked around the steering column. Hanni theorized that first the chains and The Club were locked, then the newspapers and wood were doused with gasoline.
“Then, probably, the gas was poured over the victims and the can was wedged behind the seats —”
“Sorry, folks, but I’ve got to start processing this scene,” Hartnett said, opening his kit. “I’m getting shit from the chief.”
“Hang on just a minute, will you please?” I asked the arson investigator. I borrowed a pen from Hanni, reached into the van, and as Hanni aimed his light over my shoulder, I used the pen to open the book resting on Alan Beam’s lap.
What kind of message had Pidge left for us?
The usual fortune cookie nonsense?
Or was he mad now? Would he slip up and give us something that made sense? I stared at the title page, but all I saw were the printed words The New Testament. That was all. No scribbling in Latin, not even a name. I was backing out of the van when Rich said, “Lindsay, check that out.”
I went back in for a second look and this time saw a bit of fire-blackened ribbon trailing out from the pages. Using the pen again, I opened the Bible to the bookmark. Matthew 3:11.
A few lines of text had been underlined in ink.
My cheek was nearly resting on the victim’s parched and naked bones as I read the underlined words out loud.
“I baptize you with water for repentance. But after me will come one who is more powerful than I, whose sandals I am not fit to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire.”
Chapter 108
CONKLIN GRUNTED, said, “Purification by fire. It’s a major biblical theme.”
Just then the garage door opened behind us and I turned to see a chic forty-something woman wearing a business suit limned in the sunlight behind her. Her face was stretched in anger and fear.
“I’m Alicia Beam. Who’s in charge here?”
“I’m Paul Arcario,” the sheriff said to her, stretching out his hand. “We spoke earlier. Why don’t we go outside and talk?”
Mrs. Beam pushed past him to the van, and although Conklin put an arm out to stop her, it was too late. The woman stared, then shrank away, screaming, “Oh, my God! Alan! What happened to you?”
Then she snapped her head around and locked her eyes on me.
“Where’s Valerie? Where’s my daughter?”
I introduced myself, told Mrs. Beam that she had to leave the garage, and that I would come with her. She became compliant as soon as I put my hand on the small of her back, and we walked together out of the garage to the front of the house.
“It’s my daughter’s weekend with her father,” she said.
She opened the front door, and as she stepped over the threshold, she broke away from me, running through the rooms, calling her daughter’s name.
“Valerie! Val. Where are you?”
I followed behind her, and when she stopped she said to me, “Maybe Val spent the night with a friend.”
