Chapter 159: The Scent of a Rookie
Theodore and Bernie temporarily changed their plans.
According to yesterday's schedule, they were supposed to drive to George Washington University this morning to investigate the phone booth. But a call from Maryland State Police last night had summoned them to the banks of the Anacostia River instead.
The State Trooper led them through the muddy undergrowth, explaining the situation as they walked. "Around 3:40 PM yesterday, we received a call from a witness reporting thick black smoke rising from the riverbank."
"After the rain stopped, we searched near the location the witness indicated and found the remains of a vehicle."
"Our supervisor believed this might be connected to the case you're investigating, so he had us contact you immediately."
As he spoke, the three men arrived at the crime scene.
The car's overall frame was still clearly discernible, though high temperatures had warped and deformed the metal skeleton. The hood had arched upward and curled back on itself like a scorched tongue. One door was caved inward, the other hung askew from a single hinge, looking as if it might fall at any moment.
The original paint had been completely consumed by fire, leaving the steel frame covered in a thick layer of soot mixed with yesterday's rainwater. Occasionally, the coating revealed oxidized iron-gray metal beneath, like diseased flesh showing through torn skin.
Standing water filled the interior, dripping steadily through holes in the chassis onto the ground below. The water carried black ash with it, washing it away in rivulets that flowed toward lower ground, leaving iridescent oil slicks in their wake.
Countless tiny, irregular granular glass beads lay scattered across the scorched earth like dirty diamonds, the shattered remnants of windows, transformed by intense heat into misshapen pearls mixed with soot on the seats and muddy ground.
The car's interior was severely burned. The seats, ceiling, carpet, and other fabric components were completely carbonized. Only the spring frames of the seats remained, skeletal and exposed. The carpet had burned away entirely, revealing the rusted floor steel plate beneath.
The dashboard, steering wheel, door trim panels, and other plastic components had been completely deformed by the heat, then re-solidified into strange, charred black tumor-like masses that barely resembled their original forms.
The engine, transmission, radiator, and other main metal components were better preserved, though covered with thick soot. The four tires had formed hard shells and were somewhat deformed, but not completely destroyed.
Theodore observed briefly, then asked, "Is the engine number still legible?"
The State Trooper nodded. "The number is P58 1234567."
The engine number was a unique identification stamped by the manufacturer on the engine block, essentially the vehicle's fingerprint. As long as the car hadn't been extensively modified, tracking the engine number could lead directly to the owner.
The State Trooper handled such incidents regularly and understood Theodore's purpose in asking. He gestured for them to follow. "There's something more convenient than the engine number."
He led them to the rear section. A patch of black ash on the car's back end had been carefully wiped away, revealing the license plate underneath, still attached, still readable.
The plate showed the car was registered in Maryland.
The State Trooper pointed to it. "We ran the plate and haven't found any matching stolen vehicle reports yet."
"Either the owner hasn't discovered the car was stolen, or it was taken from somewhere outside our usual jurisdiction."
Theodore looked around, studying the terrain. "How far is this from the 7-Eleven convenience store that was robbed yesterday morning?"
The State Trooper considered for a moment. "Less than a mile, I'd say."
He pointed upstream along the river. "The convenience store is in that direction. You can drive straight from there all the way here, no turns, same road."
Theodore and Bernie exchanged glances.
The State Trooper continued, warming to his subject. "It's usually very difficult for a burned vehicle to retain its license plate intact."
"This car thief must be a novice. He didn't prepare enough gasoline."
He proceeded to explain with the confidence of someone who'd seen dozens of such cases. He meticulously detailed the amount of gasoline needed to burn different vehicle models to various degrees, and what car remains should look like after a thorough burn, complete with calculations for weather conditions and fuel distribution patterns.
This peculiar expertise greatly broadened Theodore and Bernie's horizons.
Bernie asked, "How did you determine the car thief used gasoline?"
The State Trooper smiled with unmistakable pride. "Generally, burning cars almost always involves gasoline. It's easy to obtain and cheap."
He paused, then pointed toward the nearby tree line. "Moreover, we found a gasoline can over there in the woods."
He gestured with his hands to indicate size. "The can isn't large, probably holds five gallons when full, maximum."
"Five gallons is completely insufficient to thoroughly burn a Plymouth Fury. Especially considering it was raining all day yesterday."
"Factoring in the rain's impact, to completely destroy this Plymouth, the amount of gasoline needed would be considerably more than what I just mentioned."
He began to think seriously, as if genuinely calculating the precise amount of gasoline required under yesterday's specific weather conditions.
Bernie interrupted his calculations. "Did you find the car keys?"
The State Trooper snapped out of his mental arithmetic and shook his head.
Bernie glanced back at Theodore.
Theodore was crouching near the spot the State Trooper had indicated earlier, where the gasoline can had been discovered. He pulled out his gloves, tugged them on, and picked up a half-smoked cigarette from the damp ground.
The State Trooper leaned in to examine it, identifying the brand immediately. "Chesterfield."
Theodore looked up with curiosity. "How did you identify it?"
This half-smoked cigarette had no filter tip and no brand name printed on the paper, just a damp, half-consumed cylinder of tobacco and wrapping.
The State Trooper grinned. "I could recognize it just from the ash if I had to."
Theodore stared at him, suspecting mild exaggeration.
Bernie glanced at the State Trooper and offered an explanation. "If you regularly smoke one brand of cigarette, you can distinguish it from others fairly reliably."
The State Trooper nodded eagerly. "We smoke these often. We can tell at a glance."
He took the cigarette carefully, broke off a small section, and separated the tobacco to display the contents. "Chesterfield tobacco is dark brown and cut finer than most other brands."
As he spoke, he pulled a pack of Chesterfields from his uniform pocket, extracted a cigarette, tore it open, and placed two small pinches of tobacco side by side for comparison. The similarity was unmistakable.
Theodore asked, "Did you or your colleagues leave these yesterday?"
The State Trooper shook his head, his expression turning serious. "We've cooperated with the FBI many times. We're very clear about your requirements for crime scene preservation. We would never smoke or leave debris at a scene."
He raised his gloved hand as evidence. "Our department's crime scene training is conducted according to FBI standards."
Theodore studied him for a long moment. "The FBI's new selection training is about to begin. Are you interested in participating?"
He was starting to believe this State Trooper was genuine talent, the kind the Bureau needed. Someone who could calculate gasoline consumption rates for vehicle fires under various weather conditions, identify cigarette brands by their tobacco composition, and actually understood FBI crime scene protocols.
The Investigation Division needed exactly this kind of officer.
The State Trooper's expression fell slightly. "I'm already over the age limit."
FBI selection training wasn't something one could simply volunteer for. There were strict age restrictions for field agents, especially new recruits. In the selection training Theodore had participated in, Bernie had been the only trainee over thirty-five, and even that had required special dispensation.
Theodore felt a genuine pang of disappointment.
Bernie took the half-smoked cigarette, first patting his pocket for a paper evidence bag but finding none. He paused, thinking for a moment, then pulled out a second glove, opened it, and carefully placed the cigarette inside the clean latex interior.
The three men continued searching the immediate area and found two more cigarette butts within twenty feet of the gasoline can's location.
Unlike the half-smoked cigarette Theodore had discovered, these two were in a normal, fully burned state, smoked down to stubs.
After examination by the State Trooper, they were also Chesterfield brand.
Other than that, there were no additional discoveries worth noting.
Bernie bid farewell to the State Trooper. He and Theodore still had to drive to the District C headquarters for their next appointment.
The discovery of this burned Plymouth Fury had fundamentally changed the nature of their case, transformed it from simple car theft into something considerably darker.
The State Trooper didn't accompany them. He still had to remain at the scene, waiting for the tow truck to arrive and haul that skeletal wreckage back to the impound lot.
The supervisor of District C was still harried and just as enthusiastic as before.
Theodore asked to meet the dispatcher who'd taken yesterday's call, and the supervisor readily agreed, quickly summoning the man from the radio room.
The dispatcher was a burly middle-aged man, half a head taller than Bernie, with a voice that boomed when he spoke, deep and resonant, like something from a giant's chest.
Theodore asked him for the specific details of the emergency call.
The dispatcher told them the caller was a woman who sounded very young, possibly still in her teens, though he couldn't be certain.
She'd seemed nervous, much like most people making their first emergency call, speaking somewhat incoherently and taking considerable time to convey even basic information.
Bernie asked, "Did she give you the location of the burning car directly?"
The dispatcher shook his head. "She just said to follow Rodney Road straight down, from the main intersection to the Anacostia River bank."
"When I asked for a more exact location, she couldn't explain clearly. She only said she'd seen thick black smoke by the river as she was passing by."
"She didn't seem very familiar with that area, couldn't distinguish which road was which, couldn't provide cross streets."
"When I asked her how she knew the black smoke was from a burning car and not just trash or something else, she became agitated. She kept urging us to go check immediately, repeatedly."
"When I tried to register the caller's information and asked for her name, she paused for several seconds, then hung up the phone directly without another word."
Theodore inquired about the exact time of the call and the duration of the conversation.
After finishing with the dispatcher, Bernie borrowed an office phone to contact a friend, a technical staff member at AT&T, asking him to help locate the calling phone's position and the owner's information.
Going through official channels would take days. The reason Billy Hawke and Detective O'Malley had been able to investigate so quickly yesterday was because Bernie had given them advance warning and leveraged his personal connections.
At noon, Theodore and Bernie headed to the D.C. Fourth Precinct.
They'd agreed yesterday to meet here at midday to exchange their morning's investigative findings with the rest of the team.
According to the original plan, Theodore and Bernie were to search along the river this morning while Detective O'Malley and Billy Hawke coordinated with the local police department to question the staff of the 7-Eleven convenience store, following up on details from Friday's initial interview.
When they arrived at the Fourth Precinct, the other group hadn't yet returned.
The Deputy Police Chief intercepted them in the hallway and called them into his office. He handed them a document with an expression that suggested mild embarrassment.
This was a brief report on a robbery case, typed neatly, appropriately filed, somehow overlooked until now.
The robbery itself was pretty ordinary: a gas station was robbed in the middle of the night. Such cases were distressingly common in the District and surrounding Maryland counties.
The reason it was being given to Theodore and Bernie now was that, according to the robbed gas station attendant's statement, the robber had driven Frank Moreno's black Chevrolet.
Theodore scanned the first paragraph quickly.
In the early hours of April 8th, an Esso gas station located on Maryland Avenue had been robbed.
At 1:15 AM that morning, Frank Moreno's Chevrolet had been driven into the gas station and remained stationary near the pumps for an unusually long time.
At that moment, a large truck was fueling outside, and another truck driver was inside the attached convenience store, buying cigarettes and coffee.
A few minutes later, the large truck, now full of fuel, drove away. The doors on both sides of the Chevrolet opened simultaneously. Two people wearing ski masks emerged from the vehicle.
One brandished an Ithaca Model 37 shotgun. The other carried a Harrington & Richardson revolver. They rushed toward the convenience store together.
This particular gas station was located near the Maryland state line, in a secluded area with minimal traffic after dark. The attendant, like the 7-Eleven convenience store clerk, had extensive experience dealing with robberies over the years.
He also kept a shotgun hidden beneath his counter.
However, when he reached for it, the cabinet door jammed. Due to this delay, the two robbers had already burst through the entrance and were standing before him, weapons raised. He had no choice but to surrender, hands lifted in compliance.
Unlike the 7-Eleven attendant, this gas station worker had managed to remember the clothing and build of the two robbers, as well as fragments of their conversation during the crime.
According to his statement, the robber with the shotgun was male, wearing a military-green jacket and blue jeans, approximately 5'6 "tall, with a lean, wiry build.
The other robber, armed with a Harrington & Richardson revolver, was a petite woman wearing dark blue work pants and a men's button-down shirt.
Both robbers had appeared agitated, their movements jerky and uncertain.
After the male robber controlled the attendant at gunpoint, the female robber didn't immediately proceed with the robbery. Instead, she wandered around the small store, occasionally picking up food and drinks from the shelves to sample, opening bags of chips, taking swigs from soda bottles, unwrapping candy bars.
If she found something she particularly liked, she would offer it to the male robber to share, holding items out to him while he kept his shotgun trained on the attendant.
Soon, a substantial pile of opened food and drinks had accumulated on the counter, wrappers, bottles, and half-eaten items scattered carelessly.
They dawdled for at least ten minutes before apparently remembering why they'd come.
Under the male robber's shouted threats, the attendant opened the cash drawer. The female robber grabbed fistfuls of banknotes and stuffed them into her pockets without counting.
Just as they'd started this actual business of robbery, the sound of another large truck's engine rumbled from outside, headlights sweeping across the plate glass windows.
The two robbers panicked, apparently thinking they were about to be discovered. They hastily stuffed two more handfuls of banknotes into their pockets and bolted for the door.
The female robber ran several steps outside, then suddenly turned back. She pointed her revolver at the attendant through the doorway and demanded a pack of Chesterfield cigarettes, her voice high and sharp.
At this point, the attendant's hand was already on his shotgun beneath the counter. But considering the trivial price of a pack of Chesterfields and the gun pointed at his face, he chose not to act rashly. Instead, he obediently grabbed two packs from the display and held them out.
The female robber only took one pack. Then she rummaged in her pocket, pulled out a crumpled dollar bill, and handed it over. She told the attendant not to bother with the change, her tone almost apologetic.
The two robbers jumped into the Chevrolet and drove erratically into the night, weaving slightly as they disappeared down Maryland Avenue.
The attendant immediately called the police.
After counting the drawer, the robbers had stolen a total of 127 dollars in cash and one pack of Chesterfield cigarettes.
The various opened food and drinks the female robber had sampled amounted to over ten dollars in retail value, more than they would have stolen if they'd simply grabbed and run.
Theodore and Bernie both looked up from the report simultaneously, their eyes meeting for a brief moment before turning to the Deputy Police Chief.
They hadn't seen this report when they'd spent all day Friday going through files here at the Fourth Precinct.
If this report had been in the system, then it would have been impossible not to find it. The case matched Theodore's filtering criteria perfectly in every aspect, time frame, location, vehicle description, and even the cigarette brand.
The Deputy Police Chief didn't offer elaborate excuses. Instead, he had his assistant summon the officer in charge of this particular case.
The officer who entered was very young, possibly even younger than Theodore, though it was difficult to tell precisely.
Bernie, with his years of experience, immediately recognized the scent of a rookie on this officer. He could identify it in the posture, the uncertain movements, the way the young man's eyes darted nervously around the room.
This was an officer who'd just completed police academy training, likely still in his probationary period, those critical first months where every mistake felt magnified, every oversight potentially career-ending.
The young man's posture was rigid, his movements tentative. He glanced at the Deputy Police Chief, then at the neatly typed case report in Theodore's hands, and clearly understood why he'd been summoned.
The young officer looked nervous, standing awkwardly just inside the doorway, head slightly bowed, his eyes secretly peeking at the Deputy Police Chief like a student called to the principal's office.
The Deputy Police Chief made brief introductions between the parties, then frankly admitted that it was their officer's oversight that had led to the report being misfiled, which resulted in Theodore and Bernie searching through boxes of documents all day Friday with no results.
[End of Chapter]