Amateur work. No attempt to hide it, no sophistication in the execution. Whoever set this fire either didn’t care about getting caught or didn’t know how to cover their tracks.
“Any security footage?” I ask.
“Café doesn’t have cameras. The owner has been meaning to install them for two years, but never got around to it.” Phoebe swipes to another screen. “I pulled the employee records. Rachel Morgan’s been a manager for three months. Before that, theposition was empty for six months after the previous manager retired and moved to Florida.”
“Background on Morgan?”
“Clean. No criminal record, no financial red flags, no history of violence or arson. She’s twenty-eight, a single mother, and moved back from Portland three months ago after a breakup. Works forty-hour weeks, never missed a shift, customers love her according to Yelp reviews.”
I study Rachel Morgan’s employment photo on the screen: auburn hair and green eyes.
“What about the owners?”
“Doug and Linda Martinez. Married thirty-two years, owned the café for twenty. No debt beyond the standard business loan, insurance is up to date, no recent financial trouble.” Phoebe pulls up another file. “They were in Seattle visiting their daughter when the fire started. Airline records confirm it. They couldn’t have set this.”
“Could’ve hired someone.”
“Could’ve. But their insurance only covers actual value, not replacement cost. They’d lose money rebuilding even with a full payout.” She looks at me over the tablet. “Doesn’t make sense as insurance fraud.”
I drain half the coffee and hand the cup back to her. “Let’s walk the scene.”
The café’s front door is blocked by caution tape, so we go around to the service entrance. The smell hits me first. Burnt wood, melted plastic, that acrid chemical stench that comes from synthetic materials going up in flames. I’ve smelled it in warehouses, apartment buildings, and cars. It never gets easier.
Inside, the destruction is total. The dining room area is a black crater, tables and chairs fused into unrecognizable shapes. The kitchen is worse. Industrial equipment melted down to metal skeletons, floor tiles cracked from the heat, and the ceiling partially collapsed.
But it’s the storage room where the real story lives.
I crouch near the doorway and study the floor. Three pour patterns, just like the photos showed. Someone stood here, in this exact spot, and poured gasoline in deliberate lines across the floor. Then they lit it and walked away while Rachel Morgan and her five-year-old kid were upstairs doing inventory.
“This is the fourth one?” Phoebe asks behind me.
“Fourth confirmed arson in six months.” I stand up and pull out my phone, scrolling through the case files. “Hardware store in March, yoga studio in May, antique shop in July.”
“Same perpetrator?”
“Different patterns. The hardware store was a single-point-of-origin, clean, and fast. The yoga studio had multiple origins but a more sophisticated execution. Antique shop was rage-fueled, burned hot enough to melt copper piping.” I look at the pour patterns in front of me. “This one’s sloppy. Angry but not experienced.”
“So maybe a copycat? Someone who heard about the other fires and decided to try their hand?”
“Maybe.” I take photos of each pour pattern from multiple angles. “Or someone who wanted it to look like part of the pattern but doesn’t actually know what they’re doing.”
Phoebe makes notes on her tablet while I work. We’ve been partners for three years, since she transferred from the state fire marshal’s office seeking field experience. She does the paperwork, I do the legwork, and we both pretend I’m not impossible to work with.
“I called the staff,” she says after a while. “Most of them heard about the fire on social media. Two of them showed up here last night but couldn’t get close because of the emergency vehicles. They’re pretty shaken up.”
“Anyone stand out?”
“Not particularly. They all seem genuinely upset about losing their jobs.” She scrolls through her notes. “Except for one. Amy. She quit two days ago for a quote, a better opportunity at the resort.”
“Two days before the fire?”
“Yep. Suspicious timing.”
“Where is she now?”
“I’ve got her number. Want me to call?”
I nod and continue documenting the scene while Phoebe steps outside to make the call. The burn patterns are consistent with a pour-and-run job: no timer, no delayed ignition, just manual lighting and a quick exit. The perpetrator would’ve been on site maybe five minutes total.
