CHARLIE SMITH WAITED ACROSS THE STREET. ONE LAST APPOINTMENT before his work night ended.
Commander Zachary Alexander, retired USN, had spent the last thirty years doing nothing but complaining. His heart. Spleen. Liver. Bones. Not a body part had escaped scrutiny. Twelve years ago he became convinced he needed an appendectomy until a doctor reminded him that his appendix had been removed ten years before. A pack-a-day smoker in years past, he was sure three years ago that he'd contracted lung cancer, but test after test revealed nothing. Recently, prostate cancer gestated into another of his obsessive afflictions, and he'd spent weeks trying to convince specialists he was afflicted.
Tonight, though, Zachary Alexander's medical worries would all end.
Deciding how best to accomplish that task had been difficult. Since virtually every part of Alexander's body had been thoroughly tested, a medical death would almost certainly be suspicious. Violence was out of the question, as that always attracted attention. But the file on Alexander indicated Lives alone. Tired of incessant complaining, wife divorced him years ago. Children rarely visit, gets on their nerves too. Never has a woman over. Considers sex nasty and infectious. Professes to have quit smoking years ago, but most nights, and usually in bed, likes a cigar. A heavy imported brand, specially ordered through a tobacco shop in Jacksonville (address at end). Smokes at least one a day.
That tidbit had been enough to spark Smith's imagination and, coupled with a few other morsels from the file, he'd finally devised the means for Zachary Alexander's death.
Smith had flown from Washington, DC, to Jacksonville on a late-evening shuttle, then followed the directions in the file and parked about a quarter mile beyond Alexander's home. He'd slipped on a denim vest, grabbed a canvas bag from the rental's backseat, and backtracked up the road.
Only a few houses lined the quiet street.
Alexander was noted in the file as a heavy sleeper and chronic snorer, a notation that told Smith a rumble could be heard even outside this house.
He entered the front yard.
A rackety central air compressor roared from one side of the house, warming the interior. The night was chilly, but noticeably less cold than in Virginia.
He carefully made his way to one of the side windows and hesitated long enough to hear Alexander's rhythmic snoring. A fresh pair of latex gloves already encased his hands. He gingerly set down the canvas bag. From inside, he retrieved a small rubber hose with a hollow metal point. Carefully, he examined the window. Just as the file had indicated, silicon insulation sealed both sides from a half-assed repair.
He pierced the seal with the metal tip, then removed a small pressure cylinder from the bag. The gas was a noxious mixture he'd long ago discovered that rendered deep unconsciousness without any residual effects to blood or lungs. He connected the hose to the cylinder's exhaust port, opened the valve, and allowed the chemicals to silently invade the house.
After ten minutes, the snoring subsided.
He closed the valve, yanked the tubing free, and replaced everything in the bag. Though a small hole remained in the silicon, he wasn't concerned. That minuscule piece of incriminating evidence would soon vanish.
He walked toward the rear yard.
Halfway, he dropped the canvas bag, yanked a wooden access door free from the cement block foundation, and wiggled underneath. An assortment of electrical wires spanned the subfloor. The file showed that Alexander, a confirmed hypochondriac, was also a miser. A few years ago he'd paid a neighbor a few dollars to add an outlet for the bedroom, along with providing a direct line from the breaker box to the outside air compressor.
Nothing had been done to code.
He found the junction box the file noted and unscrewed the cover plate. He then loosened the 220-volt line, breaking the connection and silencing the compressor. He hesitated a few anxious seconds, listening, on the off chance Alexander might have escaped the effects of the gas. But nothing disturbed the night.
From another vest pocket he removed a knife and flayed the insulation protecting the electrical wires to and from the junction box. Whoever had performed the work had not encased the wires-their disintegration would be easily attributable to the lack of a protective conduit-so he was careful not to overdue the shearing.
He replaced the knife.
From another vest pocket he slipped out a plastic bag. Inside was a clay-like material and a ceramic connector. He fastened the connector to the screws inside the junction box. Before reestablishing the circuit, he packed the box with the dough, applying globs down the length of the exposed electrical wires. In its present form the material was harmless, but once heated to the requisite temperature for the requisite amount of time, it would vaporize and melt the remaining insulation. The heat necessary to cause that explosion would come from the ceramic connector. A few minutes would be needed for the current to warm the connector to the right temperature, but that was fine.
He needed time to leave.
He retightened the screws.
The compressor sprang to life.
Deliberately, he left the cover off the junction box, stuffing the faceplate into a vest pocket.
He studied his work. Everything appeared in order. As with magicians' flash paper, once the connector and clay ignited, both would become a scorching gas, producing an intense heat. They were ingenious materials, used by colleagues who specialized more in commercial arson than murder, though sometimes, like tonight, the two could be one and the same.
He wormed out from under the house, replaced the door, and retrieved the canvas bag. He checked the ground and made sure nothing remained that might later betray his presence.
He rounded back to the side window.
Using his penlight, he peered through a dingy screen into the bedroom. An ashtray and cigar lay on the table next to Alexander's bed. Perfect. If "electrical short" was not enough, "smoking in bed" could certainly be used to close out any arson investigator's file.
He retraced his steps to the road.
The luminous dial of his watch read 1:35 AM.
He spent a lot of time out at night. A few years ago he'd bought Peterson's guide to the planets and stars and learned about the heavens. It was good to have hobbies. Tonight, he recognized Jupiter shining brightly in the western sky.
Five minutes passed.
A flash spewed from under the house as the connector, then the clay explosive incinerated. He imagined the scene as the flayed wires joined the conspiracy, electrical current now feeding the fire. The wooden-frame house was well over thirty years old and, like kindling under dried logs, the bottom fire quickly spread. Within minutes the entire structure was engulfed in flames.
Zachary Alexander, though, would never know what happened.
His forced sleep would not be interrupted. He'd be asphyxiated long before flames charred his body.