ONE

Chico Police Department

October 1999 – 2:44 a.m.

The smell was a combination of smoke and charred skin.

Chico Police Detective Jeff Iverson remembered the first time he was exposed to it. He was a rookie cop, responding to a warehouse fire. Pulling up to the scene, he could hear the howling of a frantic dog over the screeching police sirens. By the time the fire department put out the massive blaze, the poor animal was dead, smoldering and blackened stiff. It was a sharp odor, like bad meat left too long on the broiler. He couldn’t take his eyes off the charred remains; sad to think just how horribly the dog must have suffered.

Today was different. It wasn’t a dog that burned.

As soon as Alvin Cooper walked into the small interview room at the Chico Police Department, the odor hit Iverson immediately. He pushed the back of his hand against the front of his nose to stave off the acrid smell, but it did little to help. He couldn’t stop himself from coughing up the foul air that invaded his lungs from the soot floating around Cooper, the only survivor of a devastating fire.

Cooper was slouched low in a hard, plastic chair inside the police interview room. It was only a few hours past midnight, the sun far from rising. An EMS blanket was draped across Cooper’s shoulders, the dark blue wool still matted with broken twigs and fallen leaves that came from his front lawn. His short, blond hair tangled above his head like loose hay. The splash of coffee left at the bottom of the Styrofoam cup perched in front of Cooper had gone cold, almost three hours old. Cooper rarely moved, stiff as a board, his stare fixated on some invisible spot on the table. It’s what people do when they’ve lost everything, Iverson thought.

Iverson kept his eyes on his notebook, not wanting to focus his stare at Cooper. It’s never comfortable, two people sitting in a small room, void of conversation, having the only thing in common being a tragic event. He could tell Cooper was aware of his presence because every so often he would look up and give Iverson an expression that said, Why are we still here? But there were still a few facts he needed to gather and Iverson was getting antsy. He had already collected the basics but knew his task force partner would have additional questions before calling it a night.

“You said you couldn’t sleep?” Iverson asked.

Cooper nodded, his head hanging low over the table. “I tried but everything kept me awake.” Cooper reached up and massaged his face with both hands without realizing he was smearing black soot deep into his skin. “I remember hearing a dog bark and the wind rustling through the trees.”

“You must of had a lot on your mind.”

Cooper again nodded. “Stupid work. Of all the nights to think about something so unimportant.”

Iverson grunted in agreement, trying to sound empathetic. “When did you first notice the fire?” Iverson started flipping back a few pages in his notebook, scanning for something Cooper had said earlier in the interview. “You said you were already downstairs when you saw the flames. Do you remember how long?”

Cooper paused for a moment, as if running the series of events through his head like a movie. He was tired and distraught. In a matter of minutes, his whole life went up in flames and now he was trying to account for each and every detail as if this were a test. He dug his fingers deep into his forehead as if he could tear out the memory of what had just happened. A tear slid down his cheek and fell to the Formica top, marking it with a dark droplet the color of gray ink. “I went downstairs to pour myself something to drink.”

Iverson interrupted. “You told me you went downstairs to watch TV.”

“Yeah, both.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“I walked into the kitchen, opened up the refrigerator and grabbed the milk. Then I remember walking to the living room and sitting down in my chair.”

“The smoke, Mr. Cooper. How long were you watching TV before you noticed the smoke?”

Cooper’s head rocked side to side. “I don’t remember. I only remember the flames. Bright flames all around me. I could have fallen asleep and then woke up to the flames. I just can’t remember. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked.”

Iverson reached over and patted Cooper on the arm. “Take it easy, it will be all right. I’m sorry we have to go through this but we want to get all the facts while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

Cooper’s head slid out of his hand. He folded his arms on top of the table and buried his face in them. His body jerked in spasms as tears started to form a puddle of black below his face. “Two for one,” he said to himself. “God I’d do it. Two for one.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

He lifted his head and used his blanket to wipe his bloodshot eyes. Cooper reached across the table, grabbing a hold of Iverson’s arm desperately. “As the saying goes,” he confessed. “Two for one.”

Iverson remained quiet, waiting for Cooper to explain the strange response. 

“I would trade my life for my wife’s and my daughter’s, right now.”

Iverson’s eyes sagged. The wife was trapped upstairs in the bedroom. They found her body crumpled up by the bedroom door. His daughter never woke up, found dead in her bed.

Cooper buried his face in both hands. “Take me, God. Take me in trade.”

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

Cooper’s gaze drifted slowly above his hands, his eyes wild with a look of desperate anger. His response came out like a roar of thunder. “You think everything’s going to be okay?”

Iverson felt the stupidity of his remarks, the pang of guilt. “I didn’t mean it that way, honest.”

“My wife and daughter were burned alive. They burned, for God’s sake.” Cooper’s hands fell hard onto the table. The Styrofoam cup took a hop then tipped over, the remnants spilling, mixing with the soot and tears. “And I did nothing to save them.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Cooper.”

That’s all Iverson could think to say. Alvin Cooper’s entire world died four hours ago in a tragic accident. An accident, from what Iverson could surmise. It was probably the main gas line. These old homes; broken lines, leaky. The gas stove pilot set it off. It wouldn’t be the first time. Cooper woke after falling asleep in front of the television, became confused and disoriented. He stumbled out the front door, choking on the thick smoke and passed out, far enough away so that he wasn’t consumed by the fire, unlike his family. Lucky him.

“I would trade places with them, I swear I would.”

“I know you would,” Iverson replied.

The minute hand on the clock rolled straight up. Three in the morning. Iverson fought back a yawn. The buzzing sound coming from the florescent lights in the ceiling was disrupted by the clank of the door hinge. Iverson sat up. Cooper remained lost in his own thoughts.

Iverson didn’t get a chance to reach for the door handle before FBI Special Agent Jack Paris entered the small room.

Finally, his partner had arrived.

He had a manila folder in one hand and a small plastic bag in the other. Jack looked over at Cooper then over at Iverson.

“Okay to join in?”

Iverson nodded, adding a sigh of relief that his partner had finally arrived, hopefully bringing this day to an end.

Jack Paris was a seasoned agent assigned to the Sacramento Division of the FBI. Did a stent in Seattle then LA before coming to the Sacramento office. He was a violent crimes agent. He worked bank robberies, kidnappings, and fugitives. The cases that made the bureau a household name, back in the day. But times have changed. Case have become more sophisticated, complex. Jack admitted he may not be the kind of agent that understands the computer era but does know that in any case, motive and human emotions still are the main factor in any crime. Unlike time, that will never change, he always said.  

He pushed the empty chair away from the table and then slid into the seat, shifting his position in order to face Cooper directly. He opened the folder, exposing a report from the on-scene fire investigator, and placed the plastic bag gently next to the folder. Inside the bag was a very small flat box with a picture imprinted on top.

Jack looked over at Iverson. “You get all the details?”

Iverson nodded and tapped at his notebook with his pen.

“Good.”

Jack sat back in his chair but kept his stare on Cooper. A sympathetic stare. It took a minute of silence before Cooper looked up at Jack, letting go of a deep sigh.

Cooper said, “What more do you want from me?”

Jack raised a hand, like he didn’t mean to upset him any more than he already felt. “I know it’s late. I’m sorry for keeping you here so long but I want to cover a few facts before we stop. It won’t take long.”

Cooper’s eyes fell shut as he discriminately waved a hand. “I’ve got no place to go.”

“You told Detective Iverson you got out of bed because you couldn’t sleep?”

Cooper kept his gaze on the table. “Yes.”

“And so you went downstairs . . . to pour yourself a drink.”

“Yes, yes, a glass of milk.”

“Then, turned on the TV.”

Cooper lifted his head and looked at Jack. “That’s right. Why are we going over this again? I told you all of this already.”

“Bear with me.” Jack picked up the folder, flipped through a few pages and then let the folder drop back onto the table. “The fire. You said the first thing you saw when you awoke were the flames.”

“Yes.” Cooper’s voice was becoming agitated.

“Along the stairs, is that correct?”

Pause. “I think so. They were all around me. I can’t be sure if they were in front of the stairs or not. I just know the whole house was on fire.”

“You told Detective Iverson the stairs. That’s why you couldn’t go up to get your wife and child.” Jack turned his head and looked over at Iverson.

Iverson flipped back a few pages and read from the notes he took a few hours earlier: “I couldn’t get up the stairs. They were totally engulfed. I couldn’t go up to save my family.”

“That’s right,” Cooper responded. “The stairs were on fire. The whole fucking house was on fire.”

“No, I don’t think that’s what you originally said. You said the stairs were on fire.”

“The stairs, the living room, the hallway. The whole place.”

“But if the whole place was on fire, how did you get out without even a burn mark?” Jack stood and walked over to Cooper, pushed back the blanket to expose Cooper’s pajamas. “Those are cotton. They’re covered in soot but not a singe. How do you explain that?”

Cooper’s jaw tightened. He slammed the table with his fist. “I don’t know. Why does this matter?”

“Because I’m trying to make sense of it all. It’s a conflicting statement. Like I said, no burn marks….” Before Cooper had a chance to respond, Jack continued. “This is the fire investigator’s report. It’s only preliminary but according to them, the fire started from outside, along a row of Japanese boxwood.” Jack leaned forward. “That would be right in front next to the entryway door.”

Cooper remained silent.

“The fire went hot and fast. That means there had to be an accelerant used. Your garage. There were three empty gas containers in there.” Jack paused a moment to study Cooper’s reaction. There was none. “The fire then made its way into the house, starting in the living room, then moving toward the back. Toward the stairway, as you stated.”

Again, Cooper remained silent.

“How were you able to make it out the door when that’s where the fire originated from? I mean, at that point, the whole front of the house would have been totally engulfed. You would have turned to charcoal trying to get through there.”

“Maybe I didn’t go out the front door,” Cooper said. “I was confused. Maybe I went out the back?”

“No, that’s not what you said. You said the front door. You were very clear about that.”

Iverson remembered Cooper’s original statement: “Front door, that’s what he said.”

“Front door, back door, I just got out.” More tears welled up in his eyes. “My family. My family died.”

“Then there was this.” Jack picked up the plastic bag. He held it up in front of Cooper’s face, close enough to read the markings. “It’s a matchbook.”

“So?”

“Look familiar?” The matchbook was unique. The cover depicted an airbrush painting of a naked woman in a seductive pose. The words Black and Brown Club, Budapest, Hungary, were stenciled across the naked woman’s legs. “Not something you would find in every household.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the fire investigators found it outside on your lawn. Didn’t you tell Detective Iverson earlier that you had traveled to Budapest after graduating from high school?”

“That was years ago. Thousands of people travel there.”

“Yes,” Jack remarked. “Thousands. But it was your house that burned down.” Jack looked down at the plastic bag, studying the small item it held. “And this box of matches started it all.” Jack tossed the bag back on the table.

Cooper sat up straight, his stare sharpened. “It’s not mine.”

“Crime Scene Investigators were able to lift prints from the box. Did you know we can lift prints from a paper surface? It’s the oil that allows us to get them. From your fingers.” Jack lifted a hand, flashing five fingers at Cooper.

“Why are you doing this? I told you the truth, I couldn’t sleep, I went downstairs and poured myself a drink and turned on the TV. I fell asleep and woke to the fire. The fire that killed my family. The fire killed them. Not me.”

Jack slid closer to Cooper.

Iverson followed Jack’s lead and leaned in, giving Cooper little room to move. He took out his pen, knowing he needed to document whatever Cooper had to say, verbatim.

Jack let the moment settle. He had Cooper’s attention. “I know what you did.”

Cooper’s face wrinkled. There was an uncontrollable twitch in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you fell asleep in front of the TV?”

Cooper leaned forward, his face inches from Jack’s. “That’s what I said, Goddammit!”

You sit there very long?”

“I said I couldn’t sleep.”

“What was on?”

“What?”

“What were you watching? Tell me what was on.”

Cooper froze. He slowly fell back into his chair; his eyelids formed half-moons but his stare never left Jack’s. “I want my lawyer.”

“They burned to death, Mr. Cooper. You trapped them inside your house and let them burn. Why? What made you do it?”

Cooper turned away, averting his face from Jack’s accusations. His anger drained from his expression, now taking on the rigidity of stone.

Jack stood up and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He reached under Cooper’s left arm and yanked him up, hard. Iverson made his way around to the other side, keeping Cooper from falling over.

Jack Paris ratcheted the cuff tight on Cooper’s wrists, enough to make Cooper wince. Cooper’s head dipped toward the table, the air in his lungs slowly escaping through his nostrils.

“You were right, Mr. Cooper,” Iverson said. “Two for one. Only you weren’t talking about a trade, were you?”

Cooper’s eyes went dark, Jack saw it. Cooper was never the victim; he was the predator.

Iverson got on his radio and within seconds, two uniforms entered the room. They led Cooper out the door to a holding cell down the hall. Jack gathered up his things, dropping papers into open folders. Iverson leaned against the table, staring at the empty chair where Cooper sat and thinking how quickly things had turned.

“Why do you think he did it?”

Jack shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

“Geez, Jack. You’re accusing a man of killing his family.”

Jack raised an eyebrow and gave Iverson a quiet stare. “Maybe she knew something he didn’t want others to find out about.”

“Are you telling me he couldn’t think of a better way to keep a secret?”

“Jeff,” Jack replied, “there’s only one way for a person to keep something hidden from another.”

“How’s that?”

“He kills the other.”

“What are you, the dark side of a lounge act?”

Jack didn’t offer a reply, just continued collecting his papers.

Jeff Iverson began tapping his pen on the top of his notebook, wondering how Cooper could think killing was a rational answer to his problems—let alone killing his own family. “You think that’s it? A secret?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I just know he did it.”