Monkey with a flame-thrower

I walked into the room with my hands stuffed into my pockets. The acrid smell of burnt flesh seared my sinuses, and I involuntarily scrunched my nose in a feeble attempt to ward off the discomfort.

It was the kind of room you’d find in any average American home: Ikea furniture intermingled with older heirloom pieces, mass market paperbacks neatly lined up along the white shelves of a narrow bookcase and knick-knacks in the fairy and dragon vein were carefully placed for easy viewing.

The only thing that didn’t belong was the charred remains of what used to be a 30-something woman lying in the middle of her scorched bed. The poly-blend floral bedding was melted around her, but only in the immediate vicinity of her body. The sides and edges were left unmarred.

“Arson?”

I turned to locate the genius who could look at the scene and think arson, finding a tall, lanky man with an unkempt mop of black hair falling into his blue eyes. He wore a black suit and was mimicking my hands-in-the-pockets pose while leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Actually, my first guess was a monkey with a flame-thrower,” I said, quirking one corner of my mouth.

He laughed, deep and rich as he pushed himself upright and walked across the room, stopping to stand beside me and look more closely at the black smear that brought him here.

“So what do you think, Detective Roberts?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

It was my turn to mimic his pose, crossing my arms as I turned to look up at him. “You have me at a disadvantage, you clearly know who I am but I don’t know who you are.”

“So no theory?” he asked, dodging my question.

I narrowed my eyes at him, watching him as he squatted beside the bed to get a closer look at the gruesome husk. “I have my own theory, but it’s not one I think anyone would believe.”

He stood up, one dark eyebrow arched, turning to fully face me, “Try me.”

I was skeptical. I didn’t know who this man was; I didn’t know who he worked for or why he was at my crime scene, and despite all this I was compelled to tell him the theory that would have gotten me laughed right out of the station.

“All right,” I said, instinctively glancing around to make sure we were alone, “Spontaneous human combustion.”

He didn’t even flinch, so of course I did out of sheer surprise.

“What makes you think that?” he asked, taking a seat in the white wicker armchair under the window.

“Nothing else is burned or damaged. The fire started right there,” I said, pointing at the bed.

“Cigarette?”

“No, that would have caught the whole room on fire; plus there are no other signs that she was a smoker.” I walked across the room and leaned back against the window sill, crossing my feet at the ankle. “She simply erupted in flame, burned white hot and then burned out.”

It was his turn to narrow his eyes, peering at me from under the dark fringe of his lashes. Rising to his feet he stepped in front of me, invading my personal space and trapping me between the window and the press of his nearness.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he asked, his voice low, and I could only nod at him. He stepped out of the room, which gave me an opportunity to breathe again. I pushed away from the sill and walked back to the bed, staring down at the reason I was there.

I turned when he re-entered the room, his long legs covering the ground between us in short order and he stopped a few feet away. His lips twitched in an obvious effort not to smile as he extended his hand to me, “I’m V, with the NSA,” he said, “You’ve been cleared for a promotion.”