[Quinn 01] - The Cleaner

Quinn had known what happened the moment he'd seen the body. Taking the contractions in the arms and legs caused by the heat into account, the fire had frozen Taggert in the position he'd been in when the flames consumed him. If he'd died of smoke inhalation, the body would have been curled up in an obvious defensive posture. Even if he died from a head trauma, it was unlikely that his body would have landed so neatly laid out.

No, Quinn knew someone had posed him like this. Someone had wanted the Office to know this was a murder.

They drove across town, eventually parking in a lot just off Lake Avenue. Quinn was relieved to see the 'Open' sign hanging in the window.

He looked over at Nate. 'You stay here.' There was no protest. Quinn zipped up his jacket and got out.

The building was an old, one-story house that had been converted into an office. Hanging on the wall near the front door was a sign that read, 'Goose Valley Vacation Rentals & Realty.' There was a covered porch where Quinn dusted the snow off his jacket. He then opened the door and went inside.

The front room had at one time probably made for a comfortable parlor, but now it was crowded with three desks, several bookcases, and a row of black metal filing cabinets. A radio was playing an old Neil Diamond song softly in the background. Against the far wall, a fire burned in a brick fireplace.

Only the desk closest to the fireplace was occupied. Behind it sat a woman Quinn judged to be in her mid-forties. Her blonde, frosted hair fell to just above her shoulders. She was wearing a smart-looking blue business suit. She smiled broadly as Quinn entered.

'Good afternoon,' she said, standing. 'Didn't expect anybody else today.'

Quinn offered a friendly chuckle as he approached her desk. 'Yeah, weather's getting a little crazy out there. Don't worry. I won't keep you long.'

'I heard we're in for almost two feet of snow by tomorrow.' She stuck out a hand. 'I'm Ann Henderson.'

Quinn shook her hand. 'Miss Henderson, I'm Frank Bennett.'

'Please, just Ann.' She indicated the guest chair, and they both sat. 'What can I do for you, Mr. Bennett?'

He pulled out his ID and showed it to her.

'FBI?' She looked perplexed. 'Is something wrong?'

Quinn smiled again and shook his head. 'I was just hoping you could help me with something.'

'Of course. Whatever I can do.'

'I'm looking into the fire at the Farnham house.'

Her face turned somber. 'A tragedy. It's such a shame.' A question formed in her eyes. 'I heard it was an accident.'

'It looks that way.'

'Then why would the FBI be interested?'

'Truthfully, my involvement is totally off the record. Mr. Taggert was a relative of someone in the Bureau. I'm just here checking things out for him.' She relaxed visibly. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Mr. Taggert seemed like a nice guy.'

'Did you know him?'

'Not really. I only spoke with him twice. Once when he called to set up the rental, and then again when he came by to sign the agreement and pick up the key.'

'That's why I stopped by. My colleague was hoping I might be able to get a copy of the rental agreement.'

She eased back. 'Why would he want that?'

'Just trying to be thorough, that's all.'

'Is he planning to sue or something?'

Quinn laughed good-naturedly. 'Not at all. The family just wants to put this behind them. I'm just helping wrap up the details so they can move on. I can guarantee you there will be no lawsuit.'

Once again her relief was visible. 'Well, I guess it's not a problem.'

She got up and walked over to one of the filing cabinets. She pulled open the third drawer from the top and started flipping through the files. After a moment of searching, she removed a thin manila folder. 'Just give me a minute,' she said. 'The copier's in the back.'

'Could I take a look first? To make sure it's worth you making the effort?'

'Sure.'

She handed Quinn the file. There were only two sheets of paper inside. The first was a standard, boilerplate rental agreement. According to the information Taggert provided, he lived in Campobello, Nevada. Quinn had never heard of Campobello, but he was far from familiar with every city in Nevada. It was undoubtedly a false address anyway. Under emergency contact was written 'G. Taggert, sister' and the same phone number Chief Johnson had given Quinn.

'So you were the one who provided Mr. Taggert's sister's number to the police.'

'That's right. Mr. Taggert almost didn't give it to me, though. I had to promise not to call his sister unless it was an absolute emergency.'

Quinn nodded, understanding, then looked back at the file. There was other basic information, but nothing that would be of use. Quinn flipped to the second sheet. It was a photocopy of a Nevada driver's license. Robert William Taggert. Due to expire on November 22 of the following year. The photograph was grainy, but the image was discernible. A man in his late fifties, with short-cropped hair, and a thin, weathered face.

'This is Mr. Taggert?' Quinn asked.