Devon Pretoria slowly tears another page out of the book, crumples it in his hand and tosses it to the ground. He takes a few steps, tearing a page out as he goes, crumples it and tosses that one, too. It takes a long time but to do it right takes time. It has to be right. It has to be perfect.
When that book is done, he takes another and repeats the process. By the time he is done the Bibles and Hymnals around the altar are nothing more than fuel for him; devices to make sure his fire burns just as he wants it. Yes, the whole church should burn but he wants to make sure the altar burns the most fully and completely. He'd already shut off the water main so the sprinklers will not destroy his blaze. He takes pictures of his work.
His gift.
He moves away from the altar, leaving a trail of kerosene in his wake. He smiles. It would be recognized. It would be understood. He snaps a few pictures of the trail.
When the kerosene is done, he switches to gasoline, leaving the antique paraffin can he had used for the kerosene to be found in the wreckage. He snaps a picture of it sitting there. It would be recognized for what it represents; why it was used instead of a regular gas can.
He splatters gas all over the pews and aisles. He finally draws a path with it down the front steps. With a small amount still inside, he tosses it, can and all, back into the vestibule. He takes another picture of the interior before shutting the doors.
He walks back to the start of his trail. He stares at the church a moment. It's sad, really. It's a cute old building and a revered landmark in this little town.
"Oh, well. He needs to see what I can do."
He strikes a Zippo, makes sure the flame holds, then tosses it on the line of gasoline. It flashes beautifully and races into the building faster than he had expected. Through the crack where the doors come together Devon sees the gorgeous flash as the fire comes to life, ready to devour the building.
He watches until the glass starts to explode out the windows, taking more pictures of the church slowly being devoured by a man-made dragon. When he hears sirens in the distance he knows it is time to go. He calmly walks over to his dirt bike and starts it. He takes one more picture of the flames starting to lick up the roof.
"He's going to love it," he whispers reverently before riding off into the woods. By the time the first responders arrive it is too late for the church to be saved and there is no sign of Devon.
Dear Dr. Reid,
The work you do is absolutely astounding. Your ability to weed through the reams of information in your mind to draw you and your team to successful conclusions each case simply amazes me. The FBI, the world really, is so lucky to have you.
The enclosed disk shows my first tribute to you. I've always had the desire to burn things. Now my desire is to bring my two greatest desires together: fire and you. I know your team needs at least 3 cases before you can respond. I promise, you will soon have what you need to come to me.
Don't get me wrong, Dr. Reid: I have no plans to go to jail. And I don't have any plans to kill you or your friends. I just want to meet. I want you to acknowledge me; to admire my handiwork. Yes, we will meet soon, Dr. Reid. And you will see everything I do is for you.
Your devotee,
Peter Dinsdale
Devon smiles as he proofreads the letter. It is perfect. He prints it out. Gloved hands take it and fold it into three. He peels back one side and tapes the case holding the disc from his digital camera just under his signature.
"See you soon, Dr. Reid," he says proudly as he slides the letter into an envelope addressed to Reid at Quantico. He has even used bold red type to write "Private and Personal" on the outside of the envelope. No one but Dr. Reid can get this. Only he is worthy to see the greatness. Well, maybe the brilliant doctor's team can try to help him but really only Dr. Reid will understand.
"I'll be waiting."
He uses a sponge to seal the envelope. He had mailed himself a letter just like this one just to see how much postage it would take. Affixing the same amount to his fan letter, he drives 2 hours to another town and drops it in a street-side mailbox. He smiles. The Post Office can be slow but he figures he'll see his hero in a week or so.
Time to plan a special welcome.