Date: July 31, 2005 (Crowe’s Analysis)

  Location: Seattle (Analysis of Chicago, 1872 Archives)

  On July 31, 2005, Seattle basked in a comfortable 72°F, a soft breeze carrying the briny scent of Puget Sound into Capitol Hill. This eclectic enclave exuded a serene Sunday calm, its vintage brick buildings nestled against hip cafes and art galleries. In 2005, Capitol Hill was a cornerstone of Seattle’s alternative scene—The Comet Tavern drew crowds of hipsters in retro shirts and tattooed musicians enjoying live performances by local bands. Yet vigilance was necessary—the Seattle Police Department reported 180 petty thefts in the area that year, keeping residents on alert.

  James Crowe sat in his cozy Broadway office, a second-floor nook in an aging building that smelled of polished wood and freshly brewed coffee. The 38-year-old private detective’s space was his sanctuary: a weathered wooden desk piled with folders, pencils, and documents; a corkboard adorned with photos and notes; and a coffee maker humming as it prepared another batch. A world map on the wall bore red marks in London, Paris, Chicago, and Portland, alongside a faded 1985 photo of a teenage Crowe with his father, taken when he was 18. Through the window, Broadway unfolded: a 40-year-old woman in a sundress walked a golden retriever, while a 20-year-old in shorts weaved through pedestrians on a skateboard.

  Crowe sat at his desk, delving into the third historical case: an 1872 arson in Chicago. His Moleskine notebook lay open, key details circled in red marker, a steaming mug of coffee nearby. A Chicago police report, sourced from the Seattle Public Library, detailed a January 1872 fire at a West Side warehouse owned by Midwest Trading Co., just months after the Great Chicago Fire that had razed thousands of buildings and left countless homeless. The warehouse held cotton, grain, and timber, and its owner, 50-year-old merchant Henry Wilson, collected insurance after the blaze. The fire was deemed accidental—such incidents were common in the city’s chaotic recovery—but a 15-year-old boy named Elijah Smith, arrested for vagrancy, confessed that his “father,” a member of the “Starlight Foundation,” ordered him to set the warehouse ablaze for the insurance money. The 1872 investigators dismissed Elijah’s story, assuming he was lying since he couldn’t provide solid evidence or explain the organization’s purpose.

  Crowe used his “360 Method” to mentally recreate the scene in 1872 Chicago. He pictured a city in ruins, streets littered with debris, the air thick with smoke and ash. The Midwest Trading Co. warehouse stood as a large wooden structure with a faded sign, surrounded by barrels and carts. Under cover of night, 15-year-old Elijah, a scrawny boy in tattered clothes, his face smudged with dirt and eyes wide with fear, sneaked toward the warehouse with a kerosene lamp given by his “father,” 40-year-old William Crawford, a Starlight Foundation member. Elijah’s hands trembled as he poured kerosene onto the wooden floor, lit it, and fled as flames devoured the building. Crowe imagined investigators in brass-buttoned uniforms questioning Elijah in a cramped, tobacco-scented office, brushing off his words as a fabrication.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Crowe honed in on overlooked details. The report noted traces of a chemical resembling kerosene at the warehouse, but in 1872, kerosene was used for lighting and not considered an incendiary material—investigators assumed it came from a broken lamp. With modern knowledge, Crowe recognized kerosene as an ideal accelerant: it ignited quickly and left minimal evidence. The report also mentioned Midwest Trading Co.’s link to the Starlight Foundation, which Crowe knew from his Chicago research operated in the city post-Great Fire, buying land at bargain prices under a charitable facade. The 1872 investigators didn’t explore this connection, as the Foundation’s “orphan aid” cover deflected suspicion.

  Using his “chain of connections” technique, Crowe tied these clues together. New York records from 1873, copied in Chicago, revealed the Starlight Foundation used the insurance payout to buy land in Chicago, which later soared in value as the city rebuilt. Midwest Trading Co. was a shell company—its Chicago offices were empty, and Henry Wilson vanished after the payout. The arson was part of a larger scam: the Family used Elijah as a pawn, knowing his testimony would be ignored, while the shell company let them pocket the money without scrutiny.

  Crowe applied his “Mirror Game” to analyze their behavior. The Starlight Foundation chose Elijah, an orphan no one would believe, and assigned William Crawford as his “father,” a low-level coordinator. They used kerosene, knowing it wouldn’t raise suspicion in 1872, and set up a shell company to deflect scrutiny. Digging deeper, Crowe examined a Chicago insurance report from the library, uncovering that the agent, 35-year-old Edward Brown, had been bribed to expedite the payout—a financial trail the Family left behind, unnoticed in 1872 but obvious to Crowe.

  The 1872 investigators couldn’t solve the case—they didn’t understand kerosene’s incendiary properties, ignored Midwest Trading Co.’s ties to the Starlight Foundation, and didn’t check the insurance records. Chicago’s post-Great Fire chaos left police focused on order, not arsons, and the Foundation’s charitable facade shielded it. But Crowe cracked the case, pinning the report to his corkboard, circling the kerosene, shell company, and bribe in red marker.

  “Sorry, Elijah, that they didn’t believe you,” Crowe murmured, massaging his temples. “But I set the record straight after 133 years.”

  A knock at the door interrupted him. Tom Harris, the 41-year-old owner of Pioneer Pawn, stepped in with a paper bag, his short beard and flannel shirt exuding rugged warmth.

  “Still buried in those old papers, Crowe?” Tom asked, his tone friendly. “I brought you a burrito—you can’t work on an empty stomach.”

  Crowe grinned, taking the bag. “Thanks, Tom. I just solved an 1872 arson in Chicago. Want to hear about it?”

  Tom settled across from him, curiosity piqued. “You’re kidding—1872? Lay it on me!”

  Crowe gave a brief overview, showing Tom the report and notes. Tom shook his head in amazement. “You’re unreal, Crowe. But if this organization is still out there, you’d better watch your back—they don’t take kindly to people digging into their past.”

  “I know,” Crowe replied, his voice steady but serious. “But if I don’t expose them, who will?”

  In 2005, Seattle thrived: Microsoft geared up for new projects, and the Seattle International Film Festival drew crowds. But for Crowe, those were backdrop elements—more secrets awaited.