“Could be a tourist who just bought a shirt,” he said. I could tell he didn’t believe it. He was just making conversation. “Sorry, we couldn’t get here until dawn. There’s a forest fire near Happy Jack. It started late last night, and the chopper was being used to evacuate people.”
“Under control?” I asked. With the extremely low humidity and strong winds from the south, there had been dire warnings about the risk of a fire moving into the Flagstaff suburbs with the potential of massive destruction. Everyone in the county was worried about getting through the rest of the summer fire season.
“The Forest Service keeps four planes in the air every Saturday night to spot the new ones. The response was rapid, but it’s only about ten percent contained this morning. We know of three deaths, all three rangers who were sleeping at the Happy Jack Ranger Station. There are probably more bodies in the houses near Happy Jack and Stoneman Lake. No one has been able to get there yet.”
“He’s in Coconino County now,” I said, and the sheriff nodded. The Saturday Night Arsonist had been a curse to the state last summer in the White Mountains in the East Central part of the state. He started fires late on Saturday nights, especially when it was windy. There’d been tens of thousands of acres of lost forest fires and tens of millions of dollars spent on fighting the fires, but the statewide taskforce was no closer to catching the arsonist than after his first fire. His pattern was clear enough, but the 1.85 million acres of forest in Arizona gave him cover. If this fire were his work, it would be the eleventh fire he’d started in the past two summers. These were the first fatalities.
“Happy Jack is in the Sedona District so it will be your case, Mike. The State Crime Bureau technicians are going through the remains of the Happy Jack Ranger Station this morning, and the fire fighters are trying to reach Stoneman Lake. The state CSI didn’t want Jimmy Hendricks involved; they considered him too inexperienced. The state, other local jurisdictions, the White Mountain Apache Tribe, and the feds already have fifty men looking for this arsonist. You’re now the official representative of Coconino County on that taskforce. You’ve also got the first homicide cases on this guy. There are a lot of arson experts involved who can help, but they’re your murder cases.”
“What about this one?” I asked, pointing to the chained remains. “Can I have it too?” We were in the area covered by the Sheriff’s Department’s Tusayan District, not in my own Sedona District, but I wanted to work on it.
“Hell, you must have worked dozens of cases at a time in LA. I don’t see why you can’t have both. There doesn’t seem to be any connection between this victim and Tusayan. You’ve got it too.”
CHAPTER 3
Jimmy spent an hour near the body, dusting the bottles, the key, and the chain for prints and searching the area on his hands and knees, sifting the soil. He must have taken a hundred photos of the corpse and its surroundings. Finally he approached us and said, “We have excellent prints on the water jugs and chains. My guess is that they’re from the victim. The key was carefully cleaned, maybe with a strong solvent. We’ll get nothing in prints or DNA from it. I’d like to try the key now.”
The sheriff nodded, and we watched as Jimmy, his hands still in his gloves, cut the string and used the key to open the padlock. The chain fell away from the neck of the skeleton, and the skull and torso slumped to the ground. The carrion odor grew stronger and insects took flight from the disturbed body. Jimmy began to collect insects in small bottles from the remains.
“I brought Rick along to take your horses into town. I want you to fly to Flagstaff with us and drive down to Happy Jack as soon as we’re finished here,” Sheriff Taylor said. I knew our vacation was over when we found the body, but I wondered what Pete was going to do with his wife in Phoenix and me tied up on the arson case.
“I’d like to observe if you don’t mind sheriff. There’s a lot of fire danger in Santa Fe this year, and it will be interesting to see how these wildfire arson experts do their work,” Pete said.
“Of course, Chief. You’re very welcome. I’ll clear it with Major Ross who heads the state taskforce. Mike, please include your friend in any part of the investigation he’s interested in,” the sheriff said.
It was 9:15 when the helicopter lifted off. From the air, it was even more obvious that there was no easy approach to the murder site. One of the first things I’d need to check was horse rentals in the area. It was very unlikely that the victim and perp walked ten miles to that location carrying the heavy chain and water. If we could match the prints on the water jugs, we’d have a place to begin the search for motive. This was not a casual way to kill; there was clearly premeditation. Someone had forced or lured the victim to an extremely remote spot. They’d brought the chain, padlock, and water as part of their plan. It was either a kidnapping gone awry or a deliberate homicide.
In Flagstaff, the sheriff offered to have someone retrieve my Explorer from Williams to save time. Pete and I borrowed a motor pool Chrysler 200 and headed south on Lake Mary Road. Even in Flagstaff we could smell the smoke. The two-lane asphalt road was busy with official traffic and fire units.
I had not driven the road in months. I was shocked to see the low water level at Lower Lake Mary where helicopters were filling dangling canvas buckets. Upper Lake Mary was a dry grassy field with a small muddy area near the north end. When we reached Mormon Lake, usually the largest lake in the area, the impact of the drought was even more shocking. The lake was gone. The air was filled with smoke, and the black cloud was visible not far ahead. The completely dry Mormon Lake explained why the helicopters fighting the fire had flown all the way to Upper Mary Lake; it was the only water left in this part of the forest.
The deputies at a roadblock near the tiny community of Lakeview explained that the road was impassable a few miles south. The fire was burning on both sides of the narrow rural highway and far from being controlled. There was a major effort to prevent the inferno from destroying several small communities on the south side of Mormon Lake. We’d need to go around the fire by driving to Munds Park and taking Interstate 17 south to Forest Road 213 to the Stoneman Lake Exit. The deputies were not certain if that road was passable, but officers at the exit could tell us if that route was safe. The only alternative would be to drive on a very long detour south to Camp Verde and east to Clint’s Well in order to approach the fire from the south.
After a bumpy fifteen-mile ride to the Interstate and a quick drive south, we found a roadblock at the exit to Stoneman Lake. It was manned by two deputes from my own office. They explained that the fire had burned through the road less than ten miles away. They didn’t know if fallen trees or other debris had blocked the road, but the danger from the fire itself had probably passed. They understood that there were a lot of still smoldering trees and buildings. Teams of firefighters, including four trucks from Sedona had driven down the road two hours earlier to try and reach Stoneman Lake.
We decided that it would be safe enough to follow the firefighters. We drove the poorly maintained dirt road toward the billowing black clouds whose lower levels were tinted orange by the flames of the burning forest. The wind was blowing from the south at twenty miles an hour taking the black clouds and the unrestrained fire toward Flagstaff.
We drove from valley grassland and juniper areas that had not been affected by fire into the ponderosa forest, which starts about 6,500 feet. About a mile into the dense trees we crossed an area of smoldering grass and debris on the forest floor where the large trees had not been burned. It was an area where forest thinning had prevented the fire from having the fuel load needed to become a crown fire that could destroy the largest ponderosas. Thinning the forest to prevent crown fires was a project that had been going on for years, but it would take many decades to undo the damage from a century of poor forest management practices.
After another two miles, we came to a Sedona Fire Department truck pulled to the side of the road. I knew the chief of the crew, and he explained tha
t other units were clearing the road to Stoneman Lake. It could not be reached from the south because of the number of trees down between Happy Jack and the lake. The lake area was one of the worst hit sections of the forest where every house had been destroyed in the first hour of the fire. Helicopters had been used to rescue a few survivors, but the only fire fighting in that area had been from the air. I asked if there was any way to get to the point of origin of the fire, but they didn’t know.
It now seemed impossible to get directly to the remains of the Happy Jack Ranger Station on our current route, but we decided to continue to Stoneman Lake and see that area before backtracking for the long detour. We entered an area where every surface was covered with the ash of the destroyed forest. Trees were still burning on either side, and there was evidence of recent clearing of fallen trees to open the path for fire fighting equipment.
We continued on for several miles through the smoldering forest of black snags until we reached Stoneman Lake. I pulled off the road, passing several totally destroyed houses, toward a highpoint to get a view of the lake before we turned around to retrace our route back to the Interstate. We saw only a black oval depression without a trace of visible water, but in the center of that bleak wasteland there was an ash-covered bump in the shape of a sedan.
“There’s a car,” Pete said, “Let’s go.”
I drove us down a ramp into the dry lake and within seconds we pulled to a stop near the vehicle. In front of the abandoned car lay two black human figures, embracing like the long-buried remains of the residents of Pompeii.
“They’re breathing,” Pete said, and I rushed to get the first aid kit from the trunk of the borrowed Chrysler 200. The kit had a small bottle of oxygen, which Pete began to administer while I used the radio to call for helicopter evacuation of the unconscious survivors. Two one-gallon jugs of water sat on the black muddy ground near them. The scene reminded me of the jugs we’d discovered the previous day with the remains in Cataract Creek. The unconscious couple had used wet towels to protect their faces from the smoke, and that may have saved them. We cleaned the ash from their faces. Neither person was burned, but they were suffering from the effects of smoke and near suffocation. The man seemed to be awake but delirious, talking of hobos and freight trains.
CHAPTER 4
In less then five minutes, a Sedona Fire Department water tanker arrived, and the firefighters began to assist the couple as we waited for their evacuation. I knew the crew chief, Aaron Pearson; he’d been with the Sedona Fire Department for many years, and we saw each other regularly at St. Paul of Tarsus Catholic Church. I introduced him to Pete, and they shook hands. It was clear that Aaron thought it was strange to find the Santa Fe Police Chief in the middle of the Happy Jack fire devastation.
“I’m sure glad to find survivors. We rushed here as soon as we got the satellite phone call from your office in Sedona. The couple’s vital signs are pretty good. We’re administrating oxygen to both of them. Whatever possessed you to drive to the lake overview? We drove right past on the road without looking into the dry lakebed,” Aaron said.
That was a question without an easy answer. Why did I drive toward Stoneman Lake even though the roadblock deputes had said it was not likely that we could get through to Happy Jack? Why did I drive to the only lake overview from which the ash-covered car could be seen? It was not the first time that I had the feeling of being helped by an unseen power. “Just a lucky break, Aaron. We’re going to Happy Jack Ranger Station to investigate the deaths of those three rangers,” I said.
“We’ve almost got that road cleared. It should be open in half an hour,” Aaron said.
Waiting would be a lot faster than the two hour drive around to reach the area from the south. “What do you know about the fire’s origins? Pete and I were on a camping trip, and we’ve not been to a taskforce briefing yet. I was assigned to the arson taskforce only a few hours ago.”
“I talked to a Payson firefighter by phone. They drove through the origin on the way to fight the fire from the south. It looked to him like it started simultaneously over a half-mile wide front very close to the ranger station. The fire started on both sides of the road, making escape to the south impossible. With last night’s strong winds, there was no way to outrun the fire on foot. It was damn sure not a campfire or lightning strike,” Aaron said.
“And it started on Saturday night again,” I said. “We’ve got to stop this maniac.”
Captain Harry Horn, second ranking to the sheriff in the department, represented the sheriff’s department on the Arizona Division of Emergency Management’s taskforce. He’d been part of the practice drills at the Emergency Operations Center at the Flagstaff Law Enforcement Administration Facility, and he’d also attended the weekly arson review meetings.
The coordination and planning effort had grown from the experience of the 2002 Rodeo-Chediski fire. It was the worst natural disaster in Arizona history. The arson-caused fire destroyed a huge area of forest in the White Mountains and burned hundreds of homes. This Happy Jack fire was the first arson in Coconino County by the Saturday Night Arsonist. His fires had been a huge news story for two summers, but I knew details were often withheld from the press. I’d need to talk with Horn tomorrow and get an update.
We waited about twenty minutes for the Flagstaff Medical Center helicopter to arrive. It had been busy on another flight when we called. While we were waiting, I checked the ash-covered Honda and found that it was registered to Martin and Nadine McPhee of Scottsdale. The couple was being treated for smoke inhalation, and occasionally, I could hear a desperate hacking cough from the woman. The man seemed conscious but disoriented. The woman was dressed in a silk nightgown, now covered with mud and ash. It was not the sort of night clothing a camper would wear, and all camping was currently prohibited because of fire danger. I assumed that the couple was staying at a nearby house. Not a single house was still standing within sight of the lake. They’d been very lucky to escape the racing firestorm.
This far from a paved road, the houses around the lake had been summer homes. It would be difficult to reach Stoneman Lake in a winter that had a normal level of snow. One hundred and ten inches was about average at this altitude, but this past winter, we had a meager twenty inches.
Five years of below normal precipitation had caused a serious problem with bark beetles. The ponderosa and piñon didn’t have enough sap to fight the tiny insects. Already, about twenty percent of the forest was dying from the combination of drought and beetle infestation. There were too many dead trees to remove, and those dead trees had greatly increased the fire risk. This summer, the state was in its highest fire risk level in history.
The helicopter landed in a tornado of ash and grit. Mr. and Mrs. McPhee were loaded, and the chopper took off in another whirl of ash. Aaron suggested that we follow the fire truck as they finished clearing the road to Happy Jack. During the half hour drive, we didn’t see a single house that had survived. Even a house built of concrete blocks with a metal roof was destroyed. The fire’s temperature was so high that the interior walls and furnishings had burst into flames leaving only the concrete block shell. I didn’t know which house had belonged to the McPhees, but they were very smart to have taken refuge in the dry lake. It was the only place that we passed where someone could have survived.
When the final fallen tree was removed from the Stoneman Lake Road, we turned south on Lake Mary Road and headed for the remains of the ranger station less than half a mile away. The smoldering trees lined both sides of the road. To serve as a firebreak, trees thirty feet on either side of the Lake Mary Road had been removed in a forest thinning last year, but this fire had started on both sides of the road simultaneously. Driven by a strong wind from the south, the firestorm had raced north through a wide arch. I was no expert on wild land fire, but this one was remarkable for the nearly instantaneous start across a wide front.
We encountered a Phoenix National Guard unit on Lake Mary Road. The serg
eant directed us to a team from the state crime lab that was working on the point of origin near the remains of the ranger station. We got out near the circle of vehicles, and I saw a face I recognized. It was Major Todd Ross who headed the taskforce. He’s deputy commander of the state police, and he’d been appointed by the governor to stop this arsonist. For two years, he’d been the only spokesperson allowed to brief the press regarding the case. He’s a tall soft-spoken Texan with an air of competence and a manner that instills confidence. I’d never met him. Pete and I walked up and introduced ourselves.
“Lieutenant Damson and Chief Aguilar, I’ve been expecting you. We’ve got a triple homicide for you to investigate. It looks to me like it was a deliberate attempt to kill everyone at the ranger station. Let me show you what we’ve found so far,” Major Ross said. We got in his Jeep, and he drove into the forest.
“Any other bodies found yet?” I asked as we bumped along through the unburned forest south of the fire’s origin.
“No, but there’re likely to be additional victims in the destroyed houses. At least twenty-five houses burned between Happy Jack and Stoneman Lake. Most were empty because of the hiking and fishing restrictions this year. There shouldn’t have been any campers. It’s not allowed this summer.”
“We found a couple named Martin and Nadine McPhee in the dry bed of Stoneman Lake on our way here. They were taken to Flagstaff Medical Center with smoke inhalation and exposure problems,” I said.
“I envy you in finding someone alive. I was first on the scene of the dead rangers,” Major Ross said, his soft Texas voice, accented with sadness.
“I haven’t been part of your taskforce so all I know about this arsonist is what I’ve read in the paper. He hasn’t deliberately tried to kill anyone before last night has he?” I asked.
“I’ll get you a complete profile and investigation file by tomorrow, Mike. It’s one of those progressing crimes; each event is more serious. He started by tossing a common road flare into a pile of brush near Hannagan Meadow in Greenlee County. That was over a year ago. The Hannagan Meadow fire was only a few acres because the area was damp from a late spring rain. Next, he started two fires at once near Alpine in Apache County. That incident destroyed over a hundred acres. He did it on a windy night in late May. He’d discovered the advantage of waiting for wind and having more than one point of origin. We’d caught onto his MO, and we were watching from the air every Saturday night. We almost apprehended him when he set three fires one night near Cedar Creek on the Fort Apache Indian Reservation.”
The Arson at Happy Jack Page 2