The Arson at Happy Jack

by Charles Williamson

  “That’s interesting, but if I wanted to try and separate the crimes in the mind of the police, I might have hotwired it when I decided to dump it on the reservation,” she said.

  “And you know how to hotwire a truck?” I asked.

  “Everything is on the Internet nowadays,” she said with a grin.

  When I described finding the sale of spray paint at the Flagstaff Wal-Mart, Margaret asked, “Is there something special about green?”

  “I noticed it was in the Saudi flag. I think it means something special in Islam. Maybe that supports my theory that the fires are caused by a terrorist cell.”

  “Or maybe it’s just a color that’s not easy to see in a ponderosa forest,” Margaret said with a smile. “There are still too many maybes, but I think you’re on the right track.”

  We stood up and walked over to the large windows that covered the whole north side of the room. In daylight, they overlooked the majestic bulk of Wilson Mountain. The windows were splattered with rain. The few drops we could see wouldn’t lower the fire danger much, but they were the first moisture in Sedona in ninety days.

  Margaret had been reading about Islam in her spare time, and she described what she’d learned as we sat close together on the couch. I was especially interested in the split between Sunni and Shiite, which occurred more than a thousand years ago. It still seemed relevant to the relationships between NAU Muslim students today. We continued our discussion until 10:00.

  “The news is on. Let’s see what’s happening up in Flagstaff,” she said.

  Channel Twelve showed their regular weatherman standing in a slight drizzle with a big grin. His short black hair glistened with the sheen of moisture. He was explaining that the first monsoon storm of the season had arrived. It had moved through town so quickly that the sustained winds forecast for tonight didn’t actually last long. The front had brought less than a quarter of an inch of precipitation to Flagstaff, but the higher humidity and cooler temperatures would greatly help the firefighters. Hot shot fire crews were returning to the fire’s front lines now that the strongest winds had passed through the area. Currently, there were fifteen mile an hour winds in Flagstaff with a temperature of 60 degrees.

  The temperature had also dropped quickly in Sedona as the front sped through. Now, our sky was clear with a quarter moon lighting the starry night. Margaret opened the windows to bring in the smells of wet junipers and piñon pines. We went to bed in a good mood and celebrated the start of the monsoon.

  CHAPTER 27

  The optimism of the previous evening’s news was gone when we listened to the morning forecast over breakfast. The Phoenix ABC station reported that a line of monsoon fronts was positioned over the Sea of Cortez, but they were expected to drop their moisture over the southern half of the state. They would be mostly wind and lightning when they reached the area of the Happy Jack fire. The fire lines south of Flagstaff had held overnight, and crews were working aggressively to contain the fire, but it would take more than the quarter of an inch of rain from last night to provide significant help.

  When I got to the office at 7:30, I called Muhammad al-Mukhtar at his home number in Phoenix. I wanted to make arrangements to talk with him in person so that I’d have a better opportunity to judge his reactions to my questions. I got no answer at his apartment, but when I called his mother, she provided the name and address of his employer, an art and antique dealer in an upscale Scottsdale mall. Muhammad drove the delivery van, polished antique furniture, and cleaned up the gallery. It was a two-hour drive in each direction, but I decided it was worth the time.

  Chad and I left for Scottsdale at 8:00 so that we’d arrive at the gallery when it opened at 10:00. He drove so that I could make some calls.

  As we drove up out of the Verde Valley on I-17, I called Linda Surrett to see if she had any information about the list of NAU students that I’d faxed to her. “Mike, we’ve decided to open files on Hamad al-Subayyal and Ibrahim ibn-Mazin based on your information that they’re showing tapes of radical clerics at meetings in their house. I’ve gotten approval to bug their Friday evening meetings and have an Arabic speaker standing by to explain what’s being said,” she said.

  “Hold up here Linda. Has Major Ross or Sheriff Taylor asked for FBI assistance on these cases?”

  “It’s out of my hands now. Once I started asking about the NAU students for you, the special agent in charge of Arizona got involved. He’s not going to be left out. The idea of a terrorist cell causing deliberate arson scares everyone. I found that the Phoenix office created a report on that scenario soon after 9-11, and they’ve done significant research on it. Most of the western states are suffering from a four or five year drought. The FBI is on this case, like it or not.”

  There wasn’t a thing I could do about it, but I thought Major Ross and Sheriff Taylor would not be happy with me for bringing in the Feds. “Did your files hold anything useful on anyone at NAU?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “The embassies are doing a much better job of screening applications for student visas. If we had anything on a student, he’d never get in. Something did pop up on Ahmed Khan of Kabul, Afghanistan, but I don’t think it’s significant.”

  “He’s the president of the Muslim Student Association. He’s been cooperating with us,” I said. “Why did he show up?”

  “We’re anxious to assist Afghanistan in building a well-trained cadre of administrators to help with economic development. The Afghan ambassador approved Khan’s entry even though he wasn’t really born in Kabul. He was born to Afghan refugees in one of the Pakistani frontier provinces. It’s an area of almost no government, and there are no records of his birth,” she said. “That’s not unusual in Afghanistan.”

  “He seems pretty normal to me, but thanks for mentioning it and thanks for your help,” I said.

  Next, I called Sheriff Taylor to let him know that the FBI was getting itself involved. He didn’t seem surprised and volunteered to call Major Ross and explain how it happened.

  About noon we arrived at the shopping center on Scottsdale Road where the Grand Mogul Art Emporium and a dozen other expensive stores were located. The shopping center is designed to look like a Venetian Palace on the Grand Canal. Margaret had persuaded me to stop on one of our trips to Scottsdale, but we didn’t find anything in the whole shopping center we wanted and could afford. Chad avoided the valet underground parking and put the Explorer in a sunny spot behind the building. I almost gasped as we stepped out of the vehicle. Last night’s storm had increased the humidity, and the morning sun had brought the temperature to over 100. The forecast was for 116 degrees by 5:00. We both wore sports coats to cover our shoulder holsters.

  We walked past a white delivery van with the name Mogul Emporium written in elaborate green script next to a stylized drawing of an Indian palace. “It looks like Mohammed is not out making a delivery. It will be nice to see his reaction when we show up,” Chad said.

  “I think he’s resentful of anyone representing secular authority. He hung up on me the only time I spoke with him,” I said.

  “How does a normal American kid from Flagstaff, Arizona end up calling himself Muhammad al-Mukhtar and bowing toward Mecca five times a day?” Chad asked.

  “Muhammad has the unconditional right to believe anything he wants. There’s a big difference between a belief and an illegal action. The founding fathers were very wise to insist on religious tolerance,” I said.

  “We tolerate crackpots unless they advocate killing the rest of us,” Chad said.

  “The American colonies were historically the center of some fairly radical religious beliefs. The Puritans were not that different than the Taliban in wanting a theocratic government and allowing no disagreement with their creed,” I said.

  “Bullshit, Mike. Sometimes, I can’t tell when you’re kidding.”

  I didn’t comment further.

  The antique and art store was very opulent. When Margaret and I wandered through
it on my only previous visit to the shopping center, I had not seen a single object for sale without a comma in the price.

  The proprietor, Mr. Ari, was a short man with a distinguished mustache. “Would you like to discuss something in my office gentlemen,” he said, indicating that he was certain that we were not customers.

  We introduced ourselves and asked to speak with Muhammad. Ari nodded in understanding and took us to a back room where a young man was polishing a dresser. The room smelled of leather and lemon oil and was packed with ornate furniture and wooden boxes.

  Muhammad was athletic, in a long distance runner sort of way. He had that very blond hair that’s almost white when cut short. He looked like the Arian example in some pre WWII German poster. I knew he would be a sophomore in college next year, but he appeared younger. He had a masculine, squared-jawed face, and I understood how Ashley Campbell could have had a crush on him.

  “Muhammad, I’m Mike Damson. I spoke with you about Zayd Jabran on Monday. This is my partner Chad Archer.” He nodded without saying anything. Mr. Ari withdrew from the room, and I continued. “You offered to do anything you could to help find Zayd’s killer when I spoke to you. We’re here to talk about that.”

  “I don’t have to say anything to you. You can’t torture me like you do the Muslims you capture overseas,” he said.

  “We’re not here on any kind of political or religious matter. We’re looking for the murderer of a friend of yours,” I replied.

  “Maybe you’re keeping quiet because you killed the guy,” Chad said. “I think you’d better talk to us or you’ll jump to the top of the suspect list.”

  Muhammad said nothing and moved a step closer to the door to the showroom. “Please tell us anything you can remember about Zayd and about his truck,” I said.

  “He had a white truck. He was a nice guy that was teaching me Arabic, but I didn’t know much about him. I have an errand to do. That’s all I know.” He took another step toward the door, and Chad moved and parked his considerable college-football-player bulk directly in front of the only door.

  “Perhaps we can sit and talk awhile,” I said. I carefully sat on a flimsy French Empire chair and gestured for Muhammad to take the one across from it.

  He stared at me for a few seconds and then sat. “I liked Zayd. I guess I’ll help if I can, but I really don’t know anything about his death.”

  “Did you see Zayd’s truck in Flagstaff anytime after school was out? It might have been painted green. It might have carried an ATV in the back,” I said.

  “No. The last time I saw it was the last time he came to my house for a tutoring session, the Thursday before school was out. I never saw him with an ATV. Actually, I don’t think he approved of ATV’s because he thought they damaged the ecosystem.”

  “You gave me a list of names of friends of Zayd,” I said. “We’ve talked to all of them without learning much. No one could come up with a reason for his murder. You were meeting with him twice a week so he must have said things about his personal life. Can you think of a motive? Did you sense that something was changing in his religious life?”

  Muhammad’s expression changed to a hard stare, and he looked directly at me and said, “Zayd was a person of faith. I’m certain his faith would never waiver. He was killed by the Christians and Zionists like thousands of other Muslims. The Christians have been at war with the faithful for a thousand years. You’re looking in the wrong places if you only talk to Muslims, if you only talk to Zayd’s friends.”

  “You mentioned a young lady named Ashley that Zayd skied with regularly last winter. We were able to locate her. She’s Ashley Campbell, one of your neighbors. You grew up in the Country Club neighborhood a few blocks apart. In fact, you attended the same grade school, and her mother said she had a crush on you for years. Why did you pretend not to know her last name?” This was the real reason I’d driven to Scottsdale. I wanted to observe his reaction first hand. Muhammad had the look of a captured animal staring from a cage at the Phoenix Zoo. He looked at the door to see if Chad was still standing in front of it. He was.

  “I think you know Ashley Campbell well. I think you were aware that Zayd was attending church services with her every Sunday,” I said in a quiet but confident voice.

  Muhammad said nothing; he looked at his feet. I repeated the question, trying persuasion and then my most assertive tone, which some people think can be intimidating. Muhammad said nothing. He seemed to be praying quietly to himself in Arabic. I tried a dozen other questions, but he did not answer or even acknowledge my presence. I wanted to take him back to the Coconino County Jail and let him spend a few days thinking about his lack of answers, but we had nothing to hold him on. After fifteen minutes of listening to his Arabic prayer in answer to every question, Chad and I left.

  CHAPTER 28

  We stopped for lunch at the Persian restaurant in the same shopping center before beginning the return drive. In Flagstaff, I wanted to go by REI where Ashley worked for a little chat with Zayd’s girlfriend without her dad’s sermons and about her relationship with Muhammad. Maybe I’d learn something that Muhammad was not willing to discuss. I also wanted to spend more time with the members of the Muslim Student Association at NAU. Someone must know something about Zayd’s abduction.

  We sat next to a splashing fountain surrounded by colorful tropical fish in wall-sized aquariums and enjoyed our lunches. The food was excellent, but thirty-five dollars apiece was a lot more than we could put on our expense reimbursements.

  As soon as we stepped out of the mall, the astonishing heat smashed into our faces. We’d left the Explorer parked in the noonday sun for almost two hours. Even though it’s white, the inside temperature was extraordinarily high. It was painful to touch the steering wheel as I navigated toward Loop 101 that would take us back to I-17 and out of the oven that the local Chamber of Commerce calls the Valley of the Sun. In July it can feel like you reside on the sun. Sedona at 4,500 feet is usually 15 degrees cooler, and Flagstaff at 7,000 feet is often 25 degrees cooler.

  The drive to Flagstaff was hot and dull, but it gave us a chance to discuss the cost reduction initiatives in detail. Chad had never had any reason to pay much attention to the budget because I always prepared it with Rose’s help. I described the major expense categories and explained what the proposed reductions would do to each. His reaction was that it would not be much fun to work there with no discretionary money and a lot of his friends gone.

  As we began the steep descent into the Verde Valley, the ominous black cloud rising from the forest south of Flagstaff reminded me of the urgency of our investigation. An electric highway sign in Camp Verde reported that drivers should expect long delays on Interstate 40 east of Flagstaff because of smoke. The Happy Jack fire was far from being extinguished or even controlled.

  As we passed the Sedona exit, a sign indicated that Highway 89A through Oak Creek Canyon was closed except for local traffic. Residents of Oak Creek Canyon and Sedona residents who commuted to work up in Flagstaff would be given special permits that allowed them to pass through the road blocks without stopping. Tourists with reservations at one of the Oak Creek Canyon motels and delivery trucks would be allowed to proceed after stopping to show proof. All other traffic would be diverted back to the Interstate. The rules were similar to those used in the 2002 fire season.

  I felt my grip on the steering wheel relax some as we passed the sign. Now that we’d eliminated the risk of the arsonist starting another fire east of I-17, it was just a matter of controlling the current inferno. As we climbed toward Flagstaff, other signs indicated that all forest access was closed. I saw roadblocks at several exits. They would involve a lot of overtime and further wreck the Sheriff’s Department budget.

  When we reached the REI camping, biking, and hiking equipment store just off Butler Avenue, we parked and went to find Ashley. The REI store was almost empty except for the five sales associates and a manager, and Ashley agreed to have a cup of coffee acros
s the street at the Wildflower Bakery and discuss Muhammad al-Mukhtar.

  “Ashley, we’ve just come from interviewing Muhammad, and he was not at all cooperative. It was when I mentioned you that he shut up completely. He didn’t admit that he even knew your name. Do you think he might have been involved in Zayd’s murder? He certainly made himself a key suspect by his attitude.”

  Ashley’s expression showed a range of reactions beginning with surprise and ranging through annoyance and doubt. She ended with a frown. “I’ve known him since before I began grade school. The neighborhood had a lot of new homes and young families then, and the kids all ran around the area playing tag and riding bikes. I know Tommy about as well as I’ve ever known anyone except members of my family and my one true love, Zayd. We were close until about three years ago when he converted and started calling himself Muhammad. After that my dad wouldn’t let me have any contact with him because he’d become an agent of Satan.” A hint of sarcasm about her father’s opinion shaded the agent of Satan comment. There was more to Ashley than the scatterbrained blonde façade.

  “And you stopped all contact with him three years ago?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” she said with a slight grin. The grin made me suspect that seeing Muhammad was not the only thing she did that her father didn’t know about. I’d never had a daughter, and it was a good thing because I would have been overprotective.

  I waited for her to elaborate while watching her closely. There was something peculiar in her relationship with Muhammad, and I waited for her to explain.

  “We kept in touch even after he started the home-schooling. There’s a place in the woods where I’d often find him reading. He didn’t have any other friends. Most people thought he was too weird, but we stayed pretty close. He wanted me to convert, and I studied Islam a little trying to understand what he saw in it. I never did understand why it attracted him. I do know he was infatuated with the Islamic State and the possibility of sharia law being enforced over the whole Islamic world.”