The Arson at Happy Jack

by Charles Williamson

  “Do you know who’s involved for sure now? I think it’s Muhammad. He was in love with Ashley and probably killed Zayd out of a combination of jealousy and a perversion of Islamic religious belief. I’ve wondered about him since you first mentioned him.”

  “You’re right. I got the first strong evidence that he was involved in Zayd’s murder this afternoon. A friend of one of the murdered rangers sent me an e-mail that he received last Saturday. It mentioned a mutual friend from grade school that the ranger had seen that day driving a truck with an ATV in it, Tommy Gunderson. The state police are picking him up this evening. I’m not certain who was helping him, maybe his boss Mr. Ali. Chad is in Scottsdale to talk to him.”

  I explained the discussion at the taskforce meeting and my request to further restrict traffic through Oak Creek Canyon. At 7:30, Chad called.

  “Mike, I haven’t been able to find Mr. Ali. The store is closed and a sign says it has been closed indefinitely because of a family emergency. I traced Ali to his neighborhood in Echo Canyon. It’s a gated community on the west edge of Camelback Mountain. The guard who mans the gate tried calling him, but no one answered. The guard was certain that Ali hadn’t come home this evening. Since there’s only one entrance, he couldn’t have missed him. Maybe the state police picked him up. I assume they got Muhammad because his car was still in the parking lot even though the store was closed.”

  “According to the FBI report, Mr. Ali has no family in the US. His wife died years ago. Maybe he’s gone to get a lawyer for Mohammad, or maybe he’s decided this is not a good time to stay in the US. I wish we had an APB on him, but it’s not my call. The taskforce decided there weren’t grounds to hold him. You should come back to Sedona. I plan to stay up and see if anything happens tonight. Give me a call when you get back to town.”

  Margaret and I continued discussing the case until I received a second call at 8:00. It was an agitated call from Sheriff Taylor who insisted that I come to his office to discuss the expense reduction project in person.

  CHAPTER 37

  I respected Sheriff Taylor’s desire to discuss my leaving the department in person, but I didn’t relish spending two hours in the Explorer driving to his office and two more to get back home. At least when I returned, 89A might not be as jammed with traffic. I didn’t expect to sleep until it was clear that no new wildfires were started tonight. At the time I believed that the risk for a new arson fire was low because the state police had Muhammad in custody.

  “Will you call me after your meeting with the sheriff? I don’t want to wait till you get home to hear about it,” Margaret said.

  “Sure,” I said. Margaret was very much a part of my career decisions, and she should be the first to know when my leaving the department would be announced. “My cell phone doesn’t work in most of Oak Creek Canyon, but I can call you as soon as I leave the Law Enforcement Administration Building. After my meeting, I’ll go by the command center for the Happy Jack fire and see what’s happening. They’re in the same building. I’ll put the patio umbrellas and cushions away before I leave. There should be a strong wind with tonight’s monsoon storm.”

  The drive to Flagstaff was a stressful stop and go trip with a constant stream of headlights glaring in my face as they emerged from the smoke. I noticed several more stalled cars that had been pushed into turnouts along the narrow winding road. None had been removed in the last few hours, probably because access was so poor that any attempt to tow a car was impossible until the traffic dissipated in the middle of the night. My only surprise was to find every motel in Sedona and along Highway 89A displaying no vacancy signs. Enough people had gotten frustrated with the drive to give up for the night even though the area was choked with smoke and noisy with the constant traffic.

  Two hours later, I found every light still on at the Flagstaff Law Enforcement Building. It was going to be a late night for a lot of people. It was 10:20, and the sheriff’s TV was turned on to the weather when I reached his office. He motioned me in, and we listened to the last two minutes of the forecast. A very strong monsoon storm was expected in Flagstaff after midnight. Thirty to forty mile an hour winds from the south combined with lightning should buffet the Sedona/Flagstaff area, but there was only a 25% chance of measurable precipitation.

  The sheriff looked grim. “I got some other bad news a few minutes ago. The state police have issued an all points bulletin for Tommy Gunderson, AKA Muhammad al-Mukhtar. When they went to pick him up, the antique store was closed. He’s not at his apartment or at his parents’ house.”

  “Has anyone been able to find Ali Jumblatt? Chad couldn’t locate him at his store in Scottsdale or at his house in Echo Canyon,” I said.

  “I don’t think anyone is trying to pick up this Mr. Ali yet. I talked with Special Agent Timber this evening, and he’s still not willing to go after him. It’s a public relations issue with the Islamic community in Phoenix. Ali can claim he forgot that Muhammad left early last Saturday, and there’s nothing else to hold him on. With an APB for Mohammad and tonight’s TV coverage, we should find him soon.” There was no real optimism in his tone. If they’d left Arizona, it could be a long hunt for the two men.

  “What was said on the evening news?” I asked.

  “It was actually kind of funny. Agent Timber gave an interview regarding the Khans’ murders that was taped earlier today. He spoke to the press before you blew the case open with your e-mail that connected Muhammad to the crime scene at the start of the Happy Jack fire. Major Ross gave a later interview that gave you and the Coconino County Sheriff’s Department credit for identifying Muhammad al-Mukhtar. It made Agent Timber seem really out of touch. I was only sorry that we didn’t have a recent photo of Muhammad in time for the newscasts.”

  “If his parents won’t give you one, maybe you could get one from Ashley Campbell,” I said.

  “You asked me to put surveillance on the Campbells, but no one is at their home. They may have evacuated. About half the Continental Country Club residents have already left. I should have moved some important things to a safe place by now, but I can’t convince my wife to do anything until an evacuation order for our block is official. So far it has only included the two blocks south of our house. She just doesn’t believe the fire will reach town,” he said. It reminded me of how much disruption the Happy Jack fire was still causing. The shift of wind had lowered the danger to south Flagstaff, but winds can change quickly. Tonight’s storm was coming from the south pushed by very strong winds.

  “If Muhammad has made a run for it, he’ll go to a Muslim country and hope to disappear. If he gets support from an organized terrorist group, we may never get him,” I said.

  “I agree. We’re unlikely to see him again in Coconino County. Good work on this case, Mike. The taskforce has been working on this one for a year, and you’ve only been on the case a week,” he said. There was a pause as he sorted the two expense proposals to the top of the pile of papers on his desk.

  “Mike, I knew what this proposal was really about as soon as I saw it.” He looked directly at me with his grey eyes. He focused on my face looking for any reaction. “I know that you plan to run against me, and I admit you’ll probably win. I’m not getting along with the county commissioners, and you’ve got a great record and reputation. I figure that finding the Saturday Night Arsonist puts you over the top.”

  I tried to keep my poker face. Running for sheriff in Coconino County had never crossed my mind. I didn’t say anything in response.

  “I know you’d hate this job once you got it. It’s full of political BS that you have no patience for, and you’d have to raise a lot of money for the campaign.”

  He picked up the pages that contained my proposed expense reduction. “This proposal is silly. Of course, I can’t cut you as part of a cost reduction. I’d be the laughing stock of every lawman in the state. With thirty years of experience on the LAPD, you solved more murder cases than every law enforcement officer in northern Arizon
a combined. In only three years in Arizona, you solved the Secret Mountain murders; you got a lot of good PR on that murder case in Santa Fe; you cleaned up that mess at the Grand Canyon; and you rescued me up on the Arizona Strip even after I suspended you. Now, you’ve solved the worst arson case in state’s history in only a week.”

  I certainly had no interest in being sheriff. He was correct about me hating the politics of it, and if he had a hard time getting along with the county commissioners, I would have no hope of working with them. I decided to say nothing and see where this was going. I hoped my poker face was still working.

  “I’d like to offer you a deal that is better than being sheriff.” He tossed the expense cut documents into a trash can. “Forget that I even mentioned expense cuts. I’ll work something out at the other offices. If you’ll stay with the department, I’ll make you Chief of Criminal Investigations. Chad will become the lieutenant in charge of the Sedona office, but you can maintain your office down there if you prefer. As CCI you’ll get to assign the investigator for every serious crime in the county’s jurisdiction. You can keep all the good ones yourself, and I promise to never say a word. I know what you really like is the investigation and the pursuit, and you’re fantastically good at it. This is a better deal for you Mike and Chad is a winner too. I know it’s not about money, but you’ll be a captain, and I can come up with some more salary.”

  He had me once he tossed the expense reduction documents in the trash. How could I possibly let all of those Sedona people be cut when he was offering an alternative? The main reason that I had been considering leaving was boredom, and now he was telling me I could take every interesting case in the county. I paused as if thinking things over for nearly a minute. “I will not run for sheriff next year or any other time that you run, and I’d be happy to accept the role of Chief of Criminal Investigations.”

  I was rewarded with a big smile. He rose, and we shook hands. “I’d like you and Chad to join me at the meeting of the county commissioners at 9:00 on Monday. I’ll announce your promotions.”

  CHAPTER 38

  I stood outside of the sheriff’s office in a daze for a few seconds. This turn of events had never occurred to me, and it took a bit to sort it out. As I walked down the hall toward the Arson Taskforce headquarters, I got out my cell phone and called Margaret. She laughed at my account of maintaining my poker face and leaving the sheriff with the assumption that he’d taken an important rival out of his next reelection campaign. She was very pleased about Chad’s promotion and convinced that CCI was the perfect job for me.

  I called Chad’s cell phone. He was stuck in traffic on I-17 on his way back from Scottsdale. I told him the good news.

  “That’s the perfect outcome Mike. You’ll still be around to help me manage the Sedona office until I get more experience, and we’ll be working together on important cases. Best of all, I don’t have to take over a demoralized office with nothing in the budget and a fight for every extra nickel. I’ll bet you plan to be up all night. Why don’t you meet me at the Sedona office for a celebration drink? We can wait out the storm and see if there’s another fire set anywhere in the state tonight. Neither of us has to get up early tomorrow.”

  There was no way Margaret would let me miss Sunday mass two weeks in a row, so I’d need to get up in time for church, but I agreed to meet Chad about 1:00. I told him the bad news about Muhammad not being found by the state police. Chad was upbeat about our prospects of finding him. He’s such an optimist that he’s a pleasure to work with, but in this case, I suspected that Muhammad was long gone.

  “By morning, we should have his photo on the news; someone in Arizona can help if he’s still in the state,” I said.

  “Ali Jumblatt must be involved even if the FBI gave him a clean report. He lied to you about Muhammad being at work,” Chad said.

  “You’re right. I’ll make another effort to get Ali included in the APB. There’s a chance there are more members to this terrorist cell, and Ali would be a good one to interrogate about that. I’ll call my friend on the anti-terrorist taskforce of the FBI. Maybe she can get some action.” I thought there was a good chance that Linda Surrett would ignore Mr. Ali’s business connections and local reputation, and she has the clout to overrule the local FBI office. She was the toughest law enforcement officer I’d ever known.

  My call to Linda’s home was answered after a few rings by her pissed off voice saying, “I’m going to flay you alive if this isn’t important.”

  “Linda, it’s Mike Damson. I have a favor to ask.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me Mike? Do you know it’s nearly 2:00 in Washington?” Linda credits me with saving her life so she gives me a little slack.

  “We’ve identified the Saturday Night Arsonist. He’s an American Muslim student at NAU who grew up in Flagstaff. He works at an art and antique store called the Grand Mogul Art Emporium in Scottsdale, and his boss has been providing a false alibi for a time we now know he wasn’t at work. I’ve been turned down in my request to have the store owner taken into custody, and I’d like you to overrule that based on national security concerns.”

  “Why were you turned down if you really have proof the guy was providing an alibi?” she asked.

  “The sheriff told me it was a matter of public relations between the Phoenix Islamic Community and the FBI, specifically Special Agent Timber.”

  “Tell me a little more about your store owner.

  “His name is Ali Hussein Jumblatt although he’s known as Mr. Ali. He moved from Tripoli, Lebanon with his wife in 1988, and they became US citizens in 1993. They lived in Brooklyn, where Mr. Jumblatt ran a restaurant until his wife died in April 2008. He moved to Arizona soon after that, and in January 2009 opened his art gallery on Scottsdale Road. It’s quite a fancy joint in some of the most expensive retail space in the state.”

  “Sleeper?” she said.

  “No, I’m not sleepy; it’s only 11:00 here.”

  “Jerk; I said sleeper not sleepy. We have two confidential cases of Al-Qaeda agents who’ve assumed the identity of naturalized citizens they murdered. In both cases, one in France and one in Germany, they moved to another part of the country where they wouldn’t be known and set up in a business that gives them a reason to travel. Importing art and antiques would be a great cover and an easy way to launder money.”

  “Will you help?” I asked with a slight tone of pleading.

  “I’m hated by almost everyone in the Arizona office already. I guess I don’t have much to lose by overruling Timber. He has no way to know about the French and German sleeper cases; we’ve kept them quiet. I’ll call him, and the FBI will issue the APB, but we need to get some of the credit if he’s caught. I also want to control his interrogation; no one local should talk to him. This may be a substantial cell.”

  “Deal,” I said, and she hung up.

  After my call to Linda I entered the Arson Taskforce headquarters. It was an extraordinarily busy place at 11:00 on a Saturday night. All the previous arson fires had been started after midnight, and everyone in law enforcement and fire fighting was on standby. Major Ross was busy on the phone, and I walked around the large, crowded room to see what was happening. Every fire lookout tower in Arizona was double manned, and four fire spotting aircraft were circling the forests: one orbiting over Flagstaff, one over the Blue River Wilderness along the New Mexico border, one over the White Mountains, and one over the Rim near Payson. There were big gaps in the coverage with nothing around Prescott or the mountains in southern Arizona. The forest was just too big.

  When I checked the weather desk, the news was awful. Heavy winds had already pushed through the Phoenix area causing substantial roof and tree damage but providing not a drop of rain. The lightning strikes were coming at nearly forty per minute as the storm boiled northward. The front was now over the Prescott area, and lightning had already set three fires in the Prescott National Forest. It was one of the areas of the state most damaged by th
e bark beetle infestations and controlling these fires would not be easy with most of the resources still devoted to the Happy Jack fire.

  I walked over to where the fire’s Incident Commander sat huddled with four other firefighters, and overheard their conversation. All firefighters and their equipment had been withdrawn to the Harding Springs area in the forest west of Interstate 17. It was too dangerous to be anywhere near the fire as the storm approached. All tanker flights had been grounded and even the surveillance flight would be down at Pulliam Airport before the storm arrived.

  But there was also some good news. Over the past two years, a forest thinning project along I-17 had greatly reduced the fuel load in the area where the fire was currently spreading. The hundred-foot firebreak that bulldozers had constructed on both sides of the Interstate should combine with the lower fuel load to provide an effective barrier to keep the fire from crossing to the west side of the highway. The fire might make a run to the north as the storm passed. Perhaps it would cause the evacuation of the airport by late tomorrow, but the greatest danger tonight was new fires sparked by the approaching storm.

  Major Ross was off the phone and getting a cup of coffee when he noticed me and motioned me over. “Mike, everyone on the taskforce has been impressed with your contribution. If we stop this guy, Mohammad, you deserve most of the credit. I’m damn sorry we missed him this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, but a lot of people have been involved. I was a little lucky with that e-mail. Is there any news on Muhammad yet?” I asked.

  “Not just the e-mail, you found the witness who spotted the truck, you found the store where the paint was purchased, you found the connection between Zayd and Muhammad, and many more things. It’s not luck. If you ever want a job with the State Police, you can have any job you want.”