Fire Sign

by M. A. Petterson

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  FIRE SIGN

  by m.a. petterson

  Published by Easy Reader Press

  To those who came before me

  To those who will come after

  To all of those who dedicate their lives

  To serve and to save, to love and to live

  The church burned down while I was teaching.

  It was packed with people for an evening service when the four incendiary devices in the crawl space ignited.

  The flames spread rapidly. Four different hot spots gnawing relentlessly up at the old, dry flooring, spreading thick smoke throughout the crawl space interior.

  The smoke detectors shrieked out the first warnings.

  The adults acted irritated, assuming that this was just an inconvenient practice drill. Some of the kids giggled.

  But the acrid smell of smoke grew sharper.

  Then four different areas of flooring discolored. Wisps of pale smoke rose.

  Within seconds, the discolored flooring charred black, collapsing down into the inferno below.

  Thick choking smoke vomited upward.

  Followed by the angry relentless flames.

  Children screamed and wailed, rushing out from Bible School, choking and gasping for air, tears flowing, panicked and terrified.

  Mothers shouted names, fighting through the toxic fumes and scorching heat, willing to sacrifice their very lives if necessary.

  Men broke out windows with chairs. Helped others out or leapt out themselves from raw fear.

  9-1-1 calls flooded the switchboard. Within scant seconds firefighters churned into their bunker gear and leapt aboard their vehicles.

  Ambulances roared out into city traffic.

  Police accelerated down the streets, light bars strobing, speeding to the fearful catastrophe.

  Meanwhile the seething flames clawed at wall hangings, ignited furniture, chimneyed up between the walls, spilling out from one room to another as smoke and hot gasses roiled angrily around the ceilings, just seconds away from flashover, simply needing the right mix of oxygen.

  The church elders never imagined that they would need a fire plan, someplace safe where all could meet up, where heads could be counted.

  Most of them were outside now, yelling, screaming, crying, coughing. One elderly gentleman clutched his chest in agony as his heart gave out.

  Already some lucky parents had reunited with their children, embracing them, clutching them tightly, as new red flames tore through the roof and burned through trusses and plywood, melting the asphalt shingles.

  Frantic parents continued to shout out names into the melee, not being heard above the awful roaring and crackling, other yells and cries, and soon the howling shriek of approaching sirens.

  The first responding fire company roared up with sirens silenced, but red lights still strobing.

  The highly-practiced men and women leapt to the ground, rushing about in the choreographed efficiency drilled into them from countless hours of practice.

  The attack began with three 2-inch lines, spewing steady streams of water into the church windows.

  Two firefighters caught a hydrant, dragging and wrestling a heavy six-inch relay hose from the engine and mating it to the threaded hydrant opening. With that task accomplished, the engine’s almost-depleted tank would fill with the city’s water. More lines could be aimed at the seat of the fire.

  An aerial arrived next, extending outriggers to secure its base as the long ladder slowly climbed into the sky, there to cascade thick geysers of water down from above.

  The cops surged onto the scene, sought to gain control of the milling crowd, to move everyone back out of the way to a place of safety.

  Three ambulances turned in, set up triage stations, readied the oxygen bottles. Someone pointed to a figure, lying motionless on the ground, an old man. Two paramedics raced toward the flaming structure, oblivious to their own safety, to see if they could save him.

  A shrieking woman called out her daughter’s name, pointing into the raging inferno, recklessly trying to return inside.

  A cop wrestled her back as a two-man entry team, dragging a line and wearing air packs, crouched low and crawled forward, fogging the fierce flames as they inched inside, praying the lost child was close by.

  Behind them another team cascaded water over their backs.

  I could see the glow in the distance from my classroom window. I had heard the sirens, of course. Ironically, the class I was teaching was advanced Fire Science. My students were rookie firefighters and other first responders, too soon comparing my theoretical lecturing on fireground behavior to the real world.

  But I knew the theories well. By trade I am a forensic engineer. As part of my duties I teach.

  “Dr. Toussaint,” a student called, raising his hand and asking a simple question about the chemical decomposition of cellulose in the presence of open flame. I answered by rote, my mind and eyes still focused out over the night-shrouded city toward the dull red glow in the distance.

  They wouldn’t need me at the scene tonight. But tomorrow, when the rubble was still smoking, they would want my preliminary assessment of cause and origin.

  For I am the city’s arson investigator.

  My cell phone vibrates and I glance down at the message.

  Anja, the text read, call me. Urgent. It was sent by my boss, the State Fire Marshal.

  Somehow I’d known, when I first spotted the spreading orange blossom, that there was more than just flame on the horizon.

  There was trouble. For my boss seldom used the word Urgent.

  *****

  I was up before dawn for I realized it would be a busy day.

  I showered, then forced myself to stand before the full-length mirror. My personal ritual. Out of love. Out of hate. Out of hope.

  I had my mother’s pale golden eyes. May she rest in peace. I had my father’s flaming red hair. May he be damned forever. I had the scars of my own making, staining my pale skin in angry red blotches. May I one day find the peace I seek.

  Creighton C. Calderwood arrived at my office at eight a.m. sharp.

  He is a burly man, hair silvered at the temples, quick with a smile or joke, always shaking hands. He is the State Insurance Commissioner and so my direct boss. A fact that greatly rankles the traditional fire department hierarchy here in Chandlertowne.

  They have no authority over me.

  Creighton is a consummate politician. Were it not for his patronage, I would long ago have been run out of town.

  But of that I have no worries, for arson is a growth industry and, unfortunately, my skills are always in demand.

  “Anja,” he greets me as he settles into a hard wooden chair. He glances around at my cramped basement office with distaste. He has tried numerous times to find me someplace befitting my title. But this little room is the city’s way of showing their distaste at my independence, and also my refusal pay homage to the old boy’s network.

  “I spoke with the battalion chief last night,” Creighton says. “Another arson.”

  And all of them churches, I reflect.

  “The police are getting crucified. No arrests.”

  “I’ve told you all that I know,” I say. “The triggers are rudimentary – a wind-up alarm clock, kitchen matches attached to a mousetrap, and enough crumpled newspaper to begin the chain reaction.”

  “I don’t doubt you’re doing everything you can,” Creighton says. He knows how hard I work, that I have no social life to speak of, and maybe he even suspects why. After all, it’s rare for a 28-year-old woman in her prime to live like a nun.

  But it was the life I chose, for now.

&
nbsp; He holds up his hands. “The governor’s getting serious pressure.” And since the governor was Creighton’s boss, he was on the receiving end of some of that pressure.

  “I’m averaging four hours of sleep a night,” I say.

  “I’m not here to crack the whip,” he says. “I’m here to create a diversion.”

  What does Creighton have planned for me? I wonder.

  *****

  We set out in Creighton’s car, a large sedan the city owns, ungainly and as nimble as a motorboat.

  “New tie?” I ask.

  Creighton beams. Rumor has it that he has commandeered one of his bedrooms solely to store his huge collection of ties.

  “Special order from Thailand,” he says. “Silk. If you look closely, you can see elephants and tigers peeking out from the jungle.”

  He holds up the green, orange, and brown tie for my admiration.

  I smile. Rumor has it that his wife regularly sneaks into his commandeered bedroom and fills up a box with ties destined for Goodwill.

  “You mentioned a diversion,” I say.

  “Bad word,” he replies. “I want you more visible, with a heightened profile. We’re out to build consensus.”

  What a useless phrase, I’m thinking. But then, I’m not a politician.

  *****

  Fifteen minutes later we pull over and park next to St. Francis’ Cathedral, the city’s largest church, occupying an entire city block.

  Creighton leads me up the steps and through a side door. A young man, perhaps around sixteen, greets us. By his brown robe I know him to be one of the church’s acolytes.

  “Absalom,” Creighton says, vigorously shaking the youth’s hand. “Allow me to introduce Dr. Anja Toussaint.”

  I sense the boy’s nervousness, smile gently and reach out to shake his hand. His grip is weak, what I would call timid. He nods, but says nothing. Then he turns and leads us down a richly carpeted hall. The walls are dark paneled wood, hung with old portraits of old people. Saints, I assume.

  Absalom raps on a door, then opens it and leads us into a sizable office.

  “Monsignor,” he says to a man seated behind a large and ornate desk. The elderly gentleman wears the deep red robes of his order, and takes several moments to finish reading from a paper on his desk before looking up.

  “Mr. Calderwood,” he says in a voice surprisingly high pitched. He does not stand, but holds out a hand heavy with rings.

  Creighton approaches and I briefly wonder if he means to kiss the outstretched hand, but he gives it the usual vigorous shake. He gestures in my direction. “Dr. Toussaint.”

  The monsignor does not hold out a hand, but simply nods.

  “I speak on behalf of the United Church Coalition,” he begins. “They expect results.”

  The monsignor does not invite us to sit, and I bristle inwardly at this rude demonstration of his rank and power. But, working here in Chandlertowne, I have grown accustomed to petty bureaucrats who exercise their self-perceived status.

  “We are deeply disturbed by this rash of arsons targeting houses of worship. We have expressed our concerns through the proper channels.”

  All the way up to the governor, I am thinking. How does Creighton put up with this puny malarkey?

  “The governor has directed me to form a task force,” Creighton says. “Its one and only function will be resolving this issue.”

  The Monsignor tilts his head as if considering. “And this task force consists of….” he lets the question trail off.

  “Dr. Toussaint, our distinguished forensics investigator.”

  The Monsignor raises a single eyebrow.

  “With a police liaison,” Creighton quickly adds. “Plus, the expedited resources of every city department.”

  “Very good,” the Monsignor says. “Please update me daily.” Then he looks back down at the paper on his desk and, with that simple motion, dismisses us.

  Absalom silently shows us out.

  *****

  I am not happy and make it known on the ride back.

  Creighton makes conciliatory noises.

  “I always work alone,” I reiterate.

  “The cop has arrest powers,” Creighton says.

  I pull out my red, gold, and black badge and offer it up. “What about this?”

  “That,” Creighton says, “is symbolic of the true importance of your official position.”

  Meaning it carries absolutely no authority. “I heard the former fire marshal spent three grand on this,” I say.

  “Which is one reason I replaced him.” Creighton pulls up next to a fire hydrant in front of the decrepit municipal building where my office is located. “The cop is just a liaison. You’ll be in total charge.”

  “I want that understood by everyone.”

  “I talked with the captain. He is in complete accord. The officer is just for show.”

  What kind of cop would want such a lame assignment? I ask the name of my liaison.

  “Gil Dolan,” Creighton says softly.

  My day has just turned worse.

  *****

  I first met Sergeant Gil Dolan a year ago when I was investigating a suspicious tenement fire.

  The half-burned building was abandoned, so there were no casualties, but the owner paid taxes on it and kept the insurance up-to-date.

  Which put him on my radar of potential suspects. Along with any number of homeless squatters who might’ve tipped over a candle during the night. Or some drug user dropping a match after cooking up his spoon. Or some kid out for thrills. The list went on.

  I remember that it was early morning and though the rubble still smoldered, I donned my turnout boots, ducked under the yellow caution tape and stepped carefully within to look around.

  Sometimes a fire scene can tell a trained investigator a great deal, sometimes it will say nothing.

  I was seeking the fire’s point of origin, beginning my search with the least-burned areas and working inward.

  I could easily tell which way the fire had moved, even how hot it had burned.

  If this was arson, I might find signs of a liquid accelerant or multiple ignition points. On the other hand, lightning might be the cause, or an overloaded breaker box. If I was lucky, the fire’s birthplace would show up as a cone – point down – sooted against some wall.

  I worked my way up to the second floor, passing a shattered window frame, when I heard the sounds of squalling tires right outside. Not an unusual sound for a city.

  I carefully edged my way around the perimeter of the large room I was investigating. I was about to duck through a doorway into an adjacent area when I heard heavy footsteps, clomping up the exterior fire escape.

  “Tour’s over, lady,” someone barked. “You’re trespassing.”

  I turned to see a man rapidly approach me, one hand holding out his police shield while his other hand rested on the pistol in his shoulder rig.

  “Stay away from me,” I ordered.

  “It’s just a misdemeanor, lady. Don’t make it –“

  Without warning the floor under him buckled and fell away, dropping him unceremoniously down onto the first floor and into the dark stinking sludge, made from water and ash.

  “Are you alright?” I yelled.

  He cursed at me for at least a minute. Then he spent the next month litigating me over the cost of a new suit.

  That was my first introduction to Sergeant Gil Dolan. Never at blame. Always the victim.

  After receiving the summons to magistrate’s court, I did a little digging into just who was serving process.

  All off the record, of course. But I did not need to build legal evidence, just find out some background information.

  Tawdry and sad were the words that came to mind.

  Sergeant Gil Dolan was a career cop with 17 years on the force. No distinguished accomplishments. Just putting in his time. He had a wife and teenage daughter.

  The wife was pursuing her doctorate, something no stay
-at-home mom should do, according to Dolan. Neglecting her own family, was how he characterized it to one acquaintance.

  She was also actively engaged in an affair with her university advisor. Dolan confronted the man. Bloodied his nose. The result was a restraining order. Then a separation.

  The daughter was fourteen, going on twenty, staying out late, shoplifting, sexually active. Rebelling against everyone and everything. That was from the high school counselor, who placed much of the blame on Dolan’s my way or the highway attitude.

  It didn’t help matters that Gil liked to drink. A lot. But who am I to throw stones?

  The tipping point came one night when Gil responded to a robbery in progress. He turned on the dash strobe and roared down the street. Speeding fifty, at least, in a twenty mph zone.

  He raced toward the lighted intersection, just blocks from the crime.

  Then a mini-van ran the red light and Gil Dolan t-boned into the vehicle’s side.

  The van caught fire.

  Gil Dolan saved the eight-year-old boy. The mother and father perished.

  His victim mentality prevailed. Now it wasn’t just his family, but all of life conspiring against him. He proudly donned the mantle of martyr. The role fed something inside him.

  No one wanted to work with him anymore.

  Sometimes life deals you a very bad hand. I know all about that. I still bear the purple burn scars on my flesh, though they are fading.

  The scars in my head will never fade.

  I admire the department’s loyalty to one of their own. They want him to hang on for his pension. They want to keep him safe. So they give him various make-work assignments.

  Now he’s assigned to me.

  *****

  I sit in the bull pen at Sergeant Gil Dolan’s desk. The watch commander said he was out, nothing more, not even when I flashed my red, gold, and black badge of no authority.

  But at least it got me to the second floor.

  After fifteen minutes of waiting, I get bored. So I turn on his computer monitor. He’s password protected it, of course. It takes me all of thirty seconds to violate it.

  I don’t care about his email, or his case notes, or what websites he likes to visit. I want something more private. It takes me no time at all to hack past the department’s barrier. I find Dolan’s file and skim over it.

  I’m sure it’s been sanitized as much as the department dares, but you never know.

  I find very little of interest and turn my gaze over to the single framed photo on his desk that shows Gil and his wife in happier days, standing next to a smiling daughter.