Fire Sign

by M. A. Petterson

  “My desk, my computer, my personnel file,” a voice grates out behind me. “Find anything interesting, Dr. Toussaint?”

  I turn and read his scowling features. Sergeant Gil Dolan is still trim and fit, wearing his light brown hair short, though streaks of gray etch both sides. But his dark eyes tell the tale, bloodshot and pouched, a map of what’s inside.

  “I don’t want this assignment any more than you,” I say.

  “Won’t hurt my feelings if you want another partner.”

  “First off, we are not partners. And if your performance doesn’t meet my expectations, I shall request another department liaison.”

  He fights back a retort, but recognizes his position, knows he’s on a short leash, understands the politics behind this. “Thanks for the new suit,” he finally says.

  Indeed, after I wasted three hours in a magistrate’s court, after Dolan lost his action against me, I sent him a gift card to a local clothing store.

  I stand and toss him my car keys. “Ready, liaison?”

  *****

  We climb into my dented, white Cherokee for the ride over to the burned church. The silence is heavy.

  Finally, I say, “What is it you resent about me? My doctorate? I have two, you know.”

  “There’s two kinds of education,” he replies. “Book smarts, and what you get out there.” He gestures outside.

  “I respect your education,” I say. “But you need to respect mine. Over a billion dollars went up in flames last year. Arson is a growth industry.”

  “So is consulting,” he says, referring to what I do on my off time. “I hear you make two grand a day.”

  “More,” I say. “And I’m worth every penny.” What I don’t say is that I have to keep busy, to keep from thinking, to keep from remembering.

  We round a corner and pull up to the cordon of yellow police tape surrounding the charred hulk of the church. It still smokes a little, resembling in my mind some blackened and burned skeleton.

  I walk to the back of my Cherokee and open the tailgate. Inside are a hardhat, shovels, trowels, rakes, cameras, UV lights, an aromatic hydrocarbon detector, and various other tools of my trade.

  I see my stun gun among the jumble and toss it into the back seat. Won’t do me any good where I can’t reach it.

  Gil stands beside me, then reaches over and picks up a glass jar. He studies it curiously and then a look of revulsion crosses his face.

  “Burnt fingers,” I explain. “In case we bring in dogs.”

  I hand him a pair of turnout boots and latex gloves to put on. When he’s finished, I give him a flashlight and a couple of new pint-sized paint cans for collecting evidence. I hand him a step ladder, too. He tucks it under one arm and hangs the cans from his thumb.

  “Follow me carefully,” I say, heading for the ruined church. “Step exactly where I step. If you fall through a floor, I’m not buying you another suit.”

  He does exactly as I say as we work slowly into the carcass of the church.

  “What are we looking for?” he asks.

  I shine my flashlight on a light bulb hanging from a cord. On one side the glass has softened and elongated. “Pointers. Indications of the fire’s origin.”

  I turn my beam onto an exposed wooden joist. “Notice how the charred wood is deeper on one side. That indicates the direction of the fire.”

  “Flames were moving that way,” he gestures.

  I nod, then push into the char with a metal ruler, marking it with my thumbnail. “Depth of burn reflects intensity of combustion. Flames were running at sixteen hundred fifty degrees here.”

  “Give or take,” Gil says.

  “No. That’s pretty exact.”

  He snorts under his breath.

  I point to a wall. “Set the ladder there.”

  When he complies, I mount the ladder and then stretch up onto my toes.

  “See anything interesting?” he asks.

  “Chemical deposits, smoke residue, a certain discoloration not consistent with the flammable materials present.” I glance down and catch him staring at the seat of my jeans. “How about you? See anything interesting?”

  We move into another area. “Keep on the lookout for signs of liquid accelerant. Puddling or fingering.”

  “Like a burned lake,” Gil says.

  “Not necessarily. The interior of the puddle may not be charred.”

  “Wait a minute. You douse the floor with gasoline, it burns.”

  “Actually, it’s the gasoline vapors that burn. The vapors ignite furniture, wall hangings, anything above the floor. But the floor itself may remain untouched.” Then I add, “But today’s discriminating arsonist prefers kerosene to gasoline. Much safer.”

  I halt at a section where the floor has burned completely through.

  “Fire burned down through the floor,” Gil says.

  “No, burned up through the floor.”

  I lead the sergeant outside and back to my Cherokee. I retrieve two sets of coveralls measured to my height and hand him a pair. “Only size I have.”

  We return to the remains of the church and creep into the crawl space. Gil struggles within the confines of his too-small coveralls. Then I hear the sound of cloth ripping.

  “Shall I bill you or the department for those?”

  He responds to my attempted humor with an expletive. This will not stand. I must somehow rid myself of his presence. Hopefully in a way that will not diminish what small career he has left.

  The ground we crawl over is a muddy mix of char, ash and water. I inhale the pungent, acrid odor, and wish I’d brought a mask.

  We reach the area where the fire burned up through the floor. The point of origin. I play my light over the soot-covered alarm clock. It is affixed to a board close to a mouse trap. When the alarm sounded, string from the wind-up mechanism pulled taught and triggered the mouse trap. The trap’s striker bar set off half a dozen kitchen matches which ignited the crumpled newspaper that surrounded the charred remains of a whiskey box.

  Whatever was inside the whiskey box then ignited with great intensity. I collect a trowel full of ash for analysis. Unfortunately the lab work may take weeks.

  “Not much to it,” Dolan says.

  “Simple is better,” I reply. From this one device I see three charred trailers leading off. The trailers are no more than long strips of newspaper overlapping end to end, but enough of a flammable path to convey fire to the three other incendiary locations.

  Simple is always better.

  “Put a sample into the evidence can,” I instruct Dolan. “Let’s see where these trailers lead.”

  My elbows chafe as I crawl deeper within the underside of the church. I should’ve worn knee pads, I reflect.

  We approach the blackened remains of another whiskey box. Above it the floor is rudely, but efficiently, burned through.

  I shine my light on a nearby piling. “Notice the spalling. How the intense heat cracked and chipped the outer facia of concrete. See how it flakes right off?”

  “What could’ve generated that much heat?”

  “Any number of easy-to-make concoctions.” I use my trowel to scoop more detritus into another evidence can.

  Fifteen minutes later I am through collecting evidence from under the church and we crawl back out. My coveralls are muddy and damp, but I don’t bother changing. I walk a slow perimeter of the burned building.

  Dolan points. “Door looks jimmied.”

  “Good call. But did the arsonist do it? Or the firefighters?”

  “Can you tell?”

  “We’ll look at the responding departments’ reports. If they broke this door it will be noted.”

  “Lot of glass around,” Dolan says.

  “The intense heat causes the glass to expand past the frame until it breaks out. See the crazing?”

  Dolan indicates another window. “Looks like the glass has been punched in.”

  I gaze through the opening and see long rectangula
r pieces. “Most likely the firefighters routing another line through here.”

  Dolan nods, then points up to a tall window with a single hole that was shattered near the very top. “So why would the firemen smash a hole up there?”

  “They didn’t,” I reply. “That was done by the arsonist.”

  “Why the hell does he vandalize the church?” Dolan asks. “He’s about to burn it down.”

  “We found four hotspots, roughly at each corner,” I reply.

  “So why’d he break out the window?”

  “Set up a draft. Give the flames something to breathe.”

  “He wasn’t leaving anything to chance,” Dolan says.

  I look at the sergeant. “You keep saying he. What makes you think the arsonist is a he?”

  *****

  My clammy coveralls irritate me enough now that I scrape off what mud I can and strip them off. Dolan does the same.

  I tell him to drive us to the firehouse.

  “Arson’s already been established,” Dolan says. “Why waste time talking to the guys who put out the fire?”

  “Because they observed it firsthand. And the fire’s behavior may present additional data germane to the incident.”

  “Germane,” Dolan mutters.

  We pull onto the apron in front of the firehouse and park far enough over to let the big rigs roll past, should they get kicked out.

  A couple of firefighters sit outside, enjoying a little sun with their lunch break.

  “Church fire last night,” I say. “Who delivered first water?”

  “Capello,” one says.

  “And Dietz,” replies the other. “Engine three.”

  “They got mess duty,” the first one says. “You’ll find them in the galley trying to poison us.”

  We walk onto the apparatus floor, passing the highly-polished trucks and engines. Along the wall I see assorted mementos: a fire bell, an old and cracked leather helmet, a stuffed horse’s head from the previous century. I stop in front of the portrait of an elderly man.

  “World’s oldest fire chief, huh?” Dolan says.

  “Saint Florian,” I reply. “Patron saint of firefighters.”

  We find Capello and Deitz in the galley. One peels potatoes, the other pats ground beef into hamburgers. I glance at their nametags to see who is who, then make my inquiry.

  “By the time we got there the church was fully involved,” Dietz says.

  “Tell me about the flames,” I ask. “Any unusual colors?”

  “About what you’d expect for that type of structure,” Capello replies.

  “How about the smoke?” I continue.

  “Nothin’ black or greasy to indicate an oil fire.” Capello looks over at his partner. “Mary save us. Not more garlic. I’ve got a date tonight.”

  “Lock up your pets, boys,” Dietz yells to half a dozen firefighters lounging around the mess table.

  “Did you encounter any blowback?” I ask.

  “No. And I didn’t smell any kind of accelerant. Did you, Capello?”

  Capello shakes his head. Then adds, “But I did notice something strange. The four hotspots? It was almost like they were timed.”

  “How so?” I want to know.

  “Hard to explain, exactly. But it was like the fires were set in a way as to herd people out.”

  “Yeah,” Dietz agrees. “Fire that big, spread that fast, miracle is nobody was hurt.”

  I’ve learned all that I need to know and lead Dolan back out through the lounge. Four firefighters play cards, a few watch television, and one old-timer snoozes peacefully in his chair.

  “Man, did I pick the wrong profession,” Dolan says.

  I glance over at him. “You really don’t know much about being a firefighter, do you?”

  “Sure I do. Find me somewhere soft to lie down and I’ll show you.”

  *****

  My irritation with Dolan approaches the limits. So many people have absolutely the wrong impression of first responders. If they don’t die in the line of duty, stress often gifts them an early heart attack. Along the way are a high rate of divorces, or affairs. And untold numbers simply fall by the wayside from post traumatic stress disorder.

  I have Dolan drive me out to Chandlertowne’s Fire Academy.

  We cruise onto the campus, past scorched car hulks, a tenement mock-up, classrooms, the main burn building, and a formation of fresh-faced prospects jogging in tight formation.

  You don’t just suit up as a firefighter without passing extremely stringent physical and mental requirements. The wash-out rate here is sixty percent.

  I motion for Dolan to pull in behind a building near a group of firefighters surrounding an instructor.

  “Before you’re even issued turnout gear, you spend eight weeks here,” I say, “Then once a year you return for a week.”

  Dolan shakes his head. “This isn’t the kind of work you need an advanced degree for. Throw enough water on a fire and it goes out.”

  “You make it sound simple.” I exit the vehicle and Dolan follows.

  A group of recruits stand around a burning pile of metal. Scattered around the fire are numerous fire extinguishers and a charged fire hose.

  I approach the instructor, a lanky man with a shaved head and faded blue tattoos etching his sinewy arms. O’Reilly and I have known each other for years.

  I offer up my red, gold, and black badge for effect and he laughs. “What’s shakin’, Anja?”

  “My partner here. He thinks if you put enough water on a fire, it will go out.”

  O’Reilly’s smile fades and he gestures at the heap of flaming metal. “Be my guest.”

  I turn to Dolan. “Class D fire. Burning magnesium. The type of fire you might get on a flight deck or an airport.”

  “Crashed helicopter, right?”

  “So how would you put out this fire?” I ask. “Show me.”

  Dolan marches directly to the charged line. He doesn’t notice the class as they back off. “Put enough wet stuff on the red stuff, is how.”

  He raises the charged line and levers open the nozzle, directing a stream of water into the fire.

  The flames instantly explode into a towering fireball, exactly as if the hose was spraying out gasoline.

  Dolan curses and leaps backward, tripping and falling onto his back, still clutching the hose which geysers water into the air.

  O’Reilly valves off the line and it slowly wilts in Dolan’s hands.

  “You just observed water burn,” I say.

  “What do you mean?” Dolan replies, scrambling to his feet.

  “A hot enough fire separates water into its two basic components – hydrogen and oxygen, which, as you just demonstrated, are both highly flammable.”

  “You tricked me,” Dolan mutters. “How many times is your average fireman gonna come up against a magnesium fire?”

  “There is no average firefighter,” I say. “And there is no average fire.”

  “Walk softly and carry a big hose,” Dolan retorts, regaining his arrogance.

  “You still think it’s that simple, don’t you?” I say.

  I lead him over to the 4-story burn building. The sign over the entrance reads Code Three Motel; code three referring to a life-threat response requiring lights and siren. I point to a complete set of firefighter turnout gear.

  “No tricks,” I say. “Just put the wet stuff on the red stuff.”

  He flashes me a superior smile.

  It takes him several moments to struggle into the heavy boots, thick coat, gloves, and helmet. I strap an oxygen tank on his back, check to see if it’s full, then hand him the face mask.

  “Each team has a specific objective,” I say. “Ventilate the fire. Control and contain. Seek and rescue anyone who is trapped inside. Your job is seek and rescue.”

  “No sweat,” Gil says.

  “The building will be on fire,” I say.

  “I kind of figured that,” he says, slipping the bulky oxygen mask
over his face. “Anything else?”

  “Remember there are always two ways out of a burning building.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The first way out might be up or it might be down. It might be in front of you, or in back of you, or to either side. You’ve got to read the fire.”

  “Thanks for narrowing it down,” Dolan says. “So what’s the other way out of a burning building?”

  “In a body bag,” I reply, tossing him a Halligan tool.

  *****

  O’Reilly joins me as I sit in the observation booth. The burn building is packed with closed-circuit television cameras and microphones. I intend on monitoring Dolan carefully. I don’t want to kill the pathetic sergeant, just motivate him to scuttle off somewhere far from me.

  “Friend of yours?” O’Reilly asks.

  I just smile and activate the cameras and mikes. Every hallway and every room is now portrayed in gray on the monitors. They should spring for color, I think, but know the budget’s tight.

  Dolan stands alone in the vacant hallway, staring down a simulated motel hallway, lined with doors on either side. I can hear him breathing through the mask, calmly and evenly. That will soon change.

  I toggle the switch initiating the exercise.

  A sudden whoosh breaks the silence as flames gush out of a doorway halfway down the hall.

  “Oh, yeah,” Dolan says. “Let the party begin.”

  He strides to the first door and rattles the knob, but it is locked. Then he slams the Halligan tool between the door and sill and wrenches it open.

  I watch his progress on another monitor.

  “Hey,” he calls out. “Anyone here?”

  He sweeps the room quickly, looks inside the bathroom and closet, but the room is empty. He jogs back into the hall.

  The air roils with smoke now.

  Dolan reaches another door, pounds on it, tries the knob. The door swings open.

  He enters and spots a figure in the corner, slumped in an overstuffed chair, long auburn hair drooping over the head.

  “Score one for the gipper,” Dolan says, racing to the rescue.

  He reaches down and soon finds he’s cradling a skeleton wearing a wig and dress. A cigarette dangles from bony fingers, touching the scorched armrest.

  Dolan jogs back into the hall. So far he’s making good time.

  Then he hears it – a muffled child’s voice calling for help. He orients to the sound, then rushes toward the stairs. Behind him more flames and smoke gush out of doorways.

  He sprints up the stairs, passing a glass case containing a fire hose. The child’s voice sobs out again, incoherent with fear.

  Dolan stumbles on the last few steps, dropping his Halligan tool as he falls face forward onto his mask.