Fire Sign

by M. A. Petterson

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  SOOT ANGEL

  by

  m. a. petterson

  The outline of the body is in stark contrast to the surrounding char; a small, pale white tracery on an otherwise burnt and blackened mattress.

  The rest of the undersized storage area, used as a bedroom within the vacant warehouse, is in shambles: spalled walls, shattered windows, pools of filthy water from the fire hoses.

  In one corner the roasted hulk of a dresser squats, the cheap wood alligatored from the flames. From how far away did the homeless family drag that here? I wonder. Above it dangles a worn electrical cord. The light bulb hanging from the end is misshapen and elongated, molded into a pointer indicating the direction of the fire path.

  But my eyes keep drawing back to the mattress. A child has died here, and all that remains is the blanched, unburned outline of the little body.

  What we in the business call a soot angel.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The task always seems impossible at first glance: a charred, demolished pile of blackened debris puddled from the hoses, muddied with ash to clog every foothold.

  What the fire hasn’t destroyed is then ruined even more by the overhaul: the process where the firefighters tear out walls, pull down ceilings, and hack through floors to search for any remaining smoldering spots hidden away from the normal line of sight.

  It is a forbidding mess; stinking, dangerous, very often still leaking toxic fumes. I never wear heels or expensive clothing on-site. My job today is twofold: first, to hopefully find the origin of the fire. And from that, hopefully, to determine the cause. I use the word hopefully, because rarely is determining cause and origin an exact science; or even within the realm of possibility in some too many instances.

  I will initially focus on three broad areas. This fire could be intentional. It could be accidental. Or it could have resulted from an act of God. I will check the meteorological reports for any indication of lightning during the night. That would be the easiest line to cross off. I do not recall any storms during the previous twenty-four hours, so I am not optimistic.

  An accidental cause is more probable, especially in such a structure as this – an old and unused warehouse, formerly specializing in storing and rehabbing boats. A place like this would normally keep numerous highly flammable chemicals around. Proper storage is paramount. Even something so seemingly innocent as filling a container with rags damp from tung oil can initiate spontaneous combustion. Bad breakers or faulty wiring might also be responsible. So too, a defective appliance. And the list goes on.

  But as for arson, that is certainly an odds-on favorite. Not because of anything I’ve uncovered yet, but because arson is one of the country’s fastest growth crimes. Over six hundred million dollars went up in flames last year and much of it, more than was ever proved, was intentional.

  The call came in at two thirty-eight in the morning according to the first responder’s report. An anonymous call from a pre-paid cell phone. Response time was under five minutes; Chandlertowne boasts some of the fastest departments in the entire state. Unfortunately, there was no preplan of the interior of the warehouse. And access for the initial size-up was hampered by a tangle of several security fences, though the chain-link barriers topped with razor wire had not kept out the family of homeless tenants.

  Here amidst the jumbled and charred remains I am as far removed from the theories and principles I teach in the classroom as can be. It has taken many years for me to learn all that I know, eight years at various universities to eventually attain my two doctorates, and now more years in the actual field.

  What I do requires a good working knowledge of building construction, chemistry, physics and the behavior of fire. I must be up-to-date with electricity as a source of heat, the law, motives, the human body’s reaction to fire, and the myriad of psychological disorders that are currently believed to be connected with fire-setting behavior.

  I am a forensic engineer in name, and a fire investigator by trade. I sift through burned-out rubble and try to determine cause, and also from whence the fire originated.

  For the most part I work alone, with no one underneath me and only one person over me – the State Fire Marshal. It is a pleasing arrangement since I seldom see my boss, who is that rare and appreciated employer who lets me perform my functions as I see fit. Yet because he is a political appointee, I am here only through his whim. Should the political tide turn or a less sanguine governor be elected, my position could likely end. But of that I have little worry for my trade, unfortunately, is always in demand.

  Fire speaks a language all its own. Today what is left from the fire will speak to me. I will cast a wide net at first: examining the outside, then moving inside and following a track from the least damaged portion back to where the fire burned most intensely. This usually indicates where the fire started, its point of origin; and from that, perhaps, I can determine the cause.

  The warehouse is an old structure, built around the turn of an earlier century. Where it faces the street it is one-story, filled with offices and storage rooms and work rooms. The back half is perhaps three stories high and abuts on the Wild Wind River.

  This is a sad, neglected and run-down part of the city. Sections of the streets are still paved in the faded old stones that were used in the 1800s. The other parts of the street are pocked with potholes and cracked asphalt. Half a block down squats the corroded carcass of a car. Piles of drab garbage clot the spaces between the buildings.

  The warehouse itself is built of bricks so old the edges are rounded off. Most of the windows are broken, from vandals or the firefighters venting or from some other cause that will be determined in good time. Judging from the height of the weeds around the walls and the rusted metal vents, this structure has been abandoned for a lengthy time.

  I have interviewed the company that arrived first with the usual questions. Nothing they gave me makes my job easier. No suspicious characters loitering about, no one fleeing the scene, no tell-tale odors noticed, the closest hydrants were serviceable and undamaged, even the flames and smoke were consistent with a structural burn. However, this was a structure that had once stored and refurbished boats so the presence of flammable liquids would not be out of the ordinary.

  Were this warehouse in operation I would no doubt be struggling into a bright yellow Class A HazMat suit, complete with a self-contained breathing apparatus. But the first responders have reported that, for the most part, the structure is empty of volatile and dangerous chemicals. So instead I shrug into my turnout gear, the same sort as worn by the firefighters, for the protection it will give me from sharp objects and other potential hazards. I have saved the city a small amount of money, since once worn Class A HazMat suits cannot be reused again, except for training.

  The firefighters have used cutters to sever large openings through the chain link fences and I follow their path around to the back. The river is wide at this point and in the distance a tanker surges slowly to the ocean, trailing a bright wake of white water. Closer in, the river view loses its beauty, littered with old tires and bottles and other unpleasant scum. A small, rusted merchant ship rests at anchor in the channel, waiting for dock space, no doubt. It flies no flag that I can see and the stern is obscured or I might be able read the country it calls home.

  An old wooden jetty thrusts out from the dark maw of the warehouse where boats could pull up and dock. Above it all are two steel rails where electric lifts could raise the smaller boats and move them within for a more complete overhaul.

  A shadow briefly scuttles along the jetty and then disappears. The fire hasn’t frightened the rats at all.

  I mirror my circuit on the other side of the warehouse and find it much the same.

  Around front the main entry door
has been efficiently prized open, and so noted by a firefighter from the first-due truck company.

  Once inside I find a warren of offices, storage spaces and other rooms, both large and small. Quite out of place I see an old shopping cart, rubber wheels and plastic handle destroyed by the flames. I pass by my little soot angel’s room, but do not enter, for such a tragic demise is utterly repulsive to me, even though I understand that most fire-related deaths are due to carbon monoxide intoxication, notwithstanding the often grisly condition of the remains.

  As I wade deeper into the building I watch to see if the fire-spread seems natural, and if the intensity of the flames seems natural for the conditions within. I will begin taking photographs and collecting samples on my second circuit.

  So far the building continues to speak. I examine such effects as the depth of char to determine the length of time a wooden structural member was exposed to flame. Deep rolling blisters, also called alligatoring, would suggest a liquid accelerant that burns at a higher temperature than wood, but I see no such evidence at this point. I let my eyes scour the floor, the walls, and the ceiling as I process information, but make no assumptions yet.

  As I proceed out of the office area the ceiling above rises straight up for two more stories. This is where the larger boats would be labored on, stripped of their paint and coatings, then varnished or otherwise refinished in the custom of the time. Two small black-charred boat hulks rest in cradles, projects long since abandoned, yet welcome fuel for the fire.

  Above me, on left and right walls, run iron catwalks. Below and against the brick partition squats an occasional small container, most with their lids blown off from the heat. As I approach closer to the docking area and the river, the intensity of the fire-damage diminishes, most likely from the delugement of our city’s fireboat.

  But what catches my immediate attention is a truck to one side, sooted darkly from the smoke. It is some sort of large transport vehicle with six wheels, a late model, and from its design, some sort of military truck. Besides the homeless residents, someone else has been here, too. For what purpose and to what end raises questions. Arson is a convenient way to destroy clues, yet it is apparent that the fire did not originate within this vehicle.

  I approach and shine my flashlight into the cab, then open the door and peer under the seat. Nothing. Around back the cargo space is equally empty. After taking several photographs, I place a call to the city impound yard. I request that the truck be towed in on a priority-basis and stored in the quarantined evidence section. I will schedule a forensic examination to inspect the vehicle and determine the identity of the owner.

  Close to the truck lie scattered wooden shards of what I assume to be a smashed crate. Inside it is subdivided into twenty-five cubicles that perhaps stored cans of solvent or paint. I snap pictures of four letters evident on one edge, a manufacturer’s marque or product I.D., I am hoping. Below the letters is a skull with crossed bones, the universal sign of something lethal. Unfortunately, it was not uncommon for workers fifty years ago to daily deal with injurious chemicals.

  I walk to the open edge of the warehouse abutting the river. There is no door, for it would have been huge and of little use. I look over the wooden jetty stretching maybe thirty feet out into the river. The wood is rotten and a hazard; I remember the rat, so won’t venture farther. I turn back for my second circuit.

  I pause and photograph anything and everything of interest, describing them into my recorder, positioning a ruler alongside as indication of size. Everything must be noted, for not only must I prove in exacting detail where the fire started, but also where it did not start.

  Case law in this state is very specific, and if called to testify in court, I cannot simply say that the fire was incendiary in nature. That is the work of the jury. What I must do is offer testimony suggesting that the fire was not an accident by describing all of the steps I have taken to eliminate every possible accidental cause.

  It is time-consuming and meticulous, but it is work I love, the work of logic and scientific fact.

  I thread my way back into the office area. I have brought along a variety of metal, plastic and paper containers that I can use for collecting evidence, but so far there is nothing that seems to need any technical analysis.

  I have not proceeded far when around me the damage and ruin intensifies, for I am approaching the point of origin. I come to one room and shine my light through the terribly charred opening.

  Inside and to my left and right are rows and rows of narrow racks used to hold blueprints, ship’s plans, or other rolled-up drawings. Across from me stretches a long metal table, obviously used to spread out the plans for reference. More importantly, above the cindered remains of some documents left on the table is a textbook-perfect V, or funnel pattern, spreading up from a narrow point and widening as it rises higher. My job has just become easier as this pattern clearly indicates the point of origin.

  From within this room, where the fire first started, roiled out the choking smoke and harmful toxic gases that spread lethally down the hall to overcome any living thing in its path. Soon after would follow the fierce and marauding flames.

  But now I must determine how these combustible materials ignited.

  I study the surrounding floor, looking for anything out of the ordinary. An empty gas can would be too easy, and the remains of a wind-up clock would tell me something interesting as well. Yet nothing do I see. However, if someone had simply placed a lighted match on the papers, that would have served well enough.

  I hunker down onto my knees, not so easy encased in heavy bunker pants. I peer under the table and spot something of interest: a thick electrical cable that runs the length of the workspace.

  The cable nestles up inside the angle where the table abuts the wall. What I see is that a section of the old cable is charred and burned through due to a heavy electrical overload. There is no doubt that such heat would have conducted up through the metal table and ignited any papers on top of it.

  But I must wonder, what caused this cable to overload and burn in the first place?

  Next door I find a smaller room containing multiple fuse boxes. I locate the box feeding into the blueprint room and see that the power cable continues on to the large workspace. By its thick gauge I deduce that it feeds power to the boat lifts.

  I approach the box and my foot awkwardly rolls on something. I count one, two, then three stout industrial electrical fuses grouped together. I record their images before examining one. From the sooty black band around the center it is obvious this fuse burned through from an excess load. It is the same with the other fuses.

  The metal fuse box hangs open and I shine my flashlight close enough to read the rating. As I suspected, after burning through three correctly rated fuses, someone has overfused this circuit resulting in too much power running down the cable. Then the excess power heated the cable to ignition.

  I am curious as to how long the spent fuses laid on the floor. Was the box overfused before or after this old warehouse was abandoned? These are not questions I am likely to answer quickly. But I will find out why power to the warehouse was turned on without a simple inspection that would have revealed this hazard.

  Still, what troubles me is that even with the power turned on there would have been no fire. The fire resulted when the wire was overloaded with current. Someone was running some heavy electrical equipment in the boat-repair area. One of the displaced souls that was living here? Or someone connected with the truck?

  I now know the cause of this fire, and I now know the origin, but I know little else. This could be arson or this could be accident. As an accident, it is explainable. Yet, as arson, it is hardly of any marked sophistication. Today’s incendiary specialist has become quite sophisticated since the old days of sloshing kerosene around or constructing a simple time-delay fuse with a candle.

  I bag the fuses, then continue my inspection, but find no other sites of ignition.

>   By now a fair slice of the afternoon is gone and I am tired and sweaty. I move into the open air and breathe deeply, happy to be out from under the charry stink inside.

  My eyes are drawn over to my Jeep Cherokee and the figure leaning against the door. It is the Iron Maiden and I am not pleased to see him. He takes a last drag on a cigarette and casually flicks it up and over the yellow fire line tape into the evidence zone. He does this on purpose, for he knows as well as I do the old maxim: A victim is only killed once, but a crime scene can be murdered a thousand times.

  I place my camera and recorder into the back of my Cherokee and shrug out of my turnout coat. I ignore the Iron Maiden, but he does not ignore me. His eyes lock onto my hair, naturally colored a rare and outrageous red, like my father’s. I have my father’s eyes, too, pale gold, a striking contrast to my hair. They say I closely favor my father, a very handsome man. The man I tried to kill so long ago.

  “Dye your hair another color, Anja,” the Iron Maiden says, his eyes focused on my chest now. “So the drapes match the carpet.”

  The Iron Maiden is an equal opportunity sexual predator and makes no pretense otherwise. Whereas some cops shake down street punks for money, this man extorts sexual favors with no bias toward either gender.

  He has hit on me several times, always lewdly. One would be surprised at his filth by simply looking at him. He is tall and immaculately groomed, dapper in his suits, slim of build and fluid in motion. It is surely not the sex with him, but some form of power over others that feeds whatever one might term his essence.

  He is here to see if he has a job. For if this incident turns out to be arson, then my soot angel is a homicide, and that is the Iron Maiden’s specialty.

  “Indeterminate cause,” I say in answer to his unasked question.

  Without another word he turns and glides back to his city-owned vehicle. I feel in need of another shower.

  *****

  I return to my downtown office and check my voice mail, prioritizing calls by order of importance.