The last is from Creighton Calderwood, my immediate boss, though he works a few hundred miles away in the capitol. I speed dial his private line.
Creighton Calderwood, the official Commissioner of Insurance, as well as the State Fire Marshal, serves at the pleasure of the governor. Since he has served under five governors, I know him to be a savvy bureaucrat of great skill. But that in no way diminishes his efforts and contributions to the voters and the tax-payers. In the tricky arena of ever-rising insurance premiums, he has kept consumer costs in check for all but the most egregious risk-takers or ventures. He secured a multi-million dollar refund several years ago that almost bankrupted one insurance firm, although their coffers were probably emptied more by the expensive lobbyists they hired in several vicious attempts to circumvent Creighton’s efforts and besmirch his reputation.
He also takes his duties as Fire Marshal very seriously. It is commonly known that homes with fire detectors suffer fewer casualties or loss of life than those houses that lack them. What isn’t commonly known is that about half the homes with fire detectors don’t even have batteries installed. Creighton Calderwood set up an excellent grass-roots effort whereby large commercial merchant chains would donate batteries, followed by the local fire departments knocking door-to-door to install the batteries.
I am just about to hang up when Creighton answers and I wonder what wide and boisterously-colored tie he wears today, his amusing trademark. He cuts right to the point. “Shall I call in our friends from ATF?”
Creighton refers to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, who fly in specialized teams to investigate any arsons that impact commerce, which this warehouse fire might conceivably represent. I tell him not yet, but not to rule it out.
“Purple and orange, with bits of dark red and yellow squiggles, since you’re dying to know, Dr. Toussaint,” Creighton says.
“How many ties do you own?” I ask, it is the subject of much speculation among his colleagues.
“I stopped counting,” he admits. “But the guest bedroom I use for my tie closet is almost full. I believe my lovely wife sneaks in from time to time and throws out dozens at a time. So remember me at Christmas,” he jokes.
I always do, and in truth, he is the easiest person I know to shop for.
His voice takes on a more serious tone. “I have a special project for you, if you can find the time.”
He is my boss; of course I will find the time.
“This particular project involves the ongoing fun and games at the Flame Mignon. I think you will find some sport there yourself.”
He has piqued my interest. The Flame Mignon is the nickname for a condemned 14-floor apartment building the city is just starting to use for live fire training and other simulated drills.
But as I listen to Creighton outline the scheme he wants me to perpetrate, my enthusiasm flags. For what I have been commissioned to do will on the one hand provide excellent training for all involved, yet on the other hand will create no small amount of professional embarrassment and humiliation. This will then be followed by a great deal of antagonism and anger, which will be directed at me. But that is a position with which I am certainly familiar. And Creighton, of course, is well-practiced in shielding me in those situations.
But it will be fun, nonetheless, and an interesting challenge. I promise to drop by the Flame Mignon first thing in the morning to more closely examine my new playground.
*****
I am up at dawn and open my windows to a pleasant day. As part of my teaching agreement with the University they supply me with a studio apartment on campus. It is small, but suits my needs during the week. All other days I try to spend at my small cottage on the coast.
I shower away the sleep and change into jeans and a pale-blue long-sleeve shirt. A cold glass of skim milk helps wash down a nut-filled power bar. Then I head out to assess Creighton’s new assignment.
The Flame Mignon shows signs of dark smudging over windows from the practice fires. The city actively seeks donations of wooden pallets and other burnable material, as well as furniture and mattresses to simulate interiors.
Much is planned, including the ultimate coup d’grace, when the entire structure burns. Firefighters from hundreds of miles away keenly anticipate this grand conflagration. I once watched a young boy approach a firefighter and proclaim, “When I grow up I want to be a fireman.” To which the old hand replied, “You can’t do both, son.”
Today the police SWAT Team practices forcible entry techniques: slamming doors off hinges and rushing in with orange practice pistols.
Numerous other training opportunities present themselves: search and rescue, canine training, endless fire-suppression evolutions.
A portion of the structure will be demolished for a collapse team drill. Instructors plan Firefighter 1 classes. Hazardous Material Teams prepare dispersal tests. High angle rescue teams will practice packaging victims. The list goes on.
But my own special project remains fundamentally different, for I must slaughter as many first responders as possible. In a simulated way.
I speak with the training liaison and she informs me no live burns are planned today. I can wander the building at will.
The first floor hustles with activity. Renovations proceed to create a fire command room. Two power company techs string wires. Someone from the water department strides by, pants wet to the knees.
The area seems a simple repetition of apartments. I wander inside one. It reeks of rotted food and urine. I carefully step over used needles and shards of glass.
Back in the hall I discover enclosed fire escapes placed at the end of each wing of the building. Push bars open the locked doors leading outside. I find the central stair tower and descend to the sub-grade level.
The basement contains the electrical area, three mechanical spaces, and tenant storage rooms bordering the front face of the structure.
The germ of an idea abruptly emerges on how to murder my firefighters.
Many will die if I am successful. It is not an original design, but simply the plan of a previous monster. The press dubbed him The Incinerator, and it was my very great pleasure to help put him away for 200 years.
*****
The atrocious creature dubbed The Incinerator was a malignant freak with murder and mayhem in his heart. My doctorate is in Fire Science and I have scrutinized many case-studies of individuals who set fires. But I never read about someone like this.
He is under study by clinical psychologists and other specialists. He did not prove a willing subject at first. But after three months in solitary confinement and allowed only bread and water, his attitude altered. Interestingly, recordings played of swine suffering the slaughterhouse seemed to soothe him.
Much came to light in court about this sad, sick, twisted individual. He endured a terrible childhood. He lived with an uncle who victimized him from infancy. Locked at night inside a footlocker, severe whippings followed if he soiled himself.
The litany of physical and mental outrages he bore fills many pages of transcripts. I was not surprised at the ultimate effect on him. I understood who he was more than most.
His uncle died when he was twelve. A tragedy, because the boy lost the one target necessary for his salvation.
Juvenile records revealed that he exhibited classic patterns as a teen: inflicting pain on animals, setting small fires, bed-wetting, self-scarring and the like. He passed through a dozen youth homes. He built a rap-sheet.
He grew wiser.
His behavior became organized and thoughtful, deliberate actions rather than spur-of-the-moment. Unfortunately, with his uncle dead, he needed other outlets for his rage.
So he directed this fury at the system, at authority figures, at certain heroes who never rescued him. Not at the police, he knew what their job was. No, he pointed his anger at people whose job was to save others. Firefighters.
His arsons began in uncomplicated ways. He proved hardly more
than an incompetent saboteur. He utilized crude and simple incendiary devices, but simple is reliable. He developed a signature – time-delay triggers made up of matches and a cigarette.
As more precise timing grew in importance, he experimented with wind-up alarm clocks. Easy to buy, untraceable, never suspicious to own. He targeted abandoned homes.
My suspicions first arose after I investigated a fire and discovered multiple points of origin, not uncommon with arsonists. But something seemed askew about the chain of progression.
It was a two-story house and the upstairs was fully involved when the first company arrived. Standard ops called for two firefighters to lay in a 2 ½-inch line and attack the seat of the fire. The upper windows had been vented and the smoke rapidly cleared, which was quite fortuitous because of what happened next.
As the crew approached the lower stairwell, a fire suddenly erupted in the room to their right. Almost simultaneously another fire ignited in a room to their left. They quickly exited the structure and commenced a surround and drown.
Had they already been upstairs when the subsequent fires burst forth they would’ve been trapped.
I carried my suspicions to Battalion Chief Smelser who nodded sagely, promised to take the matter under advisement and shined me on. He embodies the old firehouse maxim: One hundred years of tradition unimpeded by progress. I feared his attitude would lead to a line-of-duty death so shifted matters onto myself.
I started to patrol certain neighborhoods similar in profile. Each old house represented a potential target. I placed myself in the arsonist’s mind.
Fortune sometimes favors the bold.
It was well past midnight when I pulled over. I gazed at the swayed old remains of a formerly beautiful Victorian home, three stories high and edged with delicate gingerbread woodwork. I very much admired the house, both in architecture and as a promising trap.
I stared for several minutes, then blinked to reset my focus. For I saw a pale red flickering grow inside the turret tower’s third-level window. The dancing cherry glow developed in intensity. I called it in.
I knew without thinking exactly how events would unfold. Eight or so minutes for the responding crew to arrive. Next they’d hook hydrants and throw ladders. Then they’d attack.
Which left me some moments to reconnoiter.
I grabbed my heavy flashlight and dashed to the porch. I didn’t bother with the door, but smashed a window and raked the flashlight around to remove the jagged glass. Then I bent over and stepped within.
In my mind I saw the firefighters first rushing upstairs to the blaze. That was the trap. But how would it snap shut?
I did not have time for a long search. Instead I raced to the kitchen, threw open a door to the pantry, then flung back a door to the basement. I shined my light down and almost vomited.
A dozen jerry cans lay upended. The spilled contents formed a glinting lake of gasoline. I smelled the thick vapors saturating the space. Perched on a table above the gasoline sat a white wind-up alarm clock. The turn-key connected to a wooden match trigger.
I grabbed my cell phone, but realized any electrical charge was lethal. I rushed back and out through the window and called the police.
I shouted to bring the bomb squad. I yelled to keep the first responders away. I gulped more air and calmed my voice. “Call in multiple alarms,” I ordered. When this huge bomb explodes fire and flame will overwhelm the neighborhood.
Then I drove off in the direction of the approaching sirens.
Several streets away I angled my Cherokee over to block the responding company. I stood out in front and waved my hands at the engine. The great horn bellowed. Brakes shrieked and tires swerved, but they pulled up short.
Behind them sped the Battalion Chief’s car. More brakes squealed and I heard metal crash against metal.
Battalion Chief Brian Smelser charged through the truck’s headlights at me.
Flecks of spit flew as he screamed out expletives.
I tried to explain.
“Grab her,” he bellowed to the gathering firefighters. One placed a hand on Chief Smelser’s shoulder, but he threw it off.
“Move that damn car,” he roared. Then he strode over and wrenched a fire axe off the truck.
Without warning the house exploded into a fireball visible five miles distant. Windows shattered for blocks around. A tsunami of flame engulfed nearby structures.
I climbed in my vehicle and moved it away.
All the responding companies set in for a heavy night’s work. The toil lasted throughout the next day. There were no civilian casualties, but countless fires continued to spread around the neighborhood. Spectacular photos ran for a week in all the local media.
Thus was born the nickname The Incinerator.
Battalion Chief Smelser seized center stage in front of the cameras. The city launched a massive investigation. Detectives racked up overtime to fruitlessly search for the arsonist.
Several days later an unassuming cop called to ask my opinion. I faxed him some juvenile records I had recently pulled. I suggested he visit this person.
As I suspected the The Incinerator possessed a closet full of white wind-up alarm clocks; and no good reason as to why.
*****
I have now devised just such an ugly scheme for the Flame Mignon. I perform a circuit of the exterior, piecing together my plans for the first responders. I visualize how they will make their attack. I see in my mind how they will die in the flames and chaos.
I push through the double doors and meet Battalion Chief Smelser. His face floods purple. “Get the hell out. This is restricted.”
“Good day, Chief,” I say pleasantly.
“You’re not authorized,” he shouts like I am a block away.
“Call Creighton,” I say.
His jaw clamps. He detests that he doesn’t control me. He detests that I call his boss by first name. He detests that I am a woman in his men-only club.
I smile agreeably and a vessel pumps hard on his temple.
“You are worse than a freelancer,” he grates, using the pejorative term for a hot-dogging firefighter.
I step around him. The unpleasantness of this encounter reminds me that my day will grow worse.
Much worse, I think, for soon I must use my skills and abilities to send a good man to prison.
*****
It was three months back that I was called in to determine the cause of a structure fire that destroyed a house in North Side. I knew it as a neighborhood of ramshackle dwellings where only the poorest or most distressed lived.
I found the address and parked next to the yellow fire-line tape. All that remained within was a black-sooted chimney that poked up from a jumble of charred timbers.
But the home next door caught my eye. Vibrant orange roses blossomed from well-tended bushes. Red and yellow peonies cascaded along either side of a walkway. Hanging baskets of impatiens dripped lavender blooms snuggled among emerald green leaves. The hanky-sized yard was as tightly-groomed as a golfing green. A pleasant sight, but unexpected in this neighborhood.
I looked back at the burnt ruin and hoped some obvious cause would jump out. But it was not to be, for fire is the great destroyer and often eats all evidence. Then I heard a creaking sound and looked at the pretty house. Someone pushed through a screen door.
“You the police?” an old man asked. He shuffled to a scuffed plastic chair and carefully settled down. I judged him past seventy for his face was furrowed like old leather. Long silvered brows drooped past clouded eyes.
I flashed him the red, gold, and black badge the Insurance Commissioner had bestowed upon me. It was mostly a fashion accessory and accreted no authority, but it was sometimes useful in impressing the gullible. The old man gestured me over with knotted fingers.
I instantly preferred interviewing the next-door neighbor to shuffling through ash and charred wood. I paced up onto his porch and sat down on a chair like his. He smiled.
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“Twenty years since my wife set there,” he said. “She passed.”
I thought of how hard those twenty years must have been. To have someone, to love someone, then to lose that one. I knew what he felt.
I gave him my name and he said his was Mr. Sammy.
He gestured in the direction of the blackened ruin. “Sin peddlers.”
“A crackhouse?” I asked.
Mr. Sammy shrugged. “I go to church three times a week. Don’t smoke. Don’t drink. Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Were they selling drugs next door?” I tried.
“They shriekin’ and yellin’ all night long. Cars driving up all hours. Nice cars,” he exclaimed. “Good kids gone bad. What they mamas think?”
I had no answer for that.
“Police don’t care. City don’t care. You the first ever come out.”
I nodded.
“Why you never come when I call?” he asked. “I call and call. Got a notebook with dates and times. I say come watch. Nice cars drivin’ up for they curb service.”
I asked what that means.
“Car drive up someone runs out the house. I see the money. I see the sin. Why you don’t care?”
I apologized on behalf of the police. But what he just revealed proved interesting. Manufacturing drugs requires hazardous and very flammable ingredients.
“Told me call the landlord,” Mr. Sammy said.
“How many people lived there?” I asked.
“Six, ten, many as wanted. Throw all they trash in the yard. I complained and they sic a dog on me.”
“Do you know when the fire started?” I asked.
“Four thirty in the morning. That’s when the traffic die down. Sinners headin’ home for they beauty rest.”
I asked if he knew where the fire started.
“Back porch. I woulda knock on the front and warn ‘em, but that dog bad. I yell from my winder.”
“Then what?”
He chuckled, light and wispy. “They jump in they cars, go someplace else.”
“This was around four thirty?”
“What I said.”
I pondered that. According to the first responders’ report, the alarm logged in at five fifteen.
“You didn’t call it in at first,” I said.
“Just a little fire on the back porch.”
I looked over at the ruins. The fire had certainly grown.
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