I’m between the ravens and the willow hedge. Not a great place to be. I waste no time putting myself on the other side of the ravens. They warble and rasp, picking new roosts. As I walk I look for the kill, wanting to know when I’m clear; stop when I see a black mound of hair. It’s hard to see clearly from here but it looks like a bear. Any second it will raise its head and see me but for now it’s oblivious and I remain still, waiting to assess its behaviour, my heart beating a bit harder — the second burst of adrenaline this morning.
It remains oddly motionless.
A raven dives out of a tree, lands on the black fur, begins to pick at something.
A bear is not normally this patient. I approach cautiously. The raven flaps away, squawking indignantly. The bear is dead; a hole in its side where smaller scavengers have been enjoying this bonanza. More than likely, the owner of the cabin shot the bear, which made it this far before dropping. There may be another bear close by though, drawn by the odour. I put some distance between myself and the smell.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the fire perimeter.
THE FIRE BURNED to the creek and I step across the narrow channel a dozen yards upstream from a whining pump, take a moment to survey the scene. Tall trees, trunks blackened. Smoke thick enough it burns the eyes — it smells of earth, plastic and burning debris, like a smouldering dump. A hose snakes across the ground to where yellow-clad firefighters work. A cluster of traps hang in a nearby tree. The gutted truck is about thirty yards away, sitting low on its rims, tires burned away. Beyond the truck is a screened view of what remains of the cabin. One corner rises like a crumbling spire, dovetailed log ends still discernable. I step over low flame which nibbles into damp grass along the creek, head for the cabin. Hendrigan meets me on the way.
“You stopped for a swim?” he says.
“Mud bath,” I tell him. “Good for the complexion.”
Hendrigan is taller than me and sparse. His stubble is streaked with soot.
“You find any sign of the owner?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “Just the dog.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“Not that I can see. But that’s your job.”
It’s his job too — all initial action crews are trained to protect a suspected origin area and look for anything unusual. That’s the theory, anyway. Typically, in the heat of first response, flames get most of the attention and determination of origin or cause is a lower priority. This, however, isn’t a typical fire. All indications point to a possible casualty.
“You’re certain no one noticed anything unusual?”
Hendrigan notes my tone, frowns. “We looked around a bit, didn’t see anything.”
“How close did you get to the cabin?” “No closer than about five yards.”
I’d have preferred they’d remained farther back and not contaminate the area with boot prints, but it’s a tough call, preserving evidence while looking for some sign of the occupant. They should have marked a path though — a single line of contamination.
“I want everyone to stay away from the cabin until I clear the area.”
Hendrigan nods, looks around to check the position of his men.
“What about the truck? Did you approach that as well?”
“I took a peek,” he says. “Nothing in there.”
I squat, pull a camera from my pack. Until recently all I ever used were the cheap, disposable cameras. They took reasonably good pictures and you could send the whole camera in for developing, or turn it over to someone else, like the RCMP. It was becoming difficult to find somewhere to develop film so I bought a digital, although I don’t really trust the thing — too easy to accidentally lose data. I take a few pictures from where I stand, cover the viewscape within the fire, then walk slowly toward the truck, studying the ground and surrounding tree trunks.
“What are you looking for?” says Hendrigan, walking beside me.
“Walk behind, please.”
Hendrigan falls in behind me.
“A few things,” I tell him. “I’m looking for anything unusual that an arsonist might have dropped, or anything cast off from the fire, which might give me an indication of fire behaviour. And I’m checking fire travel patterns on the ground and trees.”
“To see if the fire came from the cabin?”
“Or if it started outside the cabin. You see that tree over there?”
Hendrigan looks in the direction I’m pointing.
“Notice the char pattern is higher on one side.”
“Yeah — on the side facing the creek.”
“What direction do you think the fire was travelling?”
Hendrigan frowns. “Looks like it came from the creek and burned toward the cabin, but that doesn’t make sense. The fire is clearly burning outward, getting larger.”
“Fire burning around a tree creates a slight vacuum on the lee side.”
“Pulling the flames higher,” says Hendrigan. “The fire came from the cabin.”
“According to one indicator. We’ll need more, to be certain.”
Hendrigan’s second-in-command calls over the radio. The helipad is brushed out. Hendrigan discusses next steps while I walk toward the burned truck, noting as I pass more tree trunks charred lower near the cabin. The truck is an older Chevrolet half-ton with a fibreglass canopy. Neither have retained their collectors value. The windows of the truck are open and I peer inside the cab. Wisps of smoke rise from what remains of the seat — an acrid, nauseating smell. Chainsaw files and a screwdriver lie on the blackened dash. Keys are in the ignition — not a good sign. Reaching in through the window, I twist a metal clasp on the glovebox, coax open hinges seized by heat. They make an unpleasant sound. The registration and insurance are charred to ash foil; one touch and they’ll disintegrate. But there’s something else in there.
A whiskey bottle.
I slip on a work glove, carefully extract the bottle. Canadian Club. Empty. Perhaps the driver was the one who named the creek. Turning the bottle carefully over in my hand, I look for the etched letters I’ve come to expect, but there’s nothing. I set the bottle back in the glovebox, walk around the vehicle, look for anything obvious. Nothing. Pine needle ash. No boot prints. The helicopter thumps overhead, large orange Bambi bucket bulging with water as it swings in for a dump, dribbling water which patters across my hardhat. Behind the truck I jot down the licence plate number. The stickers are just barely legible — it was insured until the coming September. I unclip my belt radio from its holster.
“Dispatch, this is Cassel.”
“Talk to me, Cassel.”
“Burned-out Chevy half-ton. Cabin is gone.”
“Any sign of the occupant?”
I glance at the smoking rubble of the cabin. “Nothing yet.”
“Well, keep looking. We’re looking here, too.”
“I’ve got a licence plate. Are you ready to copy?”
“Go ahead.”
I pass on the number: GFL 434.
Dispatch tells me he’ll run the plate through the local RCMP who he’s put on notice. Middel sounds edgy. I promise to keep him informed, turn my attention to the cabin. In the Green Area of the Province — the predominantly forested area — residential structures are not permitted, except commercial tourism operations and trapline cabins. Based on the traps hanging in the trees, it’s obvious which category this cabin falls into, although at a thousand square feet, it’s large by trapline standards. A thousand square feet of rubble. The four corners of the rectangular log structure burned the slowest and stand like the charred fingers of an immense hand, holding a palm full of twisted black metal roofing. The tin sheets didn’t simply fall to the floor — a fire is far too dynamic. They heated unevenly and twisted; bent as they collapsed with the roof. Many are curled like dead leaves, forming a jagged shroud over what lies beneath, which still crackles and sizzles. Smoke rises unevenly between the spaces. I try not to think about what might be sizzling beneath.
&nb
sp; “You think there was someone in there?” says Hendrigan, startling me.
“We’ll find out soon enough. Right now, let’s take care of that dog.”
Hendrigan nods, leads me past an outhouse, untouched by the fire.
“House and truck go,” Hendrigan says. “But the crapper is fine.”
The dog is tied by a long chain to a tree about thirty yards behind the outhouse. It’s a hound of some sort and as soon as he sees us he sets up a terrible racket, whining and crouching. The poor thing is black with soot from nose to tail and smells of burned hair. Both ears are singed. A gooey discharge has oozed from its nose. There’s an old hubcap filled with water nearby. “Calder brought him that,” Hendrigan says, following my gaze. “We didn’t know what to do with him.”
I kneel in front of the dog, who is ecstatic at the attention, straining against its leash as it licks at my face. Its breathing is raspy — smoke inhalation or superheated air. It’s not usually the flames that kill. Lungs sear shut and fill with fluid; he may be dying.
“That’s a good boy,” I murmur reassuringly.
He places a paw on my forearm, cocks his head. I pull out my belt radio.
“Dispatch, this is Cassel. We need TRT back at the fire.”
“What for, Cassel?”
“Medevac.”
“You found the owner?”
“Not yet. But his dog is in bad shape.”
There’s a pause. “You want me to send TRT for a dog?”
“He needs immediate medical care.”
I think Middel is about to refuse — he’s already lost marks in my book, when I hear him call TRT, send him to the fire. The dog lays its head on my thigh, drools onto my coveralls. I wonder why he’s tied so far from the cabin. If I owned a dog, he’d be in my favourite chair in the house. But I’m allergic. Already, my eyes are itching. Soon I’ll be drooling worse than the dog. But I wait a few more minutes before moving — the dog is glued to my thigh. He whimpers as we disengage.
“Should we let him loose?” says Hendrigan.
“Better not. Given what he’s been through, he may run away.”
Hendrigan smiles. “I think he’ll just follow you.”
I picture a dog running amok through what might be a crime scene.
“He’ll be fine here until the helicopter arrives.”
Hendrigan returns to his men, working the perimeter. I return to the cabin, circle slowly, take photos, make notes, check fire travel indicators on trees, logs and underbrush. All evidence of fire travel points to the cabin as the origin. Once my preliminary documentation is complete, I find where the door of the cabin once stood, facing the truck.
Kneeling carefully, I begin a more detailed inspection.
This fire was very hot, consuming the heavy log exterior wall and the periphery of the floor, where joists stick out from beneath blackened debris. Little briquettes of charcoal and discoloured nails lie amid white ash. It would have taken a few hours for this much mass to be reduced and the heat to dissipate. Not that the site isn’t still hot — heat pulses from the debris, advising caution. I examine a bent strip of metal among the ash. It’s a door hinge, seized in position by heat. The door was left open, presenting several scenarios.
The occupant fled the burning cabin; the fire likely an accident.
The fire was set intentionally; the door left open to aid combustion. If the occupant fled, why would the vehicle remain? Perhaps heat from the burning cabin prevented the owner from reaching it. I picture a man, covered in soot and half-crazed, running from the burning cabin into the darkness. He may be lost and injured. I unholster my belt radio, call dispatch, ask that the incoming helicopter make a few wider sweeps of the area to look for the missing occupant. Dispatch acknowledges.
I holster the radio, return to the task ahead of me.
A building fire is far more complex than a wildfire. There are additional factors in a building that affect fire behaviour and spread. Walls and internal barriers. Synthetic materials, both combustible and noncombustible. Sources of ignition you would never find in a forest. Deciphering these clues requires specialized training, which I do not have. But I do have a good understanding of fire behaviour, and I’m the only investigator available. Given the remote location of the cabin, there may not be another investigator on this fire, unless grounds can be established to bring in more resources. Grounds such as evidence of foul play. I scrutinize the smouldering pile of tin and charcoal, searching for anything obvious.
Any clues are buried beneath the shroud of the collapsed roof. Given the heat of the debris, should I let it burn out and cool before excavating?
It will be hours until the heat diminishes to a safe level, insulated as it is by the collapsed roof and debris that has caved in from the walls. Days even. I remember blackened keys dangling from the truck’s ignition. We can’t wait. Chances are nil that anyone in the remains of the cabin might still be alive, but we have a responsibility to lay the question to rest. From a practical perspective, we need to know if a search is required.
I ponder how it might be safe to commence work.
Water in a firehose is over two hundred pounds per square inch pressure. Even if we throttle down the pump, the jet of water will wreak havoc among the debris, mixing and damaging. Fire travel clues and other evidence are often subtle or delicate. We’ll have to go in hot but controlled. I peer through the trees, to where Hendrigan and his men are working. I’d hate to pull them off fire suppression duties, but I’ll need assistance. The smaller helicopter swings overhead and I look up at the block letters of its call sign, stencilled on its belly. I’ll bring in the local crew to assist. Until then, I’ll do what I can.
First things first. More photos and notes. Site sketch.
By the time I’m finished, another half hour has passed. TRT is still flying. The dog is still whining. The cabin is still smouldering. I call TRT, confirm they haven’t found any sign of the missing occupant and have them land at the new helipad, farther down the creek and outside the fire. I unclip the chain from the dog’s collar, pick him. He’s not a small dog and makes an awkward bundle, legs struggling, whining, licking my face. He stinks of wet dog, burned hair and shit. I don’t have a leash for him and don’t want him loose around the helicopter. So I carry him, walk quickly, my eyes and nose running. Through the trees, the helicopter is visible, waiting, rotors buzzing. Someone is walking in my direction, coveralls and hardhat glaringly clean, and I groan.
“Howdy, Porter.”
It’s Luke Middel, the Chief Ranger’s teenage son. Luke is tall and lanky, with a mess of blond hair and a look of unbridled enthusiasm on his smooth face. Ever since my arrival to investigate the bottle fires, he’s been begging me to follow along. It’s like having a big, ungainly puppy stalking you. Luke must have been waiting at the base for his chance to hop a flight here, but the last thing I need, with a possible casualty, a possible crime scene, and a hot evidence search, is an uncoordinated and overly eager sixteen-year-old without any training. I thrust the dog at him, which he takes awkwardly.
“Here, Luke, I’ve got an important mission for you.”
“Yeah, but —”
“This dog is injured and he needs immediate medical care. You take him to the nursing station and make sure they treat him right.”
Luke fumbles with the dog, which squirms in his arms, looking back at me reproachfully for putting him in the arms of an amateur. Luke’s hesitation is obvious — he’s looking past me at the fire. I fix him with a stern look and send him back to the helicopter. He slouches away, struggling with the dog. I watch until both dog and teenager are safely in the helicopter, then give the pilot the thumbs up. As the machine lifts off I breathe a sigh of relief and return to the ruins of the cabin, where I examine the tangle of debris, look for the best point of entry to start my excavation. I decide the front of the cabin will be best as the debris here is less cluttered. This is also the cabin’s path of entry and exit and there may be evide
nce along this route disturbed by moving and shifting elsewhere.
I pull my leather work gloves snug and get started.
The area just inside the door has no floor and I spend about twenty minutes on hands and knees systematically probing the ash. I find numerous nails, three metal coat hooks and a doorknob. The sun clears the treetops. In no time I’m sweating. The ends of the carbonized floor joists crumble as I brush them with my glove. Farther into the cabin, portions of the floor have survived but are buried beneath the heap of debris. Jagged edges of tin halt further exploration. I stand and stretch, half-damp coveralls chaffing as I move. There isn’t much more I can do until my helpers arrive, but I’m not much for standing around, so I start to work at the easily accessible sheets of tin, the metal warm through my gloves. The sheets of twisted metal move reluctantly, scraping with a sound like fingernails on a blackboard, but soon I’ve cleared enough roof tin and debris that I can progress my search several feet further into the building, where I see the black metal side of what I think is a small woodstove. I take pictures, then step across the ashy threshold into what was the front room of the cabin, my heart beating a bit faster — the woodstove may be the origin.
Floorboards are deeply charred and still smoking. Something sizzles beneath the debris. Just in front of me the side of the stove is fully exposed, tilted on an angle. It’s a simple wood heater — a cube of heavy sheet metal with a door in the front. Warped roofing tin, round metal stove pipe, chunks of charcoaled log beam and other debris prevent a complete view of the stove, but from the aspect of the stove’s door hinges, it looks as though the door may be open, which could be the cause of the fire — coals having spilled onto the wooden floor. Or the stove door may have been knocked open as the cabin collapsed on top of it. Either way, I’m anxious to have a better look and begin tugging at more sheets of tin.
Whiskey Creek Page 2