Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  The tin is tangled with other debris and I succeed in shifting portions of the pile, but little more. Something buried begins to sizzle more aggressively. A length of stovepipe rolls out at my feet and I pick it up, give it a cursory examination, set it aside. Something far more interesting has been exposed — the end of a whiskey bottle, laying on the black pillowed surface of the floor. I squat, pick away bits of charred wood and gently blow away ash. The bottle is broken, but the base is intact. Gingerly, I pick it up, my scalp tingling, expecting to see the familiar letters inscribed at its base, but there is nothing on the crazed, cobblestone texture of the tortured glass. This appears to be an unrelated fire and a picture begins to form in my mind. Lone occupant drinking whiskey, leaves the cabin door open, perhaps as the stove has made the cabin too hot. Or he goes for a piss and forgets to close the door, as he does with the stove when he feeds in wood. The occupant is asleep or passed out when an ember falls from the stove, igniting the floor. My scalp tingles again — the smoking debris has a pungent undertone similar to meat burned on a barbecue. I grasp a sheet of tin and pull hard, hoping to uncover the stove and surrounding area. It moves about two inches. Another try yields another inch — the tin is either tangled solidly in the pile or still connected to something heavy. I pick a sheet of tin further down in the pile and, putting my legs into it, heave upward.

  The weight is considerable — it feels as though I’m lifting the entire roof — but the pile shifts, scraping and groaning. A blast of hot air hits me in the face, rancid and filled with smoke and swirling ash. I wince, close my eyes and let it pass, then heave once more. An opening forms beneath the pile of debris. What I see puzzles me. A charred log with blackened branches lying on the floor — a vivid pink stripe where the bark has pulled away. Then a strong odour hits me, of burned cloth and flesh, and I realize, horrified, that the log is a body and the missing bark is skin and clothing, burned to the tin and pulled away from the corpse as a result of my lifting. I see teeth and vacant eye sockets and for a few seconds all I can do is stare, no longer aware of the weight of the debris, the muted hiss of fire or the sounds of the helicopter. Then it all rushes back and I drop the weight and stagger away, gagging, my arm blazing with pain. Blood roars in my ears. Burned trees ahead of me seem to bend and swirl.

  2

  •

  A FACE HOVERS above me. Swaying treetops create an odd sensation of vertigo. I’m disoriented, can’t remember where I am or what is going on, then I recognize the face — Hendrigan — and it all rushes back. The fire. The cabin. The body. I’m flat on my back on the ground, lift myself onto my elbows. More faces peer down, curious and worried.

  “Can you hear me, Porter?”

  “Hell yes,” I say, more abruptly than I intended. This is embarrassing. “Maybe you should lie still,” says Hendrigan, as I stand up, ignoring proffered hands, brush myself off. Most of the crew stand around me. I’m not crazy about being the centre of attention. “Thanks, but you guys get back to work.”

  Crew members look uncertainly at Hendrigan, who hesitates before sending them back to their assigned tasks. They walk slowly, glancing back at me, in murmured discussion. “What happened?” asks Hendrigan. “I was heading over to talk to you, and you sort of stumbled backwards and fell over.”

  I look at the rubble of the cabin.

  “I think I got a whiff of something noxious and passed out.”

  Hendrigan looks concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “What about your arm?”

  The sleeve of my coverall is ripped and dots of blood have created a nifty pattern. When I pull up the sleeve there is a long furrow in the flesh of my forearm. It’s barely bleeding, cauterized by the hot edge of a piece of tin.

  “Crap,” says Hendrigan. “That looks nasty.”

  He pulls out his belt first-aid kit, spends a few minutes fussing with my arm. It’s beginning to hurt now and I wince, grit my teeth. I focus on the cabin, think about the body beneath the rubble. About next steps.

  “That’ll hold you for now,” says Hendrigan, inspecting his work.

  “Thanks.”

  “We ought to get you back to town, so a doctor can look at that.”

  “I’m fine. Listen.” I nod toward the cabin. “There’s a body under there.”

  Hendrigan’s eyes widen. “You sure?”

  “I didn’t want to mention it with everyone around — it’ll just distract the guys.”

  “Yeah. What do we do?”

  “You guys keep doing what you do best — control the fire. Keep everyone away from the cabin. This area is now a fatality scene and off limits.” Hendrigan is nodding in a distracted sort of way — I’ve seen it before; a sort of mental shock. A death hits everyone differently and I worry for a moment. He is the Incident Commander. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “What?” He shakes his head, frowns. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  “Good. Take a few minutes to make notes on everything you saw from the moment you lifted off base. Pretty soon, this place will be crawling with Mounties and they’ll be asking a lot of questions.”

  Hendrigan squares his jaw, slaps me on the back reassuringly and returns to his men. I unholster my belt radio and hesitate, my eyes fixed on the pile of blackened rubble. The radio frequency is open to all the firefighters, towers and anyone with a scanner. Cause of death and number of casualties have not been determined. Next of kin have not been notified. How to relay the nature of the situation without revealing too much?

  “Dispatch, this is Cassel — at the Whiskey Creek fire.”

  “Copy that, Cassel. How are things going out there?”

  “Have you found the owner of the cabin?”

  “Negative.”

  “Well — you can stop looking.”

  “You’ve found the owner?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  “Not good. We’ll need the RCMP out here.”

  There’s a pause. “Do you need a medevac?”

  “No. Just the Mounties.”

  Another pause. I picture Mark Middel frowning behind a microphone.

  “On their way.”

  I return to the cabin, stand in front of the small patch cleared of debris, take a good look. Despite the obvious danger, and the need to preserve the scene, I want to keep digging, uncover the body — or bodies. Best to wait until the RCMP arrive, let the boys in blue do their thing. I’m responsible for locating the origin, determining cause, and collecting evidence for man-caused wildfires. Usually, my investigation concludes with charging someone, or some company, with the firefighting cost.

  Today is a bit more complicated.

  While I wait for the RCMP, I take a few more pictures, review and expand my notes. I’m not sure how much farther I’ll be expected to take my investigation; probably just confirmation of origin. With this in mind, I start a systematic search, documenting fire travel patterns and indicators. The ground is a web of foot trails and low shrub. The shrub carried the fire outward, like a lamp wick, to deeper bush. As I sketch, TRT passes overhead, circling slowly. I catch a glimpse of a face, ruddy and frowning, looking down as the helicopter banks, and of a uniform crest on a shoulder. A few minutes later, TRT lands and a tall Mountie approaches amid the blackened trees. He’s scowling, looks tense.

  “What have we got today, Cassel?”

  His name is Waldren and he has a commanding air about him — brow furrowed and jaw clenched. Then there’s the bullet-proof vest, side arm, baton, extensive tool belt and taser in a thigh holster. It makes him look like an oversized action figure. We’ve met several times over the past two weeks, to discuss the bottle fires I’m investigating. The RCMP want to be in the loop on any investigation occurring in the area, but don’t become directly involved in wildfire arson if there is no crime against persons or property. In their world, trees don’t count. This time, there’ll be more than trees to worry about.

  “C
abin fire,” I report. “One confirmed fatality.”

  He gazes past me. “How badly messed up is the scene?”

  “Not too bad. The HAC boys steered clear.”

  “Good. Give me the tour.”

  We head toward the cabin. Waldren does a visual sweep of the area as he walks. Firefighters track our progress, momentarily distracted by the uniform. They’d better get over it quick — there’ll be plenty more. I motion Hendrigan to join us and he gives Waldren a brief report of what he’s done. Waldren smiles, tells Hendrigan he’s done a good job. When Hendrigan returns to his men, Waldren’s smile vanishes.

  “Show me where the fire started.”

  I go through basic origin determination, following the path of fire back to its source at the cabin. I explain what little scene processing I’ve completed, point out where I found the body, buried under the smoking rubble. Waldren makes a few notes in his flip pad, walks to the truck.

  “When do think the truck went up?” he says, peering into the blackened cab.

  “Not long after the cabin. Lots of grease and oil. Doesn’t take much.”

  He carefully opens the glovebox. “Another whiskey bottle.”

  “I had a look. No markings.”

  “You disturbed it already?”

  “I disturbed a lot of things before I realized there was a fatality.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What else do you need me to do?”

  “Stand guard. I’m going for a walk. Forensics will be here soon.” Waldren strides away, down the narrow road among the trees, peering from side to side, looking for transfer evidence. This could be tire tracks, pop cans, cigarette butts — almost anything that might have been dropped or transferred on the path from the fire scene. I’d have preferred he remain to guard the cabin while I search the road. Standing around, damp and tired, isn’t a winning combination. I flex my hand, feel a ribbon of pain stretch along my injured forearm. It’s going to be a long day.

  The next hour is spent fortifying my notes. I try not to think about the corpse roasting beneath the remains of the cabin.

  Waldren returns, face beaded with perspiration.

  “You find anything?”

  “Nothing.” He doesn’t look pleased. “No tire tracks. Too dry.”

  It’s been a dry spring, following a winter with little snowfall. The fire season started early. Most years, a spring fire like this wouldn’t have amounted to much, particularly burning through the night. Waldren amuses himself by taking photos, kneeling like a National Geographic photographer on a lion shoot. It’s not really necessary, as I’ve clicked off about a hundred photos and the forensics boys will blanket the site with more photos and video.

  “Looks like he got pissed up and left his stove open,” says Waldren.

  “Hard to tell at this point.”

  Waldren gives me a look I can’t quite decipher. I think he wants to toss theories back and forth, but it’s too early. We don’t know the identity of the victim, the cause of death, or the cause of the fire. Most of the evidence is buried under smoking debris.

  “Do you know who owns the cabin?”

  “Guy by the name of Rufus Hallendry,” says Waldren. “You know much about him?”

  “Everyone knows him — it’s a small town. Liked to drink. Punched out a few Natives now and then and got his share back. Just drunken stuff really, nothing you wouldn’t see anywhere else on a Friday night. Mostly he kept to himself though. Lived alone.”

  “Hallendry wasn’t Native?”

  Waldren snorts. “Not on the outside.”

  “And this was his trapline?”

  “Yeah,” says Waldren, giving me a curious look. “Why?”

  This far north, most traplines are held by Aboriginals. For a white guy to get a trapline, it likely was purchased from a Native. Or seized from a Native for some reason and sold off. Either way, it’s a bit unusual and I make a note to talk to the local Fish and Wildlife officer.

  “Did Hallendry have a junior partner?”

  Waldren shrugs. “Good question. I’ll have to check with Leroy.”

  We both look up as TRT passes overhead. A minute later it lands at the new helipad and two men disembark, begin to unload bags and metal cases. It’s the Forensic Identification Unit from Fort McMurray. Waldren and I lend a hand, lugging the gear to the cabin. More introductions. Albert Dugan is the senior. He’s short and slight. Despite his frail stature, he’s got an impressionable handshake. Collin Verdon is the junior specialist, much taller and younger.

  “You were first on the scene?” Dugan asks.

  “No, the HAC beat me here.”

  Dugan frowns. “The what?”

  “The heli-attack crew.” I point at the firefighters. “They rappelled in.”

  “Has anyone driven the road yet?”

  “Not yet,” says Waldren. “I walked it, though. Didn’t find anything.”

  “Good,” says Dugan. “Can you have it blocked off until we clear it?”

  Waldren nods. “I’ll get a unit out there right away.”

  “What about you, Cassel? What have you done so far?”

  I go through my routine, summarize my conclusions regarding fire travel and origin, note the bottle I found at the truck, the bottle at the cabin, the open hinges and stove door. I detail my entry into the cabin along a single line of contamination, close out by telling them about the body under the debris. Dugan has his notebook out, is scribbling like mad. I tell him I have notes on all of this.

  “Now so do I,” he says, without looking up.

  I dig my notes and camera from my pack, hand over the memory card to Verdon. He slips it into a plastic evidence bag, which he seals and labels.

  “You guys need me for anything more?”

  “Maybe.” Dugan looks around, at the remains of the cabin and truck, at the firefighters labouring on the perimeter, and thinks for a moment. “Okay,” he says, “here’s how it’s going to work. The area around the structure and vehicle, out for about thirty yards, is my primary scene. We’ll flag this off and no one other than myself and Mr. Verdon goes in without my express permission. Sergeant, I’ll need you or one of your staff to serve as a guard until I clear the scene. Our secondary scene encompasses everything within a radius of about three hundred yards, as well as the trail leading back to the main road. We’ll need personnel to assist in a ground search of that area. Do you have any available manpower?”

  It’s an open question. Waldren scratches his head.

  “We’ve got a few members,” he says. “And there’s Parks staff.”

  We brainstorm, manage a list of about a dozen volunteers, including locals with search and rescue training, staff from Wood Buffalo National Park, and the local Fish and Wildlife officer. Dispatch declines my suggestion of including the local initial attack crew — Rolly and crew are left to play ping-pong again, waiting for the next fire. Another humbug. I offer to serve as the search master, something I’ve done before, but Waldren pulls rank. Once again, he doesn’t want to stand around guarding a pile of smoking rubble — he’ll have a junior constable fill that illustrious post. Dugan offers me a consolation prize.

  “You can assist with the detailed search.”

  Calls are made and work progresses quickly. Helicopter TRT will ferry in the additional searchers. Verdon flags off the primary scene with yellow crime scene tape. I contribute by having a granola bar — my blood sugar is so low I’ve got a headache. It isn’t likely to go away soon — a white forest service truck is rattling toward us at a good clip along the trail, raising dust. The driver is young and grinning like an idiot. Dugan looks up from where he’s kneeling, opening instrument cases.

  “Who the hell —”

  It’s Luke Middel, aspiring fire investigator, budding pain in the ass. The truck slows and lurches to a halt a dozen yards from the yellow barrier. Luke’s smile falters when he reads our expressions. Undaunted, he steps out of the truck, clad in bright clean yellow coveralls a
nd white hardhat.

  “I thought you blocked off the trail,” Dugan says to Waldren. Waldren looks ready to draw his gun. “He must have beat my man out here.”

  Luke waves. “Hi guys. How can I help?”

  Waldren grinds his teeth. “You’ve done enough already.”

  “But I just got here.”

  “And you’re just about to leave,” says Waldren.

  Luke looks stricken. “But why? There must be something I can do.” Dugan stands. “You likely have destroyed any track evidence on the road.”

  For a moment, no one says anything. Luke looks back at the road, his shoulders drooping. He sighs deeply and reaches for the truck door. “Where are you going?” Dugan asks quietly. This has more effect than if he’d shouted. Luke freezes, hand in mid-air. “You weren’t going to drive back out again were you?” asks Dugan. “That would only double the contamination on the road.”

  For a few seconds I think Luke Middel might cry.

  “You wanted to learn about fire investigation,” I tell him. “That would be lesson number one. Avoid scene contamination whenever humanly possible. That doesn’t just mean firefighters and bulldozers — it means you.”

  Hope flickers in Luke’s eyes. Dugan picks it up immediately.

  “You might as well stay — you’re here now. But you stay out of the flagged area. You can help with the secondary search.”

  Luke is in heaven. He’d be happy searching the outhouse if he thought there might be a clue. Not necessarily a bad thing, but to be taken in small doses. I catch his arm as he walks past, ask him if he took care of the dog.

  “Oh sure,” he says, beaming. “I dropped him at the nursing station.”

  PROCESSING A FIRE scene as complex as a cabin is demanding meticulous work. First, the site is measured and recorded in detail. The position of all notable features are mapped, including the cabin, truck and trail, as well as assorted attractions, such as a small shed that burned, and a blackened tree hung with metal traps. Even the outhouse doesn’t escape attention. The entire scene is video recorded, supplemented with still photos. Initial documentation complete, we can start the actual processing.