Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  “Could I borrow a few men?” “Sure. What do you want to do?”

  I explain I want to lay the scorched metal roofing on the ground as it would have been on the cabin and Spence nods, returns with a halfdozen men. It’s a big job, pulling the tin from the pile, flattening out the badly bent and warped sections, fitting them together like a huge ugly puzzle. By the time we’re done, the entire crew is working, fitting the pieces together. Even the cook and her helper have turned out to watch the show. Finally the last few pieces fall into place and we all step back to admire our handiwork. Once again, we’ve taken a small mess and made it bigger.

  Bobo, the clown of the group, says, “Looks like someone steamrolled a cabin.”

  Muted chuckling, which I ignore, focusing in the fading evening light on the metal collage on the ground. The sheets of tin are long and narrow, curled and twisted as a result of heat and the structural collapse of the roof. Bands of faint rippling and distemper, which appeared isolated on any particular strip of metal, form a more complete picture when matched together. An area, approximately a quarter of the roof, is slightly more bulged, with faint lines like a fading aurora along the edge of the bulge. I point this out to Spence.

  He frowns. “Are you sure?”

  The tin was mounted to roof planks so the distortion isn’t continuous. You have to look for the pattern. It’s a bit like those 3d puzzles that look like wallpaper.

  “Look harder.”

  He squints, looks harder. “It’s faint, but I think I see it.”

  The firefighters watch, curious about the result of their efforts. I walk around the tin mat we’ve created, firefighters backing out of my way, try to align how the roof sat on the cabin. It’s not difficult, as the chimney flashing serves as a tie point, clearly matching where the stove was located beneath. From there, I easily deduce the location of the cabin door. The faintly distorted area of roof tin surroundsthe stove, includes a wide area over where the body would have lain, and leads like a teardrop to the door, where the distortion is most pronounced. Clearly, there was a rush of heat below this area and I get an excited tingle as it occurs to me that Dugan and Verdon couldn’t possibly have known this without replicating what we’ve done.

  “What does it mean?” asks Spence.

  I shake my head, unsure and not wanting to be distracted. A coal falling from the open stove and igniting the floor would have created a fire growth pattern similar to this, but something about the pattern still bothers me. A burning area of wood should create a fairly even heat, in my experience. This pattern indicates a more sudden rush of heat from one area, followed by a sustained burn. The answer comes to me suddenly, with a jolt.

  Accelerant.

  If an accelerant were used, such as gasoline, it would create a sudden billowing rush of heat. The heat would be intense, but would dissipate rapidly as the accelerant was consumed, to be replaced by the steady heat of the burning cabin. I walk around the charred cabin floor, frowning, wondering if Dugan checked for hydrocarbons; worrying he might not have and that key evidence will have been missed. Memories of the burned corpse cause an anxious clench in my gut. I walk onto the charred floor, which crunches under my boots, squat and examine the black, deeply pillowed surface of the heavy planks. After the fire, it would be impossible to determine if an accelerant had been sloshed on the floor — it would have been consumed, along with the top surface of the wood. As I turn on my heel and stand, a narrow slit forms where my boot heel has pressed — a thin section in the weakened floor where the planks join.

  I stare at this narrow slit.

  “We need a Pulaski and chainsaw,” I tell Spence.

  He looks perplexed. “What?”

  “Now — dammit. And a flashlight.”

  “Okay,” he says, looking offended, and calls the Crew Leader. A firefighter trots off and returns with a chainsaw and regulation safety gear, such as earmuffs and Kevlar chaps, which he proceeds to puton in what seems slow motion. It’s getting dark and I want to grab the chainsaw and do the work myself. Finally, he’s ready, along with another firefighter, holding a Pulaski — an axe with an opposing heavy hoe blade.

  “You see those lines of nail heads?” I tell the firefighter with the saw. “That’s where the floor joists are.” I indicate an area by the stove, sweep my arm toward what was the back of the cabin. “I want you to cut out the floor boards between these two joists, from here to here.”

  The man nods, starts his saw and begins to cut. Chips fly as he rips one long cut along a line of nails. He walks back to where he started, lines up the tip of the whining saw and presses it into the floor, cutting another parallel line through the planks. We watch as the sections of plank drop about eight inches to the ground below, leaving a stark white line of virgin, unburned wood where the planks of the floor have been severed. When he’s done, there are about twenty sections of floorboard loose in the trough between the two joists.

  “Shine the flashlight over there.”

  I take the Pulaski from the waiting firefighter and, using the hoe end of the tool, flip the sections of board over, starting near the stove and working my way to the rear of the cabin. Spence follows my progress with the flashlight. As the sections turn over, they reveal their clear, unburned surface. I make it about halfway along the trough before finding what I’m looking for. One of the sections of floorboard is burned along the edge of the underside, as is its companion.

  I lift the piece and show it to Spence.

  “See that? How it’s burned underneath?”

  Spence takes the section of board, turns it over, inspecting both sides. Several firefighters lean in, curious. Spence frowns, hands the board back to me.

  “Why is it burned on the underside?”

  “I think an accelerant was poured on the floor and leaked through the cracks between the boards. When it was ignited, it burned through, along the edges, under the floor.”

  “Why didn’t it burn the whole floor underneath?”

  “Not enough oxygen. The main fire above used all the air.”

  There’s a significant pause. Spence looks concerned. “Now what?”

  “Now I tell the RCMP.”

  FORTUNATELY, MY CAMERA has a flash; it’s dark by the time I take a few pictures of the under-burned floorboards and turn my truck away from the fire. The narrow trail seems endless as I thump slowly overroots and ruts. When I emerge onto the gravel road I press hard on the accelerator, anxious to tell Waldren what I’ve found. The compound enclosing the RCMP station and staff housing is deserted, a lone streetlight illuminating the front of the blue detachment building.

  I park in front of the doors, mount the concrete steps.

  The door is locked, windows dark. A sign indicates I should press the buzzer in case of emergency. I’m not sure this qualifies but press anyway. Nothing happens for what seems a long time. Finally, a door slams behind me. A form trudges across the gloomy yard, from the direction of the RCMP staff houses. Sergeant Waldren looks tired, slows as he approaches.

  “Cassel,” he says. “You buzzed?”

  “I found something you might find interesting.”

  He raises an eyebrow, waits.

  “Did you know an accelerant was used at the cabin fire?”

  “No.” The other eyebrow goes up. “That is interesting. Dugan made a point of mentioning that he’d found no evidence of an accelerant. How did this revelation come about?”

  I briefly explain the process I used at the cabin.

  “Good work. We’ll check it out at first light.”

  “Okay.” I’d hoped he would return to the fire with me immediately.

  He reads my tone, smiles wearily. “It’s not going anywhere.”

  I consider pressing him but notice several vehicles parked in front of his house. People are visible through his living room window. He has company. Reluctantly, I leave him to return to his visitors. On theway out of town I shift uncomfortably in my seat, wishing I could have followed through
immediately with Waldren. It’s both exciting to have found something that was missed, and disconcerting. I wonder how many RCMP forensic specialists are fully trained in arson investigation and try to put the matter out of my mind for now — morning will come soon enough. At the kitchen in the ia base I heat water, follow the doctor’s instructions and make the mystery tea. It comes out black and if bad taste is the measure of medicinal effectiveness this stuff could cure cancer. I gag and cough, gulp water to chase away the bitterness. Minutes later the aftertaste fades and I feel calm, peaceful, wander back to my room in the bunkhouse.

  For the first time in months, I’ll have a good sleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING I’m awake early. I lounge in bed a few minutes, luxuriating in the sensation of feeling rested, then have breakfast and make another cup of the wonder tea, which fills me with a sense of detached well-being. Apparently, I have underestimated traditional eastern medicine. I brew enough tea for my prescribed dosage during the day, fill a Thermos, and call Waldren. He’ll meet me at the fire in a half hour. Outside, the dog whimpers for attention. I decide to take him with me and, after treating his burns and giving him a bite to eat, I load the dog into the back of the truck. Even my dog allergy seems better this morning. Whistling, I wheel out of the IA base, gravel crunching under my truck tires, and head for the fire.

  My sense of well-being is short-lived.

  Waldren has beaten me to the fire and stands with Carter Spence in front of the remains of the cabin, which isn’t much. The remnants of the floor are gone, nothing left but the spines of a half-dozen floor joists, still smouldering. Several firefighters with Wajax water bags slung on their backs are half-heartedly spritzing the hot spots. Waldren and Spence turn in my direction as I approach. “What happened?” I ask.

  “It appears your evidence has consumed itself,” says Waldren.

  I look at Spence. “It was fine when I left last night.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” Spence says defensively. “I was sleeping when someone started hollering. I came out of my tent and the damn cabin floor was on fire.”

  “When was this?”

  “About three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Did anyone see anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “Someone running away. Anything like that.”

  Spence looks puzzled. “You think someone did this on purpose?”

  Waldren frowns, looks at me.

  “Who knew about what you had found?”

  “Just the people here,” I say quietly enough my voice won’t carry far.

  We glance at the firefighters with the water bags on their backs, and at the camp farther away. Everyone here last night would have understood the significance of the under-burned floorboards, thanks to my enthusiastically recruiting their assistance. I hadn’t considered there was any risk from the crew. The only risk would be if the arsonist that started the cabin fire was actually on the crew, which seems unlikely as they would have been mustered quickly in town, not knowing where they were being sent until they arrived. I suddenly recall what the firefighter said who had been sitting beside me when I hitched a ride back to the fire.

  I hear there’s a dead guy at the fire.

  The crew knew of the fatality by scanning the radio traffic. Perhaps someone joined the crew with the intention of monitoring the situation and cleaning up any remaining evidence. To destroy the floor, the perpetrator would have had to wait until everyone was asleep, sneak out of his tent, start the fire, then sneak back into his bed or raise the alarm.

  “Who first noticed the fire?” I ask Spence.

  “I’m not sure. I’ll find out.”

  While Spence makes inquiries I ask Waldren if there’s cellphone coverage.

  “Not yet,” he says. “Would be nice, though.”

  Spence returns with the cook and the crew leader, introducing them as Mary and Reggie.

  “Who raised the alarm about the fire?” I ask them.

  The two exchange looks which I interpret as worry, not guilt. The cook, Mary, is a short heavyset Native woman with grey braided hair. Reggie, the crew leader, is tall and thin, with a pockmarked face and nasty scar over the bridge of his nose.

  “I got up to take a pee,” says Mary.

  “What did you see?”

  “Soon as I get up from my bed, I see bright, you know, like somebody got a big campfire going. I figured maybe some of the boys couldn’t sleep. When I get out there, there is big flames, whole thing on fire, and nobody is around.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t see anyone?”

  “Oh yeah,” she nods emphatically. “Just me. I go get Reggie.”

  “She kicked me,” says Reggie.

  Mary shrugs. “He wouldn’t wake up.”

  “Everyone else was asleep?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” says Mary. “So I wake up the boss.”

  I look over at Waldren and Spence, wondering what else I should ask. They shrug. I thank Mary and Reggie and they return to camp. Spence dismisses the few firefighters that have been wandering around with Wajax bags on their backs, tells them to go for breakfast.

  “What do you figure?” Waldren asks me, when it’s just the three of us.

  “I’m not sure. This secondary fire seems too coincidental.”

  “It does seem odd,” Waldren admits. “But there are only two possibilities. Either this secondary fire started on its own, or someone started it. If someone started it, they would have to have a vested interest in destroying the evidence. This could have been the arsonist or someone related to, or friendly with, the arsonist. The kicker is they would have had to know there was evidence here, which limits the suspects to the individuals at the fire.”

  “Unless someone got a message out of camp.”

  “What about your fire radios? Can we check on those?”

  Radios are not like phones. There’s no record of calls. But there is one thing.

  “Carter, can you have everyone here turn off their radios for a few minutes?”

  He nods. When he’s gone, I explain to Waldren.

  “I want the radios off so there isn’t any listening-in while I make a call.”

  When Spence gives me the thumbs up from the camp, I key my own radio — the only radio at the fire that is still active — and call the local fire lookout tower. “Cambridge tower, this is Cassel at the Whiskey Creek fire.”

  “This is Cambridge. Go ahead, Cassel.”

  “Did you have your radio on last night?”

  “Roger that, Cassel.”

  “Would you have heard any traffic during the night?”

  “Yeah. I always keep it going, and I’m a light sleeper.”

  “Anything last night about a cabin floor?”

  There’s a perplexed hesitation. “Nothing like that.”

  I thank Cambridge, holster my radio. “Seems to rule that out.”

  “Was the cabin debris thoroughly extinguished?”

  “When I was working the debris I went in hot, which is how I injured my arm.” I picture Luke Middel with his Wajax bag, helping Dugan and Verdon. “Ident worked the scene with a minimum of water. Come to think of it, no one really hosed down the floor.”

  “So there could have been an ember or two under there?”

  I nod reluctantly. Despite my certainty last night, doubt circles like a vulture.

  “That seems the most likely explanation,” says Waldren. “Someone here might have started the floor fire but it seems a stretch. Looks to me like the fire was still smouldering under the floor, then it took off after you disturbed it.”

  “Regardless, I know what I saw.”

  “You don’t normally investigate structure fires do you, Cassel?”

  “No, but I know fire.”

  “Maybe the guy spilled a drink and it seeped through the floor.”

  “It wouldn’t explain the pattern of temper lines on the roof. He’d have had to spill a lot of booze and it would have had to be a lot stronger th
an what they sell in the stores to burn like that. I think we’re looking at an aggressive accelerant here. If we could have ripped up the rest of the floor, we could have traced the whole accelerant use area.”

  Waldren frowns, pacing for a moment. He squats, rubs some ash between his fingers.

  “It sure would be nice if you had some evidence, Cassel.”

  “I do,” I say, suddenly remembering the pictures I had taken. I head to my truck, pull out my backpack, rummage inside, thankful that I took the time last night to snap a few images. I fiddle with thecamera as I walk over to Waldren, who waits patiently as I fumble with the buttons. There seems to be something wrong — I can’t find the pictures.

  “What’s the matter?” says Waldren, watching.

  “I’m not sure. There must be something wrong with my camera.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look?”

  Reluctantly, I hand him the camera, watch as Waldren gives it a quick once over.

  “Nothing wrong with the camera,” he says. “It’s just empty.”

  WALDREN DOESN’T HANG around much longer. He seems to have lost interest in the Whiskey Creek fire, which I find frustrating. The discovery of physical evidence of accelerant use, quickly followed b ydestruction of the evidence and loss of the pictures in my camera, seems an obvious indication that something deeper is going on here. Waldren doesn’t come right out and say it, but his tone suggests I didn’t know how to use my camera and simply bungled the job — if there was anything to take a picture of, which I suspect he doubts. It leaves me feeling unjustifiably incompetent. I do manage to extract a promise from Waldren to pass on my theories to Dugan and Verdon, and to invite them back to inspect the roofing tin. Then he’s gone, his RCMP Suburban kicking up dust along the trail out of the fire.