Whiskey Creek

by Dave Hugelschaffer

  “It’s the Fire Guy,” he says. “You making any progress?”

  “Some, but I’d like to be making more.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  My beer, which I had planned to drink slowly, is nearly gone. Given recent events, I know I shouldn’t be drinking anything, but I’m shaky and there’s a dull pain in my chest from my conversation with Telson. I tell myself I’m in control, and intend to remain that way, but I need a bit — just enough to calm my nerves. I generously allow Cardinal to buy me a whiskey.

  “Thanks.” I take a sip. Damn that tastes good tonight.

  “No problem. I heard that Sammy’s truck was firebombed with one of those bottles.”

  I nod. “I’m sure everyone’s heard that by now.”

  “You got the cops helping you?”

  “I think it’s more the other way around.”

  Cardinal claps a hand on my shoulder, gives me an earnest look. “You need anything, you let me know. Anything the Cree Band can help you with, you just gotta ask. We want to find the prick that’s after us.” He looks around, lowers his voice. “You find him, you let me know first, okay? We’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “Just let us know,” he says, giving me another hard look. Then he nods and walks away, telling me to take care of myself. I watch him go, think of Middel’s concern that the town is a powder keg. Telling anything to the Cree Band at this point would be lighting the fuse.

  I lounge, try to look casual as I wait to see if Mercredi will show up.

  The whiskey goes down too smooth. Careful Porter.

  I switch back to beer, watch the hamster races, place a few more bets. A slender feminine hand with long purple fingernails is warm on my arm. I’ve roused the interest of one of the cougars and she’s moved in for the kill. Then it occurs to me I’m as old as she is.

  “Hello darling. You look lost. You looking for something?”

  “Someone,” I say, and immediately regret the response.

  “Well,” she smiles, batting fake eyelashes at me. “You just found someone.”

  “I’m actually looking for a girl of about nineteen.”

  “You and everyone else.”

  She frowns when I pull out the photo of Bernice Mercredi.

  “You a cop?”

  I assure her that I’m harmless — that I’m just looking for a girl that didn’t come home when she was expected. She barely looks at the picture.

  “You sure you haven’t seen her?” I say, holding it up.

  Someone shoulders me aside — a big guy with a bandana over his head. He looks like a biker and I assume he’s the bouncer, or maybe the woman’s pimp.

  “This guy bothering you?” he says to the lady.

  “Mind your own damn business,” I snap at him.

  Normally I’m not that brave or confrontational, but tonight I’m edgy, frustrated and anxious. And, apparently, a bit intoxicated. The big guy gives me a deliberate poke in the chest, hard enough to bruise. “You just watch your mouth, shit for brains.”

  Anger boils up like fire climbing a tree. Where it came from I have no idea but it’s overwhelming. He’s in front of me, getting in my face, all eyeballs and stubble. The frustrations of the past week fill my senses and my heart races. Everything around us vanishes and his face becomes startling clear. I can see every pore.

  He pokes me again. “Listen, shithead —”

  I hit him.

  8

  •

  THE DRONE OF the plane throbs in my head as we pass over Lake Athabasca. I’m on the regular commercial flight, crammed in with locals returning from Fort McMurray. A hyperactive boy of about seven is in the seat next to me, bouncing up and down while I try to sleep. I have a headache, black eye and several other bruises. I didn’t get much sleep last night. The holding cell at the RCMP detachment wasn’t very comfortable. In the heat of battle we managed to destroy several chairs, a large speaker by the dance floor, and the hamster racing equipment. Fortunately, the hamsters escaped injury, which is the only bright light of the evening. Apparently I went berserk, which is completely out of character — a fact I tried to impress upon the two RCMP troopers who hauled me away. They weren’t keen on conversation. The local sergeant called Waldren in Fort Chipewyan, and after lengthy discussion they decided I could be released, so long as no one wanted to press charges. Mr. Bandana wanted nothing further to do with me. The bar owner just wanted payment for the damage.

  So now I’m broke, humiliated and still have to face Waldren and Middel.

  I’m relieved there’s no one at the airport to meet me. Hands shaking, eyes darting nervously, I walk the half mile to the IA base. A quick shower, leftovers in the cook shack and a big cup of bitter tea and I feel marginally better. Scorch provides some quality dog therapy, licking my face and hands. It occurs to me that I’m not nearly as allergic as I was before I visited Dr. Cho — another benefit of his wonder tea. I spend a few minutes with the dog, then reluctantly set off for town. I have an appointment with the RCMP at 3:00 p.m. — a briefing with the team that will be investigating the bottle fire that destroyed Sammy Cardinal’s truck. The briefing was no doubt one of the mitigating factors in my being released this morning. I park in the fenced RCMPcompound, check in at the reception counter in the detachment office. A clerk talks to me through a sheet of bulletproof glass, hands me a sign-in form through a narrow slot above the counter, then vanishes. Waldren appears, scowling when he sees me from the other side of the glass. He unlocks the door.

  “Jesus, Cassel. You look like a truck hit you.”

  “I think his name might have been Mack.”

  “Don’t pull that shit again. I’ve used up my favours.”

  I nod, in no mood for confrontation. Waldren leads me to a small conference room where Constable Markham and ident specialist Dugan sit at a table. Their expressions register surprise at my bruised appearance. There’s a new face here as well, a big guy in plain clothes. I take a seat facing a blank flip chart, grab a notepad from a pile on the table. I feel more professional with something in front of me. Waldren and Dugan sit on my left. The new guy stands at the head of the table, opens the ceremonies.

  “Good afternoon, I’m Corporal Roland MacFarlane, from the General Investigative Section in Fort McMurray. You must be Porter Cassel,” he says, looking at me. I nod. MacFarlane is wearing faded jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt. His unkempt black hair is receding heavily at the temples in the classic V-shape. He has a dragon tattoo on his right forearm and badly needs a shave. He looks more like an aging rugby player than a cop. Perhaps that’s the idea. “Good to have you on our team,” he says generously. “Due to the multi-jurisdictional nature of this investigation we’ve thrown together an ad-hoc joint forces operation, code named ‘Kitten.’”

  “Kitten?” says Waldren. “Couldn’t we have something with a bit more bite?”

  “Yeah,” says Markham, “like killer whale?”

  “All the good names were gone. Don’t worry — I don’t think any less of you.”

  “Meow,” says Waldren.

  “What would the Forest Service role be in this?” I ask.

  “We’ll get to that,” says MacFarlane, “but basically we would like to parallel your arson investigation relative to the Molotov cocktails. The only way we are going to catch the perp, who we believe may be escalating or posturing toward more acts of arson, is to keep on the same page, share information.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “There is one important thing I’d like to stress,” he says, pausing as though searching for the right words. “To make this work, you’ll need to follow our rules.”

  Everyone is looking at me. I nod, feeling distinctly cowed.

  “We’ll begin with a briefing on facts to date. You can start, Mr. Cassel.”

  I clear my throat, mentally try to organize the past few weeks. “I’m a fire investigator contracted to the Forest Service, based out of
Edmonton, and I travel where ever I’m needed. I arrived here on the third of May, in response to a wildfire arson reported by the local office. The local initial attack crew responded to an early morning fire along a road about fifteen kilometres from town, reported by a fire tower. Upon actioning the fire they discovered the remnants of a bottle. My investigation revealed that the bottle was the origin. There were charred remnants of cloth with the bottle, consistent with a Molotov cocktail. Since the initial arson, there have been three more bottle fires, all along the same stretch of road, and then the truck fire in the gravel pit. All of the bottles had the letters FTC etched at their base.”

  “Five fires with the same signature,” says MacFarlane, jotting this on the flip chart.

  Waldren goes next, detailing his participation in the bottle fires which, until the truck fire, has been minimal. He came out to the first bottle fire for a quick look but when it was apparent there were no human values threatened, he was content to receive periodic updates. Dugan adds his summary from processing the scene at the truck fire, starting with a pointed statement that the scene was heavily compromised when he arrived. There were no apparent sources of ignition from the vehicle itself. Other than the bottle, no suspicious items. No fingerprints due to cleansing by the fire. Bottle segments were collected and are awaiting further analysis at the lab, although little additional is expected.

  “Let’s talk about those bottles,” says MacFarlane. “What do we know about them?”

  “They’re all booze bottles,” I say. “Captain Morgan. Canadian Club. And a rectangular bottle that I believe was the Five Star brand.”

  “So they’re a mix,” says MacFarlane. “Whatever was at hand.”

  “They could come from anywhere,” says Waldren. “Everyone up here drinks.”

  “Or they could have been found in the ditch,” I say, thinking about the bottle picker.

  “What about this signature?” asks MacFarlane. “What does it mean?

  “Fuck the Cree,” I say, and everyone looks at me. “It was on the store.”

  “And you think that tagging is the same?” says MacFarlane.

  “Looks that way,” says Dugan. “I sent photos of the bottle inscriptions and the tagging to our handwriting expert. Although it’s not as easy to draw conclusions from writing done with an etching tool and a spray can it looks like the same author.”

  “What about location or context?”

  “The bottle fires were on Cree land,” I say. “And the truck belonged to their chief.”

  “They also own the store where the tagging occurred,” says Waldren. MacFarlane makes more notes on the flip chart, then looks at us, chewing thoughtfully on the end of the marker. “So we’ve got someone who either has a grudge against the Cree Band or is trying to focus attention on them. Any theories?”

  “These bands have been at each other’s throats for hundreds of years,” says Waldren.

  “I’ve done some research at the museum,” I offer.

  “Same conclusion.”

  “That may well be,” says MacFarlane, “but in my experience an escalation in any long-standing feud is triggered by some event. Has anything significant occurred recently?”

  Waldren shrugs. “Who knows — they rarely tell us anything. Native communities are virtually impenetrable to an outsider. If they have an issue, they settle it themselves.”

  “We’ll need a Native liaison,” says MacFarlane.

  I think about Simon Cardinal’s offer of help from the Cree Band, but decide it had too many strings attached. Waldren volunteers Constable Markham, who will put out feelers with the bands and the Metis. MacFarlane scans the flip chart. “Okay,” he says, “that seems to cover the bottle fires. Now, what about that cabin with the fatality? What do we know so far?”

  I go through my arrival at the Whiskey Creek fire and my preliminary processing of the cabin scene, end with my discovery of the body. Waldren offers his chronology. Dugan takes over from there, covering information I already know, until he mentions a belt buckle found some distance from the body.

  “Does that mean the vic wasn’t wearing his pants?”

  MacFarlane hesitates. “Yes, that was our conclusion, but we’re keeping that as holdback evidence. Please ensure you don’t mention this to anyone outside of this room.”

  “What about the autopsy?” says Waldren.

  Dugan pulls a sheaf of papers from a folder in front of him, puts on reading glasses. “Identity confirmed through dental as one Rufus Earnest Hallendry. Third degree burns over ninety-five percent of the body with heavy charring throughout. The five percent of the body not burned was on the back, where some skin remained in contact with the floor. Nearly complete tissue damage and carbonization of bones in the extremities.” He looks up at us. “This was a very hot fire, gentlemen.” He adjusts his glasses, flips a page. “Airways display black soot, and soot was found on the base of the tongue and in the trachea. Blood sampled from within the chest cavity indicates a carboxy-hemoglobin level of thirty-two percent.”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt. “What does that mean?”

  Dugan looks at me over his glasses. “Carboxy-hemoglobin is a measure of how much carbon monoxide is in the blood. His level matches with the soot in the airways to indicate he was alive during the fire.”

  I shudder — being burned alive is every firefighter’s nightmare.

  “Continuing on,” says Dugan, “we have tox results that indicate a blood alcohol level of 4.5 grams/litre.” He looks around. “Does anyone know if the victim was a regular drinker?”

  “Oh yeah,” says Waldren. “Definitely.”

  “Good to know,” says Dugan, “because this much would kill an inexperienced drinker.”

  “So the drinking didn’t kill him?” says Markham.

  “Determining how drunk someone is can be difficult as bodyweight, health and drinking habits all influence the level of impairment. But if this guy was a regular heavy drinker, I would have to say the drinking was not likely the cause of death, although the victim would have been severely impaired and likely unconscious. Smoke inhalation and searing of the lungs would have done the trick.”

  “That impairment explains why he couldn’t get out of the cabin,” says Waldren.

  There’s a thoughtful silence as we all try not to think about what it was like in the cabin.

  MacFarlane asks: “Anything else noted that might explain why he couldn’t get out?”

  Dugan flips pages for a moment, scrutinizing the report. “Injury analysis can be difficult with burn victims. Heat will contract the muscles and break bones post-mortem. But Sandow did this autopsy, and he’s good with burns. No discernable pre-mortem injuries were noted.”

  “So let me summarize,” says MacFarlane. “The victim had been drinking to the point of incapacitation. He left open the cabin door as well as the door on the woodstove. He was found lying on his back near a table, with whiskey bottles and a drinking glass in near proximity.”

  “And he wasn’t wearing any pants,” Waldren adds.

  MacFarlane looks at us. “Is there anything suspicious about this death?”

  “Not really,” says Waldren. “Looks pretty clear-cut to me.”

  “Excuse me,” I say, looking at Waldren.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Cassel thinks he’s found something.”

  All eyes turn to me. Everyone here but MacFarlane knows I have concerns.

  “I was curious why Hallendry would have had his stove going when the overnight temperature was 16c and there was no evidence of cooking.”

  “He could have been making tea,” says Markham.

  “Or looking for a reason to take off his pants,” says Waldren.

  “A teapot was not found within the vicinity of the stove,” I say, ignoring Waldren’s sarcasm. “I’m sure ident can confirm this.”

  Dugan nods. “Carry on,” says MacFarlane.

  “I found evidence of distemper in the metal roofing tin which, when I laid
out the sections, seemed to indicate a rush of heat in the area over the body.”

  “Really,” says MacFarlane. “You laid out the whole roof?” I nod. Dugan looks a bit defensive, but I plough on.

  “I cut out a segment of the floor and discovered a pattern of underburning which I think was caused by a flammable fluid dripping through the cracks in the floor planking. I believe this indicates an accelerant was used.”

  MacFarlane’s eyes narrow. “You think this was arson?”

  “Frankly,” I say, “I think this was murder.”

  There’s a silence — which I should have expected, contradicting the RCMP.

  “What’s your interpretation?” says MacFarlane, turning to Dugan.

  Dugan looks uncomfortable. “We observed minor distemper on the roof tin but that’s to be expected. A structure fire does not create an even heat. In my experience, the degree of distemper noted by Mr. Cassel is not unusual in a normal fire.”

  “But you didn’t lay out the roof tin?” says MacFarlane.

  “It wasn’t necessary,” says Dugan.

  MacFarlane frowns. “What about the under-burned floorboards?”

  “We didn’t observe this,” says Dugan.

  “That’s because you didn’t pull up the floor,” I say quietly.

  Dugan doesn’t look at me. “There didn’t seem to be the need.”

  “What do you make of these floorboards?” MacFarlane says to Dugan.

  “I would have liked to see them. They may have been significant.”

  “Can you still do an assessment of the floor?” says MacFarlane.

  “I’d love to,” says Dugan, “but apparently it was destroyed.”

  MacFarlane frowns. “Destroyed?”

  “Burned,” I say. “During the night following my discovery, what remained of the floor was burned. I don’t think this was accidental. I took pictures, which someone accessed in my truck during the night and deleted from my camera. I also found a purplish paint scrape on a tree a few miles from the fire, where a vehicle turned around. I think someone discovered that I was on to the fire being intentionally set, and cleaned up what evidence remained. I think the cook’s helper, a girl named Bernice Mercredi, who left early from the fire, the same night as the remaining cabin floor was burned up, mentioned what I’d found to someone, and the word got out. And I found two drinking glasses, which match the glass at Hallendry’s cabin, in the ditch along the main road that leads to the site.”